The Memoir of Johnny Devine (32 page)

Eliza nodded. “Yes, I wrote that. It’s all
true, after all. Am I not free to repeat truth?”

“
Anti-American propaganda
is often signified by its inflammatory tone and particularly its
focus on championing minorities.”

A sharp string of replies
came to mind, but Eliza held her tongue.
Wait for a question …

“
Who put you up to writing
and publishing those articles?”

“
My
conscience.”

“
Your
conscience?”

“
Yes. How can I, in good
conscience, enjoy a glass of iced tea and dip my toes in a
sparkling hotel pool while another woman just like me, perhaps of
the same age and education, is not allowed to drink from the same
kind of drinking glass but has to use a paper cup, and if she dips
one toe in the pool, the hotel will drain it, simply because of the
color of her skin?”

The men conferred again.

Agent Robinson examined another sheet of
paper. “How much Red money have you received for writing
propaganda?”

She shook her head. “I don’t write
propaganda. I write about the gross injustice of racial, ethnic,
and gender inequality. Not for anyone’s agenda, but because I
believe this kind of bigotry is wrong and should be exposed for
what it is—shameful.”

Robinson held the paper higher and raised
his volume to match it. “I hold in my hand documented proof that
the American Women’s Alliance has received funding from the
Communist Party of the United States. You have received payment for
your articles from the American Women’s Alliance.” He stepped close
enough for Eliza to see the veins pulsing in his neck. “Let me ask
you again,” he said. “How much Red money have you received for your
articles?”

Eliza lifted her chin. “I
sold my articles to a women’s publication in hopes that women who
suffer from injustice might read them and find a common thread of
support, so that if they are in an unjust or oppressive situation,
they will know they are not alone. I wrote those articles to
encourage women and minorities. The AWA paid me for them. I
accepted the money and didn’t ask them where it came from. If the
AWA has communist ties, I
wasn’t
aware.”

Robinson strode back to the table and the
men resumed their discussion, shuffling papers.

After a minute, the man on the left end
looked at her. “What is your relationship with the actor Johnny
Devine, also known as John David Vincent?”

There was no telling how far this query
would go. “I am a collaborator on a book he is writing.”

“
What do you know of Mr.
Vincent’s longtime association with the Hollywood Ten?”

“
Everything I know about
Mr. Vincent’s dealings in Hollywood is included in his book.” Eliza
lifted her chin. “It will be available soon. You should buy it. I
think you’d really enjoy it.”

Actually, she knew of one
Hollywood story that John had left
out
of the book—the young starlet’s
tragic life. Which was simply none of their business. Surely they
wouldn’t ask Eliza about Jeanette Lovell … would they?

Please, no questions about her. I can’t do
that to John. Please.

“
And where do you …
collaborate?”

The way one of the men in the middle said it
made Eliza’s skin crawl. And was it really necessary for him to
ogle her like that? “In Mr. Vincent’s home.”

At once, all four men gave her their full
attention. One raked a gaze over Eliza’s skirt. Cheeks burning, she
tugged the fabric forward to make it cover as much leg as possible.
Betty surely would’ve chosen an ankle-length skirt.

“
And while in Mr.
Vincent’s home, have you seen anyone coming or going, such as
actors, screenwriters, directors?” one agent asked. “Any telephone
calls, correspondence, visitors, anything like that? Have you heard
him discuss meetings or mention names?”

She kept her expression
even. If she hadn’t been so nosy, she would
not
have noticed the arrival of pink
stationery on more than one occasion. But then again, she didn’t
actually
see
a
name, and didn’t know for sure if it qualified as correspondence.
It could have been tickets to a film premiere. Recipes for Millie.
A wedding invitation. How was she to know what was
inside?

While she was deciding how to answer, the
man on the left spoke. “You are aware that your full cooperation
today will go a long way to making our file on you … go away.”

Whether their tactics qualified as bribery
or coercion, the idea that they would simply stop investigating her
in exchange for information about John stunned her, though she
shouldn’t have been surprised. How unethical. A perfect example of
injustice and oppression at its worst. She had half a mind to tell
them so.

John was right—an entire department was
infected with this paranoid insanity. Someone needed to drive the
HUAC out of business.

Eliza sighed. “Listen. I don’t know anything
about Mr. Vincent’s friends, but what I do know is that he’s not a
communist. You’re wasting your time on him.”

Agent Robinson spoke to the others and then,
with a nod, he wrote something in the folder.

“
Is that my file?” Eliza
asked. “What are you writing?”

The agent didn’t bother looking up. “You’re
being placed on the hostile witness list.”

Eliza wasn’t sure if John was expecting her
to come to work after the panel query, but the distance from the
Shattuck to his home wasn’t far, and the day was still young. It
wouldn’t take long to finalize the manuscript, and, barring
anything unexpected, Eliza could have the memoir finished and ready
to mail to New York by the end of the day.

As the bus jockeyed its way through the
city, Eliza focused on the sights—the vigor of traffic, the milling
pedestrians, and the majesty of Sather Tower standing tall against
the western horizon of merging sky and shimmering water.

Couldn’t the bus get a flat tire or run out
of gas? Even better, couldn’t it turn around and go back in time to
the day she first met John?

She let her tired mind wander. What would
she do differently if she could go back to that day? If she had
known the things she knew now, would she do it again?

Eliza leaned back against the seat. She’d
been part of an amazing book that would offer hope to many people.
Her heart had been awakened, and she’d known love and friendship.
She had grown.

Yes. Even if the outcome was the same, she
would do it all again.

The bus left the Berkeley campus and began
its winding ascent between the fragrant evergreens lining the route
leading to John’s fairytale home. There was no point fantasizing
about delaying the end. John was eager to be free of it. And Eliza
had no desire to prolong the inevitable.

Yes, I do. I want to drag it out for another
week or two, or a hundred and fifty-two.

No. Once the book was done, Eliza was no
longer needed.

But he does need me. And I need him.

True or not, it wasn’t up to her. It was up
to the man who refused to share the burden of his past with her, a
refusal that had kept Eliza awake at night, her heart ripped in
half. One half burned in frustration at John’s resolve, while the
other half loved him all the more for wanting to protect her.

She didn’t want to be protected. She wanted
to love the man.

Maybe it’s not about what you want.

Eliza closed her eyes and waited, listening
for any other input from that Voice that was not her own. John had
said there was a purpose to their lives that they couldn’t always
see, a larger picture, and he was at peace with that. Millie often
talked the same way.

Well, if God had a larger purpose for
Eliza’s life, it would have to wait. Right now, she needed to catch
a break in solving the mystery of her parents, and she desperately
needed to clear her name.

Maybe God could help
with
that
.

“
You’re here.” John met her
at the front door. He looked even more battle-worn than he had the
day before. He stepped aside, beckoning her. “I’m sorry, please
come in. How did it go?”

“
Not well, I’m afraid.”
Eliza removed her coat and then gave him a summary of the morning’s
inquiry.

John listened without comment.

When she finished, she examined John more
closely. He looked pale. “John, what’s wrong?”

“
It’s Millie.” He
grimaced.

Dread seized her. “What is it?”

“
Her grandson Nathaniel
called. She’s had a bad spell of some kind.” John met her gaze and
held it. “They think it was her heart.”

Eliza could barely breathe. “Oh my goodness,
is she—?”

“
The last I heard, she was
alive.” John’s mouth tightened. “But unfortunately, it took
Nathaniel so long to find a hospital that would admit her, it’s
hard to say how she will fare.”

Eliza’s handbag fell from her hand and hit
the floor. “Oh dear! Poor Millie!” Her eyes filled with tears. She
sank onto the nearest chair.

John offered her a handkerchief, which she
took absently.

“
I should have known,” she
whispered. “Yesterday wasn’t the first time.” She shook her head.
“I should have taken her to the doctor right away when I found her
like that. Oh, why didn’t I—?”

“
No. If anyone should have
done something, it’s me.” John shook his head. He lowered himself
to the chair beside her. “I’ve tried to get her to stop working,
but she refused. Said this house was her responsibility, she’d been
taking care of it more than half her life. I told her she would
have a good pension. She said it wasn’t about the money. I think it
was about her pride.”

Eliza dabbed at her eyes. “She told me you
two had words over her staying on and she always won.” She glanced
around the room at the spotless furnishings. “She’s quite proud of
that.”

“
If Millie worked herself
into a heart attack, I’ll never—”

“
No.” She looked into
John’s troubled eyes. “You are not to blame. And there’s no point
in either of us wishing we could go back and change what’s
done.”

He looked around the room. “She’s always
been here, a part of this home. A stabilizing force.”

“
Yes.”

“
Perhaps we could pray for
her.”

With a nod, Eliza bowed
her head and listened as John placed Millie into God’s care. The
sound of his deep voice, rich with compassion and sincerity, warmed
her, and her tears flowed again. Somehow, Millie had entwined
herself around Eliza’s heart. She didn’t know
how
or when it had happened, it just
had.

In the silence, she realized John was
watching her.

She wiped her eyes again and wished she
could see Millie’s face. Wished for her comforting arms. Wished she
wasn’t walking out of John and Millie’s lives today for what could
very well be the last time.

“
There’s nothing more we
can do now but wait,” John said.

“
Yes, I suppose you’re
right. I’ve come to finalize your manuscript and send it to New
York.”

John stood and offered her a hand. “Yes, of
course. Thank you.”

Eliza went to work, and
for the next several hours, John kept to another part of the house,
which was fine with
her
since the final touches didn’t require his input.
By four o’clock, the manuscript was packaged, addressed, and ready
to mail. It seemed such an anticlimactic finale to the weeks of
laying John’s soul bare.

Eliza gathered her coat and bag and then
waited in the library a moment. Should she wait, ring for John, or
go in search of him?

After a few moments, John came in. “You’re
finished?”

She nodded, unable to trust her voice.

He stared at the package. “So, that’s it.”
He checked the clock on the mantel. “And still enough time to post
it today.”

“
Yes, I believe
so.”

“
A tremendous amount of
work has gone into this book. I believe it’s only right to give it
a proper send-off. I was thinking of celebrating. With
dinner.”

She ignored the ridiculous rush of hope his
words stirred. “That’s a good idea.”

He set his cane against a chair and buttoned
his jacket. “Since it wouldn’t be possible without you, it’s only
right that you should celebrate as well. Would you care to join
me?” he said, not meeting her eyes.