The Memoir of Johnny Devine (24 page)

Eliza started to answer but was interrupted
by a disconnect tone.

Saturday, Eliza spent most of the day in the
library reading everything she could find about Lenin’s Red Army
and what had been taking place in Russia during the years prior to
Betty’s birth. The Red Army had been made up of young volunteers
who believed in the promises of Lenin’s new communist regime, and
who hoped to be paid for their service in food rations, since the
country was facing one of the worst famines in history.

She also tried to find record of her
parents’ arrival in America. Betty’s birth certificate listed the
name of a hospital in Queens County, New York, as her birthplace.
Eliza got the hospital’s number and called to see what records they
had on file, but nothing turned up. So far, every scrap of
information she could find had only led to a dead end.

Sunday morning, Eliza half hoped that John
would invite her to his church again, even though it wasn’t a good
idea to continue being seen with him. Going with him the one time
had probably raised questions, and he certainly didn’t need that,
or to give the appearance that he was gadding about with women, not
with his book coming out soon.

By Sunday afternoon, most of her distress
over Betty’s call had dissolved. Though there was no reason to be
so hysterical, Eliza couldn’t blame her sister for being upset over
a visit by Agent Robinson. And though she hadn’t admitted it to
Betty, Eliza suspected she was to blame. Who knew how long the
agent had been watching Eliza? He had probably found Betty by
following Eliza to her home. It was fortunate—or perhaps
providential—that Eliza had removed the Russian letters from
Betty’s house. Those people were probably experts at finding
anything they wanted to.

Which made it all the more urgent for Eliza
to find out who her parents were before that agent did.

John was quieter than usual when she arrived
to work Monday.

Eliza took her cue from him and waited at
her desk, notepad in hand.

John rose and paced the
room, stopping to examine a picture on the wall. “This is under the
heading
1942
,” he
said finally. “Being out of work for the first time in two decades,
I was finally forced to face what my life had become. That happens
when you’ve lost your friends, your work, and your self-respect.”
Frowning, he peered out the window at the rear of the library. “By
then, I’d become an expert at avoiding the truth with enough Scotch
to drown a horse.”

“
What truth? Of who you
had become, the puppet of studios, that sort of thing?”

John shook his head. “No.” With a deep
frown, he studied the floor. “Something I haven’t been able to talk
about, but … since I’ve revealed just about everything else now, I
guess I can’t withhold this.”

More confessions? Her heart twisted. “Are
you sure it’s necessary to include in your book?” If only she could
spare them both any more of his difficult memories. Hadn’t he
confessed enough?

John’s face tilted skyward. “I do believe
God has forgiven me. And I want people to understand that there is
nothing He can’t forgive. But … it’s still hard to forget some
things and go on carefree, as if no harm was done. There are things
I’ve done that some people will never be able to forgive and will
certainly never forget.”

Unfortunately, she had just learned this
firsthand at her sister’s house. There would always be people who
would never let John forget what he once was. “The truth shall set
you free,” she said, remembering Jesus’s words.

John pivoted and studied her from across the
room, perhaps surprised that she knew a Bible verse. He turned back
to the window. “What if the truth that sets one person free only
imprisons others?”

He said it so quietly, she wasn’t sure he
meant for her to hear it. She set her notepad down and stood. “Why
don’t I get us some coffee, give you a chance to collect your
thoughts.”

He nodded vaguely.

She went to the kitchen, but Millie wasn’t
there, so Eliza started the electric coffeepot. While it
percolated, she went to the doorway to see if John was ready to
resume.

He just stood in the library, leaning more
heavily on his cane than usual, looking defeated, burdened too long
by a weight too heavy. With a sigh, he sank onto one of the nearby
chairs. “Jeanette Lovell was young,” he said. “Talented, but too
green for the politics. Studios collected starlets with a certain
daring look, and she had it. ‘Studio candy,’ they were called. When
they weren’t going over lines or doing promo shoots, girls like her
were assigned to the arm of an actor and paraded beneath the lights
of the Boulevard. This was to make us appear more desirable, you
see. Boost publicity. Great for ticket sales.”

He studied his cane, twisting it clockwise,
then counterclockwise. “Jeanette had married her high school
sweetheart.”

Eliza nodded, realizing he wasn’t dictating
but rather remembering aloud and probably needed a sounding board.
She stepped into the library so he would know that she was still
listening.

“
Please, stay where you
were. I’d rather not have you looking at me just now.”

Pulse racing, Eliza stepped back.

The coffeepot gurgled.

“
No one knew. No one but
me, anyway. Somewhere deep down, in those rare few moments when I
sobered up enough, I saw the whole thing for what it really was.
But I couldn’t own up to it, so I stayed drunk.”

“
What
happened?”

His hand gripped the cane so hard his
knuckles whitened. “When her husband learned of … an encounter
between us, he divorced her. Immediately.” John hung his head. “I
don’t blame him. Poor Jeanette was completely devastated. This sort
of thing wasn’t a habit of hers, you see. That’s the thing. I … I
should have known that. Not that it should have made a
difference.”

Eliza glanced across the room at her
notepad, but she didn’t need it. He wasn’t composing—he was
confessing.

“
At the time, I chalked it
up to bad luck. Tough break, doll face, these things happen.
Hollywood is no place for your heart. To work in this town, you
have to pack light and keep moving.” He groaned, as if the memory
pained him. “
That
was the extent of my sympathy. My remorse for ruining a
marriage and a promising career.”

The despair in his tone echoed through Eliza
like a melancholy chord. “I take it she never worked in Hollywood
again?”

Shaking his head, he leaned his cane against
the chair. “No, she didn’t. Jeanette had come to L.A. with two
things most people only dream of having: young love and huge
potential.” His voice dropped to a choked whisper. “And I destroyed
both. Without even giving it a second thought.”

“
Surely she could have …
recovered from her loss eventually and continued
acting?”

John hung his head so low she could barely
see it beyond his shoulders. “If she’d had a tougher hide or a
harder heart, perhaps,” he said, voice muffled. “But she had
neither.”

Eliza stepped into the room to see him
better. She was afraid to ask, but also feared he would sink
further into despair. “John, what happened to her?” she
whispered.

John gripped his head in both hands. “She
tried to take her life.” His voice broke.

Covering a gasp, Eliza could only stand
numb, heart sinking.

“
Luckily, a friend found
her and took her to a hospital. The press called it a tragedy
averted. No one looked for anyone to blame. But they should
have.”

“
No,” Eliza whispered.
That would have done no one any good.

“
She never said a word,
and her ex-husband never went public with the truth about the
divorce, so no one knew the real reason for her despair. But I
knew.”

“
What became of
her?”

John reached for his cane. “She disappeared.
Rumor had it she got involved with some real shady types. A few
years later, I heard she grew sick and died. Alone and
penniless.”

Eliza needed to say something, but what?
Everything that came to mind sounded so trite.

“
I believe she died of a
broken heart.” His voice faltered. “And it was all my doing.” He
leaned forward. Silent sobs shook him.

Eliza couldn’t move,
couldn’t breathe. His grief filled the room and tore at her.
Dear God, what should I do?

John rubbed both eyes with the heels of his
hands. “Please … don’t write that,” he whispered. “At least not
yet.”

The shame in his voice clutched her heart.
She went to him and stood beside his chair, aching to console him,
and yet, feeling so helpless. “John,” she said, “I’m so sorry. But
if what you say about God is true, then He wouldn’t want you to
keep carrying around shame from past mistakes, would He? Yes, her
end was tragic, and yes, it’s right and honorable for you to accept
your share of blame, but it’s past and it can’t be undone. Nothing
good could come from bringing it out in the open now.”

He didn’t move, didn’t respond.

Afraid he wasn’t listening, she laid a hand
on his shoulder.

John stiffened.

“
Admitting the truth is a
very brave and noble thing. Maybe you
did
need to confess this aloud to
someone, like me. But perhaps you don’t need to tell it to the
whole world.”

His eyes drifted closed, forcing tears down
his cheeks.

Her heart thudded. He looked so broken—in
spite of the solid strength of his shoulder beneath her hand.

She pulled her hand away. “I’ll check on
that coffee.” She slipped into the kitchen, still trembling from
having come dangerously close to pulling John into her arms.

By
the end of ’42, I had hit rock bottom. When I wasn’t blind
drunk, I was depressed and ailing from years of reckless living.
And though I lived in Hollywood’s busiest hotels, surrounded by
parties day and night, I was completely alone.

~
The Devine Truth: A Memoir

Eliza finished typing what little notes she
had taken and went home early at John’s insistence. He was done for
the day.

She didn’t blame him.

Eliza arrived home early enough to call the
university, hoping to find someone who could translate the letters
from Betty’s attic. At first, when she said she was looking for
someone who could translate Russian into English, the receptionist
sounded suspicious. Eliza politely explained these were old family
letters that were all that she had left of her parents. The woman
finally agreed to put her through to the linguistics department.
With a sigh, Eliza explained her mission again, getting the feeling
she was meeting another brick wall. She was transferred to a
Russian literature professor, to whom she told her story yet again.
This man said he would be willing to look at the letters, but only
by appointment.

And the only time he had available was
Wednesday at noon.

Crossing her fingers, Eliza made the
appointment, hoping John wouldn’t mind her missing a day of work.
When she arrived at his house on Tuesday, Eliza asked about taking
the next day off and explained it was for personal family
business.

He hesitated. “I was hoping we could speed
things up. I’d like to finish the book as soon as possible.”

Eliza nodded, disappointed that he was in
such a hurry, but not surprised after his painful confession the
day before. “Of course, I understand. I will just call back and
change the—”

“
But if it’s the only day
you can take care of your family business, then you should take
advantage of that, by all means. I’ll spend the day writing as best
I can.”

“
Thank you,” she said,
feeling guilty for delaying the book when he wanted it done. The
publisher’s deadline was the end of December, which was still four
weeks away. “Do you want to finish the book before Christmas? Or
did you mean even sooner than that?”

John straightened the books on his table
without looking up. “As soon as possible.”