It was December 15, 1950, an important day. Paul’s fifty-eighth birthday. Precisely at nine A.M., Timmy, Paul, and I had breakfast out on the lanai, after which we presented him with a tray of useful little gifts, including a pocket-size binocular and initialed gold cuff links. Then we three went for a walk up the beach with Hildy and Jocko.
Hildy, somewhat fatter and older, was not as fast a runner as she had been, but what a great big black furry loving giantess she was! Still obeying Paul’s every command, she’d dash out into the huge oncoming breakers to retrieve a piece of driftwood he had thrown out for her. Jocko spent his youthful energy just dashing madly up the wet sand, trying to catch a sandpiper. More often, I found myself wondering, now that Paul’s gigantic business successes dictated that his social activities parallel these achievements—meeting exciting, important people—would the simplicity of our home life be boring, uninteresting to him?
Later, we sat poolside to watch Timmy swim across the pool underwater, do a fairly good racing dive, and swim down the length of the pool without stopping! “He’s absolutely fearless,” Paul said. “Such a strong swimmer.”
We three spent the entire day together, catching up on the past months. But since Paul had been gone for so long, I wondered if we could reach across that barrier of time and pick up as we were before he went away.
And what about the beautiful women in Europe, who had become a natural part of Paul’s life? Could I compete with their glamour and allure?
Was all this just my imagination, or was it really happening? Being careful not to show it, I tried to reason it out with myself. Even though he had gone away so many times without me, I wanted to believe him when he’d say, “Teddy, I love you. There’s no one else.”
We had known each other so long and had gone through so much together that I felt we belonged together. But more than that, we had made a marriage vow! Not the vows spoken at the marriage ceremony, but the inner vows of the heart, which, unspoken, hold two people closer than any matrimonial law or writ of court.
We dined alone that next evening at our beach house. I was wearing my prettiest gown. Paul’s look of admiration assured me that I looked very attractive. He seemed to be studying me. I felt he liked what he saw—his wife, in his home—something to be proud to come back to. Or could it be a look of pride of possession—that it was his, to leave behind whenever he wished to be alone?
Or . . . Let’s face it! Was he perhaps comparing me with another woman thousands of miles away?
I couldn’t tell what he was thinking as he looked at me, but I’ll bet he never dreamed that I, the woman looking at him with such a sincere look of love for him on her face and an even deeper love for him in her heart, might at the same time be considering cutting herself off from him . . . rather than let our love die a slow death.
Dinner had gone on longer than usual, and we weren’t aware of the hour until, suddenly, from the top of the stairs, we heard Timmy’s eager, long-suffering little voice calling, “Mom, please! Isn’t it time yet? Lela says I have to go to bed!”
Bless his heart. He had been waiting all evening to help blow out the candles on his daddy’s birthday cake. “Come on down, Timmy,” was all I needed to say. There he was in minutes, standing in his “night-nights,” looking like a little cherub.
“Happy birthday all over again, Daddy,” he said, leaning up to kiss Paul. Then, sliding onto the chair between us, his eyes fastened expectantly on the door to the butler’s pantry.
Paul was in great spirits, pleased when we toasted him with ginger ale, and sang “Happy Birthday,” as Robert appeared carrying the cake. With Timmy’s help, Paul blew out the candles and cut the cake, which we had with ice cream. Then Timmy gave both of us a great big kiss and ran upstairs to bed.
Christmas morning, 1950, started at sunrise, with Timmy checking to see if the peanut butter and jelly sandwich he’d left on the table for Santa Claus had been eaten. The weather was so perfect that everyone who came to the house just naturally ended up at the beach. As we walked along, we all were very happy, until the conversation drifted to the war in Korea and how badly we felt for those boys who were in the midst of it. I couldn’t seem to stop thinking about them. Later, when everyone had gone and the house was very still, I wrote down my thoughts in this little poem:
Christmas used to mean to me, children’s joy around the tree.
Lights, laughter . . . a day of fun, with loving gifts . . . for everyone.
A time for remembering those so dear, who came to our house every year.
And from those dear ones far away, a card or call on Christmas Day.
But this Christmas it seems to me, the day is filled with solemnity.
Tho childish laughter I still hear, yet many a mother sheds a tear.
For all the children are not at home, some still in far-off places roam.
Some still must fight so we be free, to worship this day of Nativity.
Dear Father-Mother of everyone . . . Help us, that the soldier lay down his gun.
As for me, personally, Christmas had been such a glorious day I wished I could stop the clock and defy the twenty-sixth of December to show up! But I well knew that days move on without ceasing, in strictest rhythm down the measured corridors of time. And before I could even protest, it was already the day after Christmas, and events as usual were quick to take over.
Paul’s eighteen-year-old son, Paul Jr., drove down from San Francisco to visit his dad, and stayed for several days in the guesthouse at the ranch. He had dinner with us the first night. He liked Robert’s cooking so much that I didn’t have to do much persuading to get him to come to dinner every night while he was in Los Angeles.
“He is such a fine boy,” Paul remarked, “but not quite as well informed about things as I was at his age.”
“How could he be, Paul? He’s not you!” I said.
We had no plans for New Year’s Eve, since I wanted just the two of us to celebrate quietly. Paul had gone to the ranch early that afternoon to look over some plans for a possible addition to the museum. Timmy and I made several calls to his little friends, stopped by Mother’s to wish her a Happy New Year, then scooted on home.
When I reached my room, there was a written message on my desk from Robert:
Mr. Getty telephoned and said he could not be home for dinner.
My heart almost stopped. I could hardly breathe. Not home for dinner? But it’s New Year’s Eve. Where is he, and who is he with—this time? Oh my God, how could he . . . ?
Lela had already gone to a New Year’s party, so Timmy had dinner with me. I watched television with him until eight, and then after reading a story, he was off to bed.
With a fire in the fireplace, a tray of freshly baked cakes, and a bottle of Dom Pérignon on ice, I waited for Paul. The clock struck midnight, the telephone rang. I grabbed it—my kid sisters were on the other end, screaming, “Happy New Year!”
I hung up and burst into tears. Finally, I wrote this note:
Paul, I waited for you. It’s now 12:30, I’m going to bed. I don’t know where you’ve been all evening, nor whom you’ve been with. Don’t wake me. We’ll talk tomorrow.
Here’s Donald Duck! You gave him to me as a symbol of your love. Now, I’m giving him back to you.
Teddy
I put Donald and my note on the pillow of his side of the bed, drank the last of the champagne, turned over, and cried myself to sleep.