The Memoir of Johnny Devine (18 page)

But the mystery would have to wait. John was
leaving the next day to help Oscar with some kind of Charlie
Chaplin Silent Film tribute in Los Angeles and would be gone
through the weekend, giving Eliza a couple of extra days off.

When
she
arrived at home on Wednesday
evening, the super blocked her path to the stairs and handed her a
slip of paper. It read
Agent Bert
Robinson, Berkeley 3549
.

Eliza wadded up the telephone number, tossed
it in the waste can, and continued around the super and up the
stairs. Halfway up, she stopped and turned. “If that man calls
again, there’s no need to take a message. I don’t want to talk to
him. And if he comes around, he’s not welcome here.”

“
Lady, butler duty ain’t
part of my job description.”

“
Just don’t let him in.”
She left him muttering and went to her room in search of Mr.
Darcy.

An hour later, Ivy knocked
at the door. “Phone for you. I mean, I
think
it’s for you. The guy asked
for Eliza Peterson. I said the only Eliza here was Eliza
Saunderson, and he called me a doll face and said I was right on
the money.” Grinning, she twirled a curly lock behind her
ear.

“
Thanks, but I’m not
taking any calls from him.”

Ivy cocked her head at Eliza. “You want me
to tell him to buzz off?”

Eliza smiled. “Sure, thanks.”

“
Okay, but what’s he look
like? Mind if I ask him if he’s single first?”

“
He’s not your type, Ivy.
There’s only one thing he’s interested in.” Which was true, but Ivy
didn’t need to know what it was.

Ivy’s eyes narrowed. “Ohhh! I’ll tell him to
buzz off all right—and how!”

At six forty the next morning, another knock
on the door nearly sent Eliza into a screaming fit.

Joan, in curlers and a robe, leaned on
Eliza’s doorframe as though the walk up the stairs had been too
taxing. Tendrils of smoke curled up from her cigarette. “Telephone
for you, toots.”

Eliza groaned. She needed
to leave a
No Calls for Eliza
note on the phone. “I’m not taking his
calls.”

“
Boy, that fella must
really like a girl who plays hard to get. So what’s he look
like?”

Once she finally convinced Joan that Agent
Robinson definitely wasn’t her type, Eliza bathed and dressed, fed
Mr. Darcy the rest of her canned milk, then headed to the bus
stop.

It was time to take action.

“Darling, why didn’t you call first?” Betty
reached through the doorway and gave Eliza a perfunctory hug. “But
it’s lovely to see you.” She tugged Eliza inside the house. “Sue
Ellen?” she called out. “Eddie Jr.? Look who’s here!”

A number of things had changed since Eliza’s
last visit to Betty’s home, including a larger console television
set and two new pieces of impressionist art above the fireplace. Of
course, the view from the front room window hadn’t changed. A
person could still look down on the entire East Bay from the
Cunningham home, which stood at the pinnacle of Richmond Heights in
a neighborhood made up of nearly identical homes lined up in
perfect uniformity.

Eddie Jr. thundered in from the hallway.
“Say, what are you doing here?” he said, his freckly grin missing a
few teeth.

Sue Ellen came running in. “Auntie Liza!”
The girl nearly knocked Eliza over with her embrace.

“
Sue Ellen,” Betty said,
raising a brow.

“
Oh.” Sue Ellen stepped
back and held out her hand. “How do you do?” She tucked her lips
in, barely stifling a smile.

Eliza took her hand and gave her a wink.

Sue Ellen burst into
giggles, then turned to her mother. “Why doesn’t
she
have to wear
gloves?”

“
Oops,” Eliza said. “I
forgot.”

“
Really, dear. There’s no
need to be sarcastic. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how filthy
those buses can be. All those people.” She shuddered. “I wish you
wouldn’t take public transportation. Well, come in. You’re staying
for lunch?”

Eliza dropped her handbag on the sofa.
“Sure. Can I help?”

Betty opened her mouth, but then smiled the
smile she used on her children when she wanted them to understand
how patient she was being. “You’ve forgotten. We have Odella
now.”

“
Oh, that’s right. How is
Odella?”

“
She cooks a lot better
than Mother does,” Eddie Jr. said, eyes glued to the television
set.

Betty’s nostrils flared, replaced by another
crisp smile. “Come into the den, Eliza. Ed won’t mind us using it.
I’ll get us some tea.”

Which meant she would order Odella to make
it and serve it to them.

Eliza followed Betty to the den, done up in
the latest style with dark wood paneling, stark furniture, and
thick plaid curtains that blocked the light.

“
Make yourself at home,”
Betty said. “Back in a jiffy.”

Eliza studied her brother-in-law’s cave-like
den. The armless brown sofa didn’t look at all comfortable with its
hard, straight lines and flat seat, and the white plastic chairs
looked cold. But it was the latest style, and that, of course, was
what mattered.

Eliza shook her head. What
a stark contrast to John’s home. The furnishings in John’s
storybook
house
pre-dated the turn of the century. The famous film star lived
amongst old-fashioned things and didn’t seem to care.

She was still musing on the differences
between the two homes when Betty returned.

“
For goodness’ sake,
Eliza, sit down. You look like a long-tailed cat in a room full of
rockers. Now then,” Betty said, settling on the hard sofa. “You
didn’t ride a smelly bus all the way from Oakland just for a cup of
my tea.”

You mean Odella’s
tea.
Eliza sat on the edge of a chair,
feeling the cold through the fabric of her skirt. “Betty, the man
who’s been bothering me is an agent with the House Un-American
Activities Committee. He thinks our parents were
communists.”

“
That’s ridiculous,” Betty
said with a sniff. “They weren’t, of course, but what difference
would it make if they were? They’ve been dead fifteen
years.”

“
Not only that, he thinks
they were Russian spies. He insists they had some kind of contacts
in Russia.”

Betty’s brow gathered into a frown. “And you
told him they weren’t, right?”

“
Of course, but he didn’t
believe me. I don’t know where he gets his information, but he
knows about the train accident and where they were going. He said
there was a large communist gathering in Fresno at the same time
they were traveling there.”

Betty’s frown deepened.
She lowered her voice. “So, now you think Mama and Papa were
spies
? How could you
even think such a thing?”

“
I don’t know what to
think, Betty! This man shows up out of nowhere and seems to know
more about my parents than I do. It’s a little
unsettling.”

Betty leaned forward. “What’s unsettling is
hearing you even entertain such a notion.” She shook her head. “I
knew this would happen. It’s all that gibberish you’ve been filling
your head with, your fixation with coloreds and all that nonsense
about oppression—”

Odella, wearing a gray dress and stiffly
starched white apron, stood in the doorway holding a serving tray.
“Tea’s served, ma’am,” she said in a flat tone.

As the maid came into the room, Eliza
studied Betty, wondering if her sister even cared that Odella had
heard her last remark, but Betty’s expression was fixed in prim
hostess mode.

Odella handed Eliza a teacup. Eliza thanked
her and tried to see what was in Odella’s eyes, but the woman would
not meet Eliza’s gaze.

Betty waited until Odella left and then
spoke. “Is that why you came here?” Her words were slow,
deliberate. “To see if there was something to the rumors you could
use, regardless of how it would harm our family name?” Betty tossed
her head, but her short blonde curls were sprayed so tightly they
didn’t budge.

“
What are you talking
about?”

“
I may not be a college
graduate, but I know how these things work, Eliza. You’re planning
to write about this, aren’t you? Are you so desperate for material
that you would dig around in our own family’s private affairs just
for a byline? Don’t you even care about ruining our parents’ good
names?”

Heat rushed to Eliza’s face. “Of course I’m
not writing about our parents. What on earth makes you think
that?”

“
Because that’s what you
do. You stir up waters that are best left alone. Don’t you see?
You’re always going against the flow. No wonder they think you’re
anti-American.”

Eliza shot up from her
seat, stomach in knots. She looked down at her sister, not
believing what she’d heard. “I came here to see if you could help
me sort this out, not get into a debate about my convictions. At
least I
have
convictions and am not hiding behind an apron and a garden
club membership.” Her breath caught, but too late to stop the
words—they were out, hovering in the air between them like a cloud
of yellow jackets.

Betty stood and glanced at the doorway,
toward the sound of cowboys and Indians on the television. She
turned to Eliza, chin high. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting to
belong to the best circles,” she said in a low, even tone. “It’s
not as easy for me as you think.”

“
Is that all you want,
Betty?
Circles
?”

Betty’s lips pressed together into a thin,
scarlet line. “I want to be respected, Eliza. Is that so
terrible?”

Eliza shook her head. “I didn’t say it
was.”

“
But I see it on your
face. Which is ironic, because
you
don’t even know the half of it. You have no idea
what it’s like to live in fear of losing the place in respectable
society you’ve worked so hard for. Even with all your …
eccentricities,
you’ll
never have to worry like I do.”

Betty’s words echoed in Eliza’s ears. “Why?
What do you mean?”

Her sister stared at Eliza. “Come with
me.”

Eliza followed Betty out of the den and into
the dining room, then down a hall and into Betty’s bedroom.

Betty opened the closet and took down a
photo box. She leafed through photographs of her children as
babies, then pulled out a folded blue paper. “There. Does that make
you happy?”

Frowning, Eliza unfolded the
official-looking paper and read. “Nadia Petrovich.” She turned to
Betty, confused.

“
Read the
date.”

January fourth, nineteen nineteen. Betty’s
birthday. “What is this?”

“
It’s my birth
certificate, Eliza. Unlike yours, which leaves no doubt that you’re
a full-blooded American.”

Eliza glanced down the
page to the lines listing the infant’s mother and father. Instead
of Laura and Wesley Peterson, as were listed on Eliza’s birth
certificate, the parents’ names on Betty’s read
Lara
and
Vasily Petrovich
.

So her parents
were
Russian.

I
finally had to admit that Oscar’s faith wasn’t just a fad.
Eventually, his patience and persistence wore me out, so I fired
him. Repeatedly.

~
The Devine Truth: A Memoir

The first thing Eliza did
when she returned to her apartment was to tape a note beside the
telephone that said
Absolutely NO Calls
for Eliza
. And if Agent Robinson showed up
at the apartment building, maybe the super would send him away. She
could hope, anyway. She couldn’t endure any more questions, not
until she sorted out what she’d discovered about her parents.
Unfortunately, Betty knew nothing more than what was on her birth
certificate. Eliza had asked several times until she was satisfied
her sister was telling the truth.

Why had Mama and Papa kept their real names
and nationality a secret? They must have worked hard to leave so
little trace of an accent. How had they hidden being Russian so
well?

Were
they communists?