During the early part of 1953, days turned into months filled with hope, then fear, for we were back in a hospital again. The anxieties I had lived with ever since that horrifying moment at the ophthalmologist—the grave hours during his operation in New York and Paul never showing up—paraded through my memory like pictures on a carousel slide projector. I wanted to forget and forbid any new terrors from appearing.
I was grateful Paul paid for Timmy’s doctors and hospital, but furious when his lawyer told me Paul was now complaining about the enormity of the bills. When Paul called me from London and started to complain, I yelled, “Damn it, Paul! If you could hear your son screaming in pain while being treated in the next room, you wouldn’t dare speak about bills. You’d be praying. For God’s sake, what kind of a father are you?” I burst into tears and hung up the phone.
Timmy needed his father. I needed him, too. I had asked him so many times in the past, but he never came. And here I was, one year later, still alone and afraid.
I suddenly remembered another picture. It was the moment in the hospital when Dr. Poole rushed into my room after the first operation, saying he feared for Timmy’s life. I’d fallen to my knees and prayed. I then felt a great peace. Oh, if only I could feel that again.
Slowly, softly, this verse from the Bible filled my thoughts: “Acquaint now thyself with Him, and be at peace: thereby good shall come unto thee.” That’s what I must do—pray—and I did. I became stronger, and never gave up hope for Tim’s recovery.
Months passed and we were back at the beach house in Santa Monica. It was Mother’s Day, May 10, 1953. I wrote this little poem to Timmy.
Because of you, I’m a mother
Because you are my son
And Mother’s Day means this to me
It’s every day—not one!
My wish for you: That you will walk
Thru life—expressing good
Reflecting only His perfection
This is my motherhood!
Love, Mommie
On May 25 we received this letter from Paul:
May 25, 1953
Dearest Teddy and Timmy,
Here’s an item which may be of interest to you . . . I’m on route to Paris and then am invited to the Coronation by Lord David Beatty and Lady Beatty, Jefty’s Niece. I’m so tired of constant travel and of carrying an office around with me in my luggage.
Miss you, Love,
Father
I answered immediately:
Dear Paul,
Nice to hear you’re going to the Coronation. Best to Jefty’s Niece.
Too bad you still have to carry your office around in your luggage, but you’ve always done this—and it’s worked. Rejoice! You’re a successful businessman—but you’re a hopeless father.
Love,
Teddy
On Tim’s seventh birthday, June 14, 1953, Paul phoned to wish him a Happy Day, just as lunch was being served. Tim shouted, “Hi, Daddy! You ought to be here. We’re sitting out by the pool having hamburgers, hot dogs, and lemonade. Daddy, I wish you were here to meet my birthday guests—five boys! Tommy and Pat Burke, Dickie Fedderman, Johnny Jannecke, and Tony Ballentyne. They’re all great guys—real good friends.”
“Girls?”
“No, Dad. For once, no girls. Just us guys.”
Before Tim went to bed that night, I gave him this poem I’d written.
For Timmy on Flag Day, June 14th, 1953
We Salute our Country’s Flag Today, brave banner of the Free
and we know that wherever it may wave, waves the symbol of Liberty.
Our Stars and Stripes—our Colors true, have long withstood the test,
have proven ’gainst the strongest foe, our way of life is best.
But man’s worst enemy still is man. So be it—till man shall resolve
to turn from the Bondage of human fears and Spiritually Evolve.
So bless this day for the Flag we love and bless its sweet memory
for this is the day that God designed to give you, my son—to me.
Happy Birthday Darling!
Love and Kisses, Mamma
The summer months flew by. Paul was still deeply involved with his ever-growing empire in Europe, living mostly in the south of France, occasionally visiting friends in Switzerland and England, always phoning us or dropping short notes to keep in touch.
He wrote as though it saddened him to have to say he couldn’t make the trip home “just yet.” I felt he was almost embarrassed, but he needn’t have been. No one was more understanding than Timmy of another’s problems. It was enough that Daddy was busy working, that he missed Timmy, and that he was trying to finish and come home. That he hadn’t succeeded yet, Timmy understood. I had just stopped caring.
After almost two years of expecting Paul to act as a father, I had lost my respect for him. Paul should have come home, or should have asked me to bring Timmy to him as soon as he was well enough to travel, and he hadn’t done either.
Aug 5, ’53
Hope the moths are not in my clothes!
Dearest Teddy,
I haven’t heard from you for a long time. Just reread your letter of last June. You write so well, and from the heart. I liked your poem. Remember when one of your poems was published by Winchell?
I think so often of our darling little boy. It is a real sorrow not to be with him every day. I hope his health is improving. I admire both of you for your courage.
Timmy, your father loves and misses you.
As ever, Paul
IN EARLY AUGUST I got a call from Paul’s friend Bill Gaston, who was staying with the Dudley Murphys in Malibu. He said Paul had told him all about Timmy, and could we meet for dinner one night.
Strangely, I had reservations for dinner that very evening with Mother and Timmy at Dudley’s famous restaurant, the Holiday House. Though Bill had a business dinner planned, he said he’d stop by our table to say hello.
I thought it would be exciting to see him again. We had first met in New York in 1936, when Roosevelt was running for a second term. It was then that Bill, Paul, and Bill Lawrence of the New York Times (also known as “Atomic Bill”) were thinking of forming a political party.
Mother, Timmy, and I were already having dinner when I looked up and saw Bill Gaston striding through the crowded room, coming straight toward us. It was as if John Wayne had suddenly ridden in on his horse the way every woman’s eyes turned to look at him. And I felt at that very moment this man was going to be the next important man in my life.
After saying hello to Mother and Timmy, he looked at me and smiled. “Teddy, it’s good to see you again. You’re looking as beautiful as ever. May I call you tomorrow?”
“Yes, please do,” I replied, and he left to rejoin his business dinner. All the way home I couldn’t stop thinking of Bill, and wondering why Paul would have sent him to see me. Bill had driven Paul up to Mother’s house in Greenwich for our engagement party, and he was still one of the most attractive men in the world I lived in.
He came from a prominent Boston family. His father was first the mayor of Boston, then the governor of Massachusetts, and a founding member of the Shawmut Bank of Boston. Bill was on the Harvard football team, and after graduating from Harvard Law School, joined the Air Force as an aviator during World War I, received the Navy Cross for valor, was shot down over the English Channel, and was miraculously rescued by a fisherman within six hours. Years later, he joined the New York world of Wall Street and married Kay Frances. When that didn’t work, he married Rosamond Pinchot, with whom he had two sons, Bill Jr. and Jimmy. Then he married a girl from Texas, Lucille Hutchings, and they had a son named Tommy. Bill spent most of his winters in Connecticut or traveling the world and summers on his island in Maine with his boys and friends. While staying on the island one summer, Clare Boothe Luce wrote her famous stage play The Women.
Bill phoned at ten the next morning and asked if I would dine with him that night. Instead, I suggested he come to the beach house for lunch. It was a beautiful California day, sunny and warm, and we spent the afternoon catching up on the years.
Finally, he asked me how Tim was doing. Just then, Timmy and Lela came in from the beach, and he excitedly asked Bill to come up to his living room, where he had set up his trains. When Bill returned, he said, “Teddy, you have a great son. I’ve invited him to come to my island in Maine next summer, if you can arrange it. I think he’d have a good time. My youngest, Tommy, will be there.”
“Sounds exciting, Bill. We’ll try and make it,” I replied.
He then asked that I have dinner with him the next evening at Ciro’s, as he was leaving in two days for Santa Barbara. His good friend Katherine Dunham was performing there, and he wanted me to meet her, so I happily accepted.
Ciro’s on the Sunset Strip was quite the place in those days, and meeting Katherine Dunham and watching her performance was inspiring. She danced like a princess of the ancient world of Haiti—wildly, proudly—singing her songs accompanied mostly by woodwinds and drums.
Bill asked me to dance. He held me close, and as we danced I closed my eyes, and, for a moment, I forgot all of the agony of the past four years. Was it the music, or this man? I loved being held by him, for he made me feel young again, wanted again, happy and carefree. I felt alive.
We left Ciro’s at 2:30 in the morning, headed for the beach. As we drove up the Sunset Strip past other clubs like the Players and Macambo, I was amazed there were so few cars on the road. Then, when we arrived at the area where the Strip opens up and becomes Sunset Boulevard, Bill suddenly stopped the car right in the middle of the road, turned, pulled me to him, and kissed me passionately!
At that very moment, sirens blew, and spotlights were turned on the car. In minutes, we were surrounded, I thought, by the entire Beverly Hills Police Department. One officer walked up, stuck his head in the window, and said, “Hey, Connecticut, can’t you do this at home?” I almost fainted. But amazingly Bill talked himself out of a ticket.
After they left, we had a good laugh. Bill put his arm around me, smiled, and said, “Now I better get you home, Teddy.” At the gate to the beach house, I thanked him. He kissed me good-bye and said, “I’ll call you from Santa Barbara.” Then he drove off up the Pacific Coast Highway, and I went inside the house, feeling like a schoolgirl.
Timmy and I continued to get regular letters from Paul, telling us about his work and his travels, always regretting not being with us, promising to return home “as soon as business permits.”
Paul wrote me this from Interlaken, Switzerland:
Sept 9, ’53
Teddy Boo dear,
Your sweet letter just came. It is nice to hear from you and darling Timmy. Yes, I enjoyed Harry Lipton’s candy very much. Thank you and Timmy again. I thought I thanked you weeks ago.
. . . I’m pleased Timmy swims so well. But, I don’t want him to go into the water alone. I’ve been working so hard. As you know, PW has half its assets in the Eastern Hemisphere and I’m the only PW man over here except a 31 year old geologist in Sicily and he, though a good man, has his hands full. Also, he doesn’t have my experience. I’m anxious to get home.
This place is very near to Grindelwald. Remember September 1939?—14 years ago!
I wish we could be together on your birthday. All my best to you on September 13 and always.
Love, Paul
On December 13, 1953, Paul wrote from Paris:
Dearest Teddy—Soon I’ll be 61. Wish I were home. Sometimes it seems as though it were last week! We are rushing toward our destination! I’m very sad not to be home for Xmas. It isn’t a real Xmas when one is away from home, sitting in a hotel room. Last year your little tree and candles made my room seem more cheerful and gave it a look of Xmas. We are due to ship our first tanker load of oil from the Neutral Zone on Jan. 13 and although I’ve tried hard, I still don’t have a boat for that date. I’m returning home as soon as business permits.
Merry Xmas and Happy New Year to you and Timmy.
Love, Father
On January 5, 1954, he wrote:
Dearest Teddy and Timmy,
Thanks again for the lovely cheerful Christmas presents and the tree. Alas, due to the strike they arrived Dec. 31st. But that made up for a rather bare and dreary Xmas . . . I long to be home again . . .
Love to you both,
Father
After receiving Paul’s January 5 letter, I dashed off a quick note, asking that Timmy and I come over to see him, that it would do his little son so much good to see his daddy, and I needed his advice on many things regarding Tim.
This was his reply:
Jan 18, ’54
Dearest Teddy,
I think it is very nice that you and Timmy want to visit me in Feb. I wrote you that it was impracticable but apparently you didn’t get my letter.
I am expecting to leave on short notice for Arabia, my plans are uncertain. I hope to be back in Calif in April. So, a visit now is inadvisable. The ocean is very rough, Timmy might fall and hurt his head—and he has enough trouble already.
I advise you after this when somebody wants to give you a wounded deer, to tell them to give it to the Humane Society. I don’t want the deer at the ranch, since it is illegal to keep them. I also, of course won’t pay any bills for it since I didn’t authorize them.
I have a vast amount of work here. The correspondence I have is unbelievable. I could keep an office busy and I have no help. They’re more bother than they’re worth.
Am anxious to see Timmy—but in California.
Love to you both, Paul
The night I received Paul’s letter, I responded at once.
Dear Paul,
The DEER you objected to in your Jan 18th letter was not a gift from one of my friends. It was a sweet DOE with her little FAWN who was attacked by a Mountain Lion early one morning as they gambled (sp) across the lawn in front of the Ranch House. The Doe tried to save her baby, who died horribly. Darrell Link shot the Mountain Lion and I called a Vet, but later the mother died too. That’s the whole story, and I paid the bill!
Love, Teddy
PS: Instead, could we meet you in Cannes or Venice en route to Arabia? Please advise.
Paul refused my request, suggesting the trip would be “needlessly extravagant.” I felt Paul’s saying too expensive was not the reason he didn’t want us to come. I realized his trip to Saudi Arabia was the most important business venture of his life, and it was definitely the wrong timing for us, so I waited.
And waited.
In the meantime, we got more letters.
Then on June 23, 1954, I received a note from Paul, saying he had returned to Paris after an extraordinary successful trip to Saudi Arabia. He enclosed a letter from his attorney David Hecht, who had relayed a message from Dr. Poole stating, There was little hope for Timmy’s future.
June 23, ’54
Dearest Teddy,
I enclose letter from Dr. Poole. I suggest you consider treating Timmy with the new machine at Boston, built I believe, by MIT. It has several million volts of capacity and can reach deep inside the body without harm to healthy tissue. This of course, only, if necessary. I believe ordinary old fashion x-ray is not much use.
I am longing to see Timmy and I understand how lonely you feel sometimes when you have to make decisions.
My work here has kept me very busy. I plan to return home late this summer. Dr. Valentine was here and said you were very nice and helpful in opening the museum.
As always,
Paul
I was shocked by this news, and wrote to Paul at once.
July 1, 1954
Dear Paul,
Your letter with David Hecht’s enclosed in which he relayed Dr. Poole’s shocking report that “there is little hope for Timmy’s future” is enough to strike fear into the most courageous of hearts. And yours Paul, is so matter of fact. It contains no warmth of understanding—no outstretched hand—no word or sign of hope from you for this mother and her little son.
I have begged and implored you for more than two years to allow me to bring Timmy to you, that we wouldn’t bother you, that we would only stay a few weeks, but you have always said, “No.” Since you have never come home even for one week to see him, and believing the worst—that time is of the essence—what on earth holds you back from wanting to see him quickly?
If you believe these horrifying reports of Tim’s doctor, how can you not say—“Come here at once with Timmy—we will employ the very best doctors we can find—God will help us and we will stand together.” But you haven’t.
Paul, don’t you realize that Timmy has needed his father—that he has needed you to tell him he is wanted and loved? Don’t you realize that he might feel you have deserted him for your work—or whatever? I guess the fact that Tim has gone so bravely on—thru the “Valley of the Shadow” clinging so constantly to God—and too, the fact that I have needed to see you, to count on your wisdom and knowledge to know what is right to do for Tim—has made your indifference cut more deeply into my heart.
Since, during the past two years, you haven’t come home as you had so often promised you would, and you won’t agree to allow me to bring Timmy to you—let’s not pretend anymore, Paul. I know now that you aren’t coming home to us, because I know you don’t want to, and so I have finally come to the tragic realization that you have no real concern for either Tim or me. Your actions have made this clear for so long that I have had to wake up—face the facts—that our “separation agreement” hasn’t worked and have come to the conclusion that it’s best we get a divorce.
Please remember I loved you and hopefully waited for you even tho my heart and courage broke when you didn’t come back and stand with me thru Tim’s awful operation, and your actions have been the greatest disappointment of my whole life. But Paul, I don’t condemn you—I feel sorry for you and pray that you will wake up and learn true values. God bless you dear—goodbye and thanks for the good parts of the past 15 years.
Teddy.
July 4, 1954
Dearest Teddy,
Your letter just came. I am deeply distressed. I’ve tried to do my best as a father but apparently I’ve failed. I love Timmy and think of him every day. I long to see him and be with him. I plan to be home in late August or early September. The doctors in Europe are not as good as in the U.S.A. And, I hope our Timmy doesn’t need any more doctors. I worry about him.
It has been a great strain on you, I know. And you have been alone, without me to help you with Timmy. You have more money than anybody else and you can do as you wish, travel to Europe or stay home. Of course, you wouldn’t expect me to pay for the trip when you get more than any bank president. Sometimes, I’ve thought I’d like to borrow money from you, but I won’t try. I’m very tired of Europe, very tired of hotels—I long to be home.
Love to you and Timmy,
Paul
PS: I expect reserve steamship passage to N.Y. very soon.
Paul’s letter showed me I’d finally gotten through to him. He had woken up to the facts—the sad facts regarding Timmy that he quite naturally tried to avoid facing—facts I had had to face alone. I really hadn’t thought about who was going to pay for our trip to Europe when I’d asked him to let us come. I honestly didn’t care, I’d willingly pay. I just wanted him to see Timmy, wanted to bring his youngest son to him, since he couldn’t seem to come home.
On July 18, Paul wrote again. At last it looked like he was coming home on the Queen Mary, sailing September 16.
Paris
July 18, 1954
Dearest Teddy and Timmy,
I finally got a cabin on the Queen Mary sailing Sept. 16 for New York—I haven’t a place for my car on board yet—so it may have to go on another boat. I hope you like the 2nd canary. Doesn’t it sing and does it like the 1st canary? I’m longing to see you.
Fondest love, Paul
The two canaries he spoke of were his birthday present to Timmy on June 14, just what he had asked his daddy to give him, and they did sing, and filled the beach house with their happy little voices. Tim was very happy, too. He now had one pony, two dogs, one cat, one hamster, and two canaries to love.
On August 3, 1954, Paul wrote Timmy, mentioning his plan to return to New York. In anticipation of meeting Paul in September, we left immediately for New York on the fastest plane. Seven and a half hours—it was thrilling. We stayed for a few days at the Pierre Hotel. Then one day, as it was nearing Paul’s arrival in New York, the telephone rang. It was Paul. He had to again postpone his trip.
I was both infuriated and saddened, for Paul had once again let us down. I decided that, since Timmy had never been to my family’s summer home, we’d motor up to the Cape, take the steamer over to Martha’s Vineyard, and visit my aunt Ruth Shorey in Vineyard Haven. She was delighted to have us and we stayed with her for a week.
On our last night there we stopped at Menemsha, the old fishing village with its quaint charm, to watch the fishermen as they came in to the harbor at dusk with their daily catch. Then we took Lambert’s Cove Road off the main highway onto the one-way sandy road through the woods. We reached the open field, where a quarter of a mile ahead was our old summer home, Wild Acres, standing silhouetted against the evening sky and the sea beyond. It tugged at my heart.
The next day we said our grateful good-byes to Aunt Ruth. Since Timmy had never seen the snow, I decided we’d stay on in the East. I called Ware and rented a small house down the street from the Silvermine Tavern, just outside Norwalk, Connecticut. I enrolled Tim at the Daycroft School in Stamford, where he progressed slowly but happily in his studies. He now wore glasses, which helped him see better. He took up the drums, and each day practiced faithfully. Fortunately, our house was out in a rural area, so the drums didn’t bother our neighbors—the squirrels and birds, and the fish in the Silvermine River.
Very early one morning, the phone rang. It was Bill. He’d found us through Ware, and he wanted to take me to lunch. Promptly at noon, the bell rang. I opened the door, and there stood a suntanned Bill Gaston, looking extremely attractive and healthy. He leaned down, kissed me, then took my hand. We walked over to the tavern, where we lunched and spent the entire afternoon catching up. It was exciting to see Bill again. When I spoke of my fears for Timmy, he was tender and kind, which gave me the sense of security I needed, but on September 12, we were back at the hospital, seeing Dr. Hoen to face more tests.
By October, Timmy was released and we were out in the country again. I felt he was okay, so back to school he went.
On Thanksgiving, we dined with Ware and Peggy at the famous Silvermine Tavern. That weekend Tim and I went to New York to visit the dinosaur hall at the Museum of Natural History. One special afternoon we even sat in the very front row of a matinee performance of the musical Kismet, starring Alfred Drake and Joan Diener. The music by Alexander Borodin was so beguiling that Timmy memorized the entire score, and would happily sing “Baubles, Bangles and Beads” for anyone!
We spent our very first white Christmas at home in the coziness of our little rented New England house, which looked like the picture postcard of an old saltbox, set right in the middle of a snow-covered lawn. The trees glistened with icicles, and you could just picture Santa Claus coming up the driveway on his sleigh.
Mary Barns, a loving neighbor from down the road, came to help and care for Timmy. Her husband, Ed, made life happier by keeping us warm with a supply of logs for our fireplace, and would take us out in his sleigh, even some nights through the snow-white countryside, when the moon was full and the air crisp—our favorite time. This was most healing for Timmy, though we still dreaded the pending spring checkup with Dr. Hoen.
When that time came, we drove into town and stayed at the Pierre, so we could make our early-morning appointment with the doctor. The night before, on our way to dinner, an attractive elderly couple joined us in the hotel elevator. The gentleman looked down at Timmy, smiled, and said, “Young man, where did you get that beautiful red hair?”
Looking up, Timmy answered, “God gave me mine, sir—and Elizabeth Arden gave Mom hers.” That brought a big smile to all of us, just as we reached the main lobby.
The following morning we met Dr. Hoen, and that, too, brought a smile to both of us, for he seemed pleased again with Timmy’s progress.