Alone Together: My Life With J. Paul Getty

by Theodora Getty Gaston

  That did it. We ended up buying two horses and a pony from Frenchie—in Timmy’s words, “One for Daddy, one for Mom, and a pony for me”—and we had them sent back to our ranch. Once we were home, Timmy and I rode every day that we could, after school and most weekends.

  Just as I had hoped it would, all this happy activity blotted out the unhappy memories of Tim’s time in the hospital. He again was the happy, inspired little boy he had always been. And what’s more, having become a seven-year-old in June, he decided it was time to start a savings account at a bank—where another happy event took place. He received a plaque as a member of the Hopalong Cassidy Savings Club.

  In September, Timmy returned to school and joined his former classmates in second grade. On October 15, Lela left on vacation, and a Mrs. Bollinger took over for her. That same day, Timmy proudly joined the school’s baseball team. But when he couldn’t see well enough to catch the ball, a boy yelled, “What’s the matter with you, Timmy? Can’t you see?”

  He just answered, “Sorry,” and walked off the field.

  We didn’t talk very much about it at supper, but after he went to sleep I wrote this note and left it on his desk.

  Oct 15, 1952

  Timmy Dear—

  If you take all the water from all the 7 seas and put it all together . . . it still can’t sink a ship, unless it gets inside the ship. The same with someone else’s evil or wicked thoughts. They can’t hurt you unless you accept them—unless those thoughts get inside your thinking . . .

  So watch what kind of thoughts you let in!

  Love you,

  Mommy

  P.S. Take care of Mrs. Bollinger and make her feel at home.

  Although Tim didn’t get to play baseball, three months later he made the swimming team, and in less than two years he could jump his pony and joined me at my fencing lessons with Maestro Faulkner.

  Meanwhile, the letters from Paul kept coming. Often they were a jumble of love for Timmy and me, mixed with concern about finances.

  Hotel du Rhone, Geneve

  Oct 12, ’52

  . . . As to the horses. You will have to pay for them. You don’t seem to understand that I can’t afford to pay a nickel to you on top of the fantastic sum you are getting. The joint privilege, due to change in rates, is now worth less than $15,000 a year. Anybody else would ask you to cut the monthly sum in half. I haven’t done so as yet but please don’t expect anything over . . .

  . . . I miss Timmy very much. I envy you being so near to him. He is a very good boy . . .

  Bye now.

  Paul

  Hotel Ritz, Place Vendome, Paris

  Dec. 4, ’52

  Dear T.

  Your sweet letter of Nov. 26 just arrived. It was forwarded to Dusseldorf, just missed me and re-forwarded here. I feel very sad and lonely at not being home for Xmas. I feel so far away, so far away in distance and in time. I often think of the little beach house and our darling son. It is a privation to be away from him. I expect to be here during holidays, but I’m not looking forward to them. I won’t even have a tiny tree. Hope you and Timmy have a nice big one.

  I am very pleased that you have paid and will pay for your calls and horses. I only want what’s fair for the horses’ upkeep, probably Beresford and Williams could establish the fair amount. As long as you pay your bills with reasonable promptitude, I will tell Fero not to deduct it from your check.

  As to the bills for the trip and medical expenses, I’m glad that you realize they are enormous. I think that the doctors, with the possible exception of Dr. Poole, grossly overcharged you. You should always, if there is time, and there was in this case, have an agreement in advance as to what the charges will be. Some doctors like to charge a rich person 20 times more than their regular fee. As to Dr. Jaffe’s bill of $1,000, I would like to know the details, and if the charges are his regular office charges to the public, or special charges for the rich Mrs. Getty. X-ray treatments in Dusseldorf cost $2.50 each, yes, two dollars and 50 cents by the best specialist. You must insist that you pay of what others pay and keep away from the high bidders, they’re poor doctors anyway . . .

  I don’t think you take enough pains, in advance, to determine the charges. Frankly I never liked the Cedars of Lebanon Hospital. It may be a movie type joint. I will investigate these charges and get the reasonable portion of them paid. I hope Timmy can keep away from doctors, except for a $10 visit. I don’t think doctors can do much for him now, except for a check-up, and that shouldn’t be more than $25 unless the doctors charge on the ability to pay and not on a tariff and I avoid such doctors.

  I’ve asked Hecht to study the hotel bill, and that I or the trust will pay for the necessary and proper charges. You are to pay for any charges personal to you, i.e. your personal phone calls, excepting to me. Your cash advances, theatre tickets, entertaining, C.O.D.’s, etc.

  If you would make a budget in advance and keep current on it, there would be a good saving of money and fuss. Know in advance just what you are going to obligate yourself for.

  It is wonderful that Timmy is so tall and weighs 67½ lbs and that his eyes are better. Poor darling! . . .

  I’ve spoken so much about bills and money. These are important factors in peace of mind and love and friendship . . . As I recall, we never had much discussion of bills or money until the last 7 or 8 years. The first 7 or 8 years we got along fine, and you seemed to manage very well and get a dollar’s worth for a dollar spent. Must close now and go to dinner.

  Bye now.

  Paul

  Did Timmy get my letter?

  I wish I could describe the surprise, joy, and wonderment that Timmy expressed when he came into the lanai early Christmas morning that December 25, 1952, where on two huge tables I had set up my gift to him. On one table was a Silver Super Chief electric train, with its orange decorated engine and the familiar Dome Car—the observation car at the end of the train. And on the other table was a freight train hauling tank cars, cattle cars, and even a red caboose! Both trains were perfect replicas. When we turned on the electric switch, he shouted and laughed—and was so fascinated, he hardly looked at his other gifts.

  And he was not the only one. My family and close friends (especially the men) who came to spend Christmas Day with us played with the trains all day. That evening, after our guests had gone home, Timmy, dragging a great big teddy bear, started up the stairs to bed. Then he stopped for a moment on the landing, turned to me, and said, “Mama, I’m sorry Daddy couldn’t make it home for Christmas. He must be lonely so far away from home. Do you think he got our gifts? And the little tree we sent . . . Do you think he got that in time for Christmas Eve?”

  “I’m sure he did, Tim. You’ll see—we’ll hear from him soon.”

  “I hope so, Mom. I hope he’s as happy as I am. This was the most wonderful Christmas I’ve ever had. I hope you had a happy day, too, Mom. I hope you liked what I gave you.”

  Little did he know that just being at home, seeing him becoming stronger and stronger, was the only gift his mother wished to receive.

  “Timmy, today was the happiest ever. And your gift was the most lovely present I have ever received.”

  Hotel Ritz. Place Vendome, Paris

  Jan 7, 1953

  Darling Timmy and Teddy,

  I am so thankful to you both for the Xmas you gave me. My little hotel room was brightened and given a Xmas look by the little tree and its nine candles, and the pretty Xmas packages under the tree. I thought of you and the beach house and of other Xmas days.

  Love,

  Paul

  When this letter from Paul arrived, we knew that our effort to stretch our love of Christmas across the sea to include him had succeeded.

  CHAPTER 38

  A SENSE OF SECURITY

  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!