The Memoir of Johnny Devine (11 page)

At her door, she froze. What if he was in
her room now?

With fumbling hands, she unlocked her door
and peeked inside, staying out on the landing just in case. Why
would he be following her? She’d heard of men who targeted women.
Especially single ones living on their own. Too bad she didn’t have
a brother or an uncle. Of course, there was Betty’s husband, but Ed
Cunningham was a placid, preoccupied man, whom she couldn’t picture
fighting with some trench-coated masher. Besides, Ed and Betty
lived an hour away. No, if she was going to prove that women were
complete and capable in their own right, she would have to deal
with things like this herself.

Fortunately, the only male lying in wait for
her was one hungry tomcat.

When Eliza arrived the next day, John was on
the telephone at the other end of the library. As she waited for
him to finish, she read over her typed pages and tried not to
listen in on John’s conversation, but his tone made it impossible
not to.

“
No,” he said with slow,
deliberate patience, as though he were speaking to an unreasonable
child. “As I said, I only know what I’ve already told you. I don’t
know any subversive anti-Americans. In fact, I’ve never even met
one. Are you sure there are any?”

Eliza met his gaze inadvertently.

John opened his mouth to
speak but then clamped it shut, lips pressed tight as he listened.
“Now you’re twisting my words. You know that’s not what I meant.”
He listened for a few more seconds, shaking his head. “Look, I’m
sure you have far more important things to do. I know
I
do, so let me make it
easy for us both and say goodbye. That’s right. You have a good day
now.” He hung up the telephone, but he stared at the receiver as if
he wanted to toss it across the room.

Eliza turned to her typewriter, curiosity
swelling.

John came to her desk. “Still typing
yesterday’s notes?”

“
It’s finished, I’m just
looking it over. Was that something about the book?”
And that’s the best you could do? Surely the man
can spot a nosy female a mile away.

“
It’s this McCarthy
fiasco. Ever since the Rosenberg executions, there’s been a pack of
bloodhounds at the House Un-American Activities Committee devoted
to sniffing out communists in Hollywood.” He shook his head. “They
even have a small deputation in Berkeley. They’ve set up a
temporary headquarters at the Shattuck Hotel. Apparently, they can
spy on entertainers
and
intellectuals from there.”

Even though he no longer worked in film,
could John be affected by the heightened scrutiny on Hollywood?

“
I don’t know why
Eisenhower puts up with McCarthy’s nonsense,” he said. “The man
accused the entire Truman administration of being communists. And
he’s still running around like a lunatic with the authority to
accuse anyone who sneezes of being a commie.”

The execution of Julius and Ethel Rosenberg
earlier that summer had sent a fearful hush rippling out across the
country. Eliza had heard about it in the newsreels. And the papers
reported that a growing number of citizens were afraid of the
suspicious eye of Senator McCarthy and the HUAC. With actors being
blacklisted, many in Hollywood feared they would be next.

“
Have any of your friends
been affected?” she asked.

“
Just about everyone I
know is being questioned, and I’ve known a lot people in this
industry. People whose political interests are none of my concern.
Did you know they blacklisted John Garfield? I worked with him and
never heard him say a word about being a communist.”

Eliza had read about Garfield. “I heard he
died of a heart attack last year.”

John nodded gravely. “People think his death
had something to do with this whole Red Scare debacle.” He shook
his head. “He was only thirty-nine.”

How could the government continue to support
such paranoia? Rumor had it many people questioned whether or not
Ethel Rosenberg was even guilty of her husband’s crimes. If they
could convict and execute someone on weak evidence, what did that
mean for others under scrutiny?

“
Are they going to accuse
you too?”

John strolled to the window. “I don’t care
if they do. I’m not a communist. They’ve been trying to get me to
name names, but I’ve already told them everything I know, which
isn’t much.” He turned to her. “Listen, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t get
so hot under the collar. I’m sure McCarthy’s witch-hunt will run
out of steam eventually.” Muttering, he added, “I’m praying it
does.”

Millie came in carrying a tray. “Such a fine
day. I thought you two might wanna work outside. Enjoy the last of
that warm, sweet breeze ’fore it gone.”

“
Excellent timing, Millie,
thank you.” John exhaled a long sigh. “Here, let me get the door.”
He ushered them outside to the garden.

He and Eliza each took a seat, while Millie
set a plate of golden macaroons on the wrought iron table and
poured two glasses of lemonade. She left the pitcher with them and
hugged her empty tray. “Anything else you two be needin’?”

“
This is perfect, Millie.”
John leaned back, his smile relaxed. “Thank you.”

Millie shuffled into the house, humming a
lively tune.

Eliza grinned. That old
woman had to be an angel—if there were such
a
thing. She tucked a tickling curl
behind her ear. With her notepad and pencil in hand, she turned to
John.

His eyes were fixed on her. He quickly
looked away. “So, where did we leave off, Mrs. Saunderson?”

She cringed inwardly. It was good that he
addressed her formally; it kept things professional. But still,
something felt so aloof about it, as though he were pointing out
that she was from a different social class, someone outside his
celebrity sphere.

She read the last page back to him.

John began with how he tried to move on with
his career after Stella left.

“
When? How?” Eliza put her
notepad down. “It’s your story, but you can’t just skip over
that
. Which one of you
broke it off?”

John lifted his gaze slowly and studied her
from beneath those dark lashes.

Something in Eliza’s chest
fluttered.
Cut that out. Next you’ll be
swooning.

“
I
ended it. And let’s just say she wasn’t ecstatic about
it.”

“
Why did you break it off?
I mean—” Eliza set her pencil on the table with great exaggeration.
“If you don’t mind my asking.”

He looked at her pencil. “Off the
record?”

She nodded. His readers may forever wonder
what happened, but she wasn’t writing another word until she
knew.

John sighed. “All right. I finally got fed
up with her using me to line her pocketbook.”

“
Wise decision.” Eliza
took up her pencil, biting her lip to hide a smile. She took notes
as John went on.

After Stella left, he continued to audition
on his own as “Johnny Devine” and failed every audition—no
surprise, since Stella had taken her clout and left unhappy—but
then in 1925, he got a lucky break with the American Laboratory
Theatre in New York. Former Moscow Art Theatre members Richard
Boleslavsky and Maria Ouspenskaya took Johnny under their wing.
There he learned Stanislavski's system, known later as Method
acting, a style that helped create some of the world’s most
renowned stars.

When an MGM scout spotted him performing at
“The Lab,” he invited Johnny to Hollywood to audition. Johnny went
west, and though he failed that screen test, he found enough bit
parts and odd jobs on studio sets to stay alive. Also, he
discovered a new hero: Charlie Chaplin. By this time, Johnny was
passing screen tests, and agents had begun to take notice. Working
at DeMille Pictures, as it was known at the time, he met Cecil B.
DeMille one day while working on a set.

After giving Johnny some
tips on making it in pictures, DeMille cast him as an extra
in
The Godless Girl.
From there, he started working in other silent films, then
graduated to talkies in the 1930s at a time when many big name male
stars were washed up because they didn’t have the voice to make the
transition to sound. Johnny Devine’s face and voice suddenly landed
him better parts. He began working with top-billed stars, and
though he wasn’t yet a household name like Douglas Fairbanks or
Clark Gable, he was becoming known well enough to be recognized in
public.

John leaned back with glass in hand, as
though thinking about what to say next.

In the silence, Eliza took a moment to
reread her notes, all the while marveling at this inside glimpse of
Hollywood. John was eating one of Millie’s cookies, so Eliza
reached for one and took a bite. She hadn’t had a macaroon since
Mama was alive. The toasted outside and soft, chewy inside melted
in her mouth. Eliza closed her eyes and savored the taste of
coconut and almond. “I can’t cook worth beans, and I don’t have a
grandmother,” Eliza said between bites. “I may just have to adopt
Millie.” She reached for her lemonade.

John chuckled. “Sorry, but her twelve
grandchildren might have something to say about that.” He looked
across the garden to the tree line bordering the south side of the
property. His face sobered. He turned and pushed the plate of
cookies toward Eliza. “Say, why don’t you take these home? Millie
always makes far too much. It would cheer her up to know someone
will use them.”

Eliza pushed her glasses higher and eyed
him. “Millie needs cheering up about her cookies?”

“
Sure. She’s adamant about
not letting anything go to waste. She single-handedly saw her
entire family through the Depression.”

“
Did she? What an amazing
woman,” Eliza said. “So then … why does she keep making too
much?”

John took a moment to think about that, then
he chuckled. “You got me.”

Eliza hadn’t forgotten Millie’s speech about
being thrown out to beg in the street. “In danger of losing her
job, my foot.” She laughed. “You know, you’re not the only actor in
this house.”

“
You’re right. That
was
an Oscar-worthy
performance if ever I saw one.”

Eliza looked down at her notes but couldn’t
help smiling. Millie was something else. And if given a choice,
Eliza wouldn’t have her any other way.

When she glanced up, John’s eyes met hers
and held, as if seized by some unseen force.

Her heart skittered double-time.

With a frown, he reached for his glass but
didn’t raise it, just stroked away beads of condensation. “Now
then, where did we leave off?”

John dictated and Eliza wrote until they had
composed another page.

She was still jotting the last few lines
when John reached for his cane and stood. “If you’ll excuse me, I
have some things to attend to. I won’t be long.”

“
Of course. I’ll just go
inside and type these pages.”

John nodded and left. Instead of going into
the house, he passed the front door and continued along the stone
path toward the driveway. Perhaps he was going to see Duncan.

Eliza headed for the house, but as she
reached the door, she heard John’s voice and stopped. She peered
around the bushes but didn’t see anyone with him. Strange.

When John came into
the
library a little later, Eliza had
finished typing his notes. “Where were we?” he asked, taking his
seat by the fireplace. He placed a small notebook on the table. He
looked spent.