Alone Together: My Life With J. Paul Getty

by Theodora Getty Gaston

  PART II

  CHAPTER 24

  REUNITED IN TULSA

  Paul was there at the station. I saw him before he saw me. He looked the same. He was standing in shirtsleeves, right under the window of my sleeping car. He put out his hand as I stepped off the train, kissed me on the cheek, and said, “Darling, I’m so glad you came.” Then he picked up my bag . . . I only had one . . . threw it in the back of the car, and drove me to his home . . . a little stucco house near the Spartan Aircraft Factory and School.

  I sat speechless beside him as we drove through the darkened streets, just thinking how strange it was that, after more than two years, we were together again . . . side by side. He kind of prattled on about how he hoped I’d like his house. He told me it was air-conditioned . . . had a beautiful garden . . . I can barely recall a word of what he said. I was in shock.

  Then we arrived. He drove up the driveway, got out of the car, took my bag, and opened the front door. I followed him inside. He closed the door, turned on the light, and looked at me, Then he leaned over, kissed me, and said, “Thank God, Teddy, you’re home.”

  Home. That word sounded so strange.

  He lifted my bag and started up the stairs. Halfway up, he stopped and, with a knowing smile, said, “I’ll bet you’re hungry, darling . . . What can I get you?”

  “Just a Coke, Paul, thanks,” I answered.

  He put my bag down in what I realized was the master bedroom, and went downstairs to get my Coke. I looked around. It was a pretty room with a huge double bed, a fireplace, two comfy chairs on either side, and soft carpeting throughout. There was a bathroom beyond. Across the hall was another bedroom with twin beds. Picking up my bag, I walked into that room, turned on the light, went into the bathroom, where I washed, combed my hair, and came out to find a Coke and some cookies on the night table. I could hear Paul downstairs, talking to someone on the phone about how many planes were being sent out. I sat on the bed, ate a cookie, and drank the Coke. Boy, it was so amazingly good. Then I opened my bag, took out my things, hung them up, turned down the bed, put on my nightie, and crawled in.

  I don’t remember turning out the light. I only remember waking up. It was early morning. The house was silent. I got up, opened the door, and there on the floor in the hallway was a note. In his familiar scrawl, Paul had written, Darling . . . I’m at the factory. Call me. Have a good breakfast, love. So I went downstairs, made a grand tour of the house, had a great breakfast, and phoned the factory to tell him there was a huge black dog growling at me from outside the glass patio door. And, thank God, there was a glass door between us.

  “That’s Hildy,” he said on the telephone. “I picked her out at the dog pound. She was to be killed . . . no one wanted such a monster. I had to save her. They said she was too fierce, but when I walked up to her, held out my hand, and spoke quietly, we bonded immediately. She is a giant briard.”

  “She certainly is. But where is her food?”

  “On the counter. See you later, dear.”

  I waited until Hildy ran to the other side of the garden. That was my moment. I quickly put her bowl outside the door. And had just enough time to get back inside before she charged. Seeing the food, she stopped, then began eating . . . all the while looking up at me through the black curly hair that covered her eyes. When she finished, she lay down and fell fast asleep. Later, when she awoke, I knew somehow we were going to be friends, and we were, until the day she died.

  After breakfast, I carried my tray out into the kitchen. When I returned the butter to the icebox, I discovered its shelves stocked with fresh oranges and grapefruit, jars of yogurt, and the usual bacon, eggs, milk, and bread.

  The kitchen cabinets were laden with boxes of dry cereal and natural raw sugar. I remembered these were what Paul usually had for his breakfast, but what I noticed also was that he had washed his breakfast dishes . . . and so . . . I washed mine and Hildy’s.

  I went upstairs, made my bed, dressed, and stood in the center of the room, wondering what to do next. In fact, I wondered what there was to do.

  I thought, Isn’t it wonderful. Here I am in America . . . in a free country. I can just sit or walk or use the car . . . do anything I want, and no one is going to stop me. I heard birds singing. And downstairs the front door was still open and the morning newspaper lay on the walkway. I couldn’t believe it. Things in America were the same as when I had left. It felt like a time warp, and I wasn’t sure what to do. It looked the same, yet I was different.

  Paul returned at six, bringing with him two exquisite steaks, which he broiled and served with fresh asparagus and a great big salad. We ate in the dining room. It was still too warm to sit outside. Hildy sat at his feet, and I sat across from them.

  After my favorite dessert of vanilla ice cream and chocolate sauce, we had coffee in the living room. He asked me to tell him about the prison, the months in Siena, the men who were interned with me, and the trip back home on the ship. It astounded him that I slept on deck all the way across the Atlantic, and that Nazi submarines surfaced so near to the ship.

  Then Paul looked at me. We were sitting opposite each other . . . I, cross-legged on the couch, he in one of the easy chairs beside a table piled high with business papers, books, and mail. Hildy lay at his feet. There was a tall lamp behind him, lighting only our part of the room.

  “My God, what an experience. And, you haven’t changed a bit. You’re still the same determined young lady I last saw in Rome . . . determined to achieve the goal she set for herself. You amaze me.”

  But I felt changed inside—he didn’t see it. “I only did what you and I thought I could do. I tried and I’m still trying. Remember, you paid for the lessons . . . I couldn’t let you down.”

  For a moment he stared at me. “But, why didn’t you come home when I wrote and asked you to?”

  I looked straight back at him. “Why didn’t you come back for me as you promised? I waited, you know.”

  “I couldn’t leave the country, Teddy. No private citizen could return to Europe once they were here.”

  “But you and Hal went to Mexico . . .”

  “That was different . . . also, it was business. Anyway, you were my wife, you should have obeyed me.”

  “Obeyed you? I obeyed my heart, which said, ‘Stay and learn as much as you can, because the man you love believes in you and you mustn’t let him down.’ ” I stopped because I was about to cry, thinking what a damn fool I’d been.

  “Well, my dear, you were very brave to stay, especially in spite of my only giving you four hundred dollars a month to live on.” He looked amused. “I thought you’d give up if you didn’t have enough money . . . but, by God, you didn’t.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  We looked at each other and smiled, remembering, but just then the ringing of the telephone broke the spell. It was a business call from Washington. While Paul took the call, I went into the kitchen, did the dishes, then went up to my room. I could hear him talking—it must have been terribly important, for the call went on for hours.

  I undressed, went to bed, and awoke thinking I’d heard a car drive away. I opened my eyes. It was dark outside. I reached for my watch. It was 4 A.M. I put on my robe, and opened the door, but there was no note on the hall carpet, and Paul’s bed had not been slept in. He must have worked all night, and that was he who had driven off not more than fifteen minutes ago.

  I went downstairs and into the kitchen. He had made a cup of tea and had left a note there for me saying, Darling, am off to Oklahoma City to meet Captain Balfour. Take care of Hildy. Love, Paul. But he didn’t say when he’d return. I went to bed, but couldn’t sleep . . . or did I? Suddenly, I felt a tongue licking my face and, opening my eyes, saw Hildy’s furry black face next to mine. How she’d gotten into the house and into my room, I’ll never know, but there she was. Maybe Paul had left her inside to protect me.

  It was early morning. I jumped up, washed Hildy’s gooey tongue print off my face, br
ushed my teeth, combed my hair, put on shorts and a shirt, and ran barefoot downstairs and out into the garden with Hildy at my heels.

  The air was fresh . . . the grass wet and cool . . . the sun, which would soon force us inside, was just now climbing the sky. Looking around, I was enchanted by the beauty of nature and by the surrounding neighborhood. I could see the houses down the tree-lined street . . . charming Middle America . . . all quiet and peaceful.

  I sat for almost an hour out there in the garden, trying to understand what was happening to Paul and me. We seemed like strangers. But in a way, last night I felt we had begun reaching out to each other. Then the telephone rang . . . and he was gone.

  I walked back into the house, grateful that he hadn’t wanted to make love to me. It wouldn’t have been right. I knew I had to tell him about Kostya. I wondered if he sensed there’d been someone else.

  Paul had always amazed me by what he did seem to know. Once, he’d said, “Always tell me the truth, Teddy. I can tell if you lie.” And I never did lie to him all the years we were married.

  I waited for him to call, but he didn’t. I wrote letters, phoned my mom, had a light supper, fed Hildy, then lay down on my bed and turned on the radio. There was some sweet music coming from somewhere and I started to think. When he comes home, I decided, I’ll tell him everything. How Kostya and I met at Rome’s police station . . . how we both had the feeling we’d known each other in another time. How lost I was without Paul. How Kostya came to my lessons and how, even though the world was at war, he had arranged, like Paul would have, a concert for me in Budapest, which sadly was canceled. And then, one day, he told me he loved me. I could still see him pacing up and down the room saying, “Paul may be your husband, but you belong to me. We were meant to be together.” And I began to believe him, even though I was determined to come home to Paul. And then it happened . . .

  I remember running down the Corso that night to get to the bistro, where I was to meet Kostya, when the air raid sirens started. I heard the roar of the French planes as they swooped overhead . . . the antiaircraft firing up at them . . . and everyone in the street trying to hide. The wardens were shouting, the children crying, some women screaming . . . and I just kept running, and finally dashed through the bistro door and into his arms. Terrorized, I held on to him . . . kissed him . . . kept thinking how Paul had forsaken me . . . those were my thoughts . . . and later, when it was safe to go out, we stumbled through the blacked-out streets of Rome, up the Janiculum Hill, to my little apartment. We made love, because that’s what you do to defend yourself from the terror of fearing that any minute those planes might return and, this time, you’ll die.

  Kostya was like a big bear. I felt safe in his arms. I think that was the night I fell in love . . . but I still love you, Paul.

  “Do you still love him, Teddy?” a voice asked. Startled, I sat up, opened my eyes, and there was Paul, sitting on the side of my bed, looking straight at me. I put my hand over my mouth. Had I been speaking out loud? Had he heard what I was going to tell him?

  “I already knew about Kostya.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, I’ve been sitting here listening to you for the past fifteen minutes.”

  “Then I have been speaking my thoughts out loud?”

  “Yes . . . Tell me, Teddy. Do you still love him?”

  I looked up. “Yes, I’ll always love him, but not like I love you, Paul. I’ll never see him again.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I just know . . . I just know.”

  Paul stood up. “It’s very late,” he said. “I’m sorry I didn’t phone. Now, let’s get some sleep.” At the door he stopped. “And thanks for telling me. I love you, too.” And he left.

  The following weeks were unusual. Paul introduced me to Wolferman’s, the greatest market in the Southwest, and from then on I was responsible for what we ate. He was gone almost every day from six in the morning until very late at night. I knew he was working with Al Reitherman, his design engineer, to improve Spartan, and had little time for more than a quick “Hi, darling.” I spent most days at the house.

  Life magazine came out with a very interesting account of my life in Rome’s prison with the other American journalists. I was quoted saying that the war had left the women of Italy badly off. When Paul read the story, he asked me if I would be one of the speakers addressing the wives and mothers of the navy personnel, the young pilots that were being prepared to go overseas. Spartan was giving a huge banquet in their honor in the plant auditorium the following Saturday. Although I had never made a speech in public before, I agreed. After telling them how well prepared our air force was to both fight the enemy overseas and to protect us at home, I ended with this:

  Knowing they have the very best with which to face the enemy, confident of their ability to stop aggression, protect their loved ones, and end this WAR OF HATE, they will succeed. And you, mothers, sisters, and wives, be strong and brave. Take heart and have faith that your prayers will be answered, because God does guard and guide those who take up the sword on the side of RIGHT. Abraham Lincoln was sure of this. You may recall he said, “Let us have faith that RIGHT makes MIGHT and in that faith let us dare to do our duty as we understand it.” Thank you, and God Bless.

  Almost immediately the auditorium was transformed into a beautiful banquet hall. A sumptuous buffet dinner was set up at one end, and a dance band at the other. As I stepped down from the stage, Paul came up to me, caught my hand, and whispered, “You were great, darling. They loved you.” He looked pleased, and I thanked God he was, for I wanted to please him.

  He put his arm around my waist, and we walked through the crowd to our table. I had the feeling this was the first time, since my arrival two weeks before, that this man was laying claim to his wife. For a second I wondered, What was it? Was it me or was it the speech? Several mothers stopped us just to thank me. This was the first time I had met any of the factory employees, executives, and students of the Spartan School of Aeronautics, and I noted the way in which they treated Paul. I saw that he was respected by workers, not for being the boss, but for his diligence, his understanding, and his great sense of humor.

  I found this particularly interesting, since Paul was a man over whom society and nobility had fawned, but here he was just another guy, like the rest of them. They also admired him as a man who could have been given a Navy command or a top desk in Washington, with its attendant gold braid and impressive uniform, but who instead had taken a tough job in Oklahoma to get production rolling.

  For a while, I sat intrigued by the wonderful new tunes the orchestra was playing from the Broadway hit show Oklahoma! Songs I’d never heard before. So American, they made you feel proud. But later, when the orchestra started playing some of the older tunes, like “Night and Day,” Paul took my hand and said, “Let’s dance,” and we moved out onto the floor of that huge auditorium, as though it were a secret place just meant for us.

  He held me close. We moved as one. We didn’t speak. We didn’t need to. I closed my eyes. I couldn’t believe what I was feeling. I let my body follow his. Could it really be happening all over again, like it had those many times years before, when I knew I belonged in this man’s arms?

  He brushed my cheek with his lips, then smiled down at me. He wanted me as I wanted him, and I knew that he knew I was his. We never spoke. We just left the party and drove home and got in bed.

  CHAPTER 25

  THE BEACH HOUSE

  Paul was a wonderful lover. He was so caring, and now so was I. I wondered, Could it be because of Kostya, or that I was older? But more than the physical act was the love I felt in my heart for Paul. Webster’s definition of the word marriage is so perfect: “an intimate or close union.” Well, that certainly applied to us, and, I believe, to any two people who love each other, whether they’ve gone through a civil ceremony, or not.

  At dawn, we awoke in this little house in Tulsa and, after a hearty breakfa
st and a salute to the sun, Paul drove away to the factory and I played tag with Hildy in the garden.

  After supper, Paul and I sat out on the terrace and I asked him to tell me about Spartan. “Well, darling, I came to Tulsa right after Mama died. That’s when they had sent you to Siena. I scarcely expected to spend much time here, but on New Year’s Eve I made a resolution in her memory that I’d take over the Spartan factory for the war effort. It was barely functioning when I arrived. Now Spartan has made possible the flight of some three thousand B-24’s, equipped one hundred fifty-five Grumman Wildcats with wings, six hundred fifty Curtiss dive bombers with cowls, eleven hundred Douglas dive bombers with all-control surfaces, and furnished the navy with ninety primary trainers.”

  “Paul, that’s wonderful. How do you remember all those facts?”

  “I don’t.” He pulled out a sheet of paper from his pocket. “It’s all here. I just got the report. It took us a year to build an organization, and another six months to attain excellence, but I think we’ve made a worthwhile contribution to the war effort and without any thought of financial profit.” He smiled and then, with a faraway look in his eyes, he said, “But, you know, I really had wanted to get into the navy. I had passed my exams and could have commanded any vessel. I wanted to go to sea . . . Instead . . .”

  “Instead, darling”—I leaned over and kissed him—“you’re doing a magnificent job for our country. You may not be wearing Navy blues with brass buttons and commanding a ship, but in shirtsleeves, you and your team of factory workers are supplying our air force with the tools to help end this war.”

  During the weeks that followed, I saw Paul’s contribution firsthand. It was obvious that from the moment he had taken over Spartan, not only had the factory been producing, but also the Spartan School of Aeronautics had turned out more than 25,000 Allied and American pilots, among them 1,500 for the Royal Air Force. Three Spartan pilots had received the Distinguished Flying Cross, and three more were with General Doolittle when he made his air raids over Japan. Toward the end of the war, Paul wrote in his diary about how proud he was of his own role and of Spartan’s contribution to the war effort.