The Lois Wilson Story

by William G Borchert

  She learned from the Moody’s man, for instance, that people in this country had been involved in trading government obligations and company interests ever since America was first colonized by Great Britain, which already had commercial involvements in practically every corner of the world. The buying and swapping was usually limited and informal and without charge, unless, of course, a barrister was necessary for the transaction.

  The eighteenth century brought great expansion to world trade and to burgeoning business centers such as New York, creating even more interest in financial instruments. By the late 1700s, a number of merchants and brokers in the city began charging a commission to act as agents for other interested parties and for giving preference to each other in the purchase and sale of securities.

  About two dozen of these merchants operated outdoors under a buttonwood tree on Wall Street, except during inclement weather when they gathered in a nearby coffeehouse. It was in May of 1792 that the group decided to informally organize to protect their mutual interests. This was the birth of the New York Stock Exchange.

  From 1792 on, public interest in stocks and bonds rose largely as a result of the increase in government obligations and the growth of banks and insurance companies. As the number of actual brokers grew significantly, they got together and drew up a simple agreement, or constitution, and called themselves the New York Stock and Exchange Board. They rented a room at 40 Wall Street for $200 a year and began charging each member broker $25 for a “seat” in the room. That fledgling organization would grow into the booming financial trading arena called the New York Stock Exchange, now with its own large beehive of a building at the center of Wall Street’s financial district.

  After learning more about how the large investment firms had to own these now very expensive “seats” in order to trade on the exchange, and how such trading was conducted, Lois thanked the Moody’s man and hung up. Her head was now filled with all sorts of minutiae she needed to know about the stock market, since she would soon be socializing with all those Wall Street wives.

  If Lois thought things had been moving too quickly up until then, she had to fasten her seat belt for the roller-coaster ride that lay ahead. For right now, the stock market was booming, and she would soon find out how wrong she had been to believe that a year away from the New York bar scene would end her husband’s drinking.

  Caught up in the euphoria of the market, the wining and dining of big investors, an unlimited expense account, and a $20,000 line of credit from Rice & Company to buy stocks on margin for his own account, Bill Wilson was in seventh heaven. Still, for some inexplicable reason even most alcoholics themselves can’t figure out, he always wanted to feel even better. So, before long, he was again drinking rather heavily while continuing to tell his wife it was “only for business.”

  As the months went by, things didn’t go directly downhill, nor was every day bleak or unhappy. On the contrary. As Lois often shared in her later years, they had a great deal of fun and excitement being back in the city. They often met Frank and Elise and some wealthy clients and their wives, usually at one of the most insanely expensive restaurants in town—generally a Mob-controlled speakeasy with chorus girls out front and gambling in the back room. These were the fruits of Prohibition.

  The evening would begin with the finest wines or aperitifs, usually accompanied by boastful stories of how well everyone did that day trading thousands of shares of this stock or that. Then would come the juiciest steaks, the tenderest veal, the most succulent lamb chops. Many of those nights Lois proudly watched Bill charm everyone with his wit and Yankee humor. To her he was the most articulate, the most charming, the most handsome man in the place, and on such nights the dreams he often shared with her of achieving true greatness seemed possible, almost within reach.

  But then, as Lois was learning, there were those other nights, which soon became more and more frequent. Those were the nights when after six or seven drinks or more—it was impossible to tell just when it would happen—Bill would become less interested in what others had to say, focusing only on what he was saying. And, if he was interrupted, he’d cast a nasty look and continue, or worse yet, make a snide remark that often offended everyone at the table. Many times people would excuse themselves and leave. As Lois recalled, “In the morning I would still be angry about being so embarrassed the night before and Bill would be filled with self-reproach. The problem was, his self-reproach would be gone long before my anger.”2

  He would always sheepishly apologize to Lois but then try to justify his actions, saying how he hated the patronizing and snobbish attitudes of people who wouldn’t know a Vermont maple from a Christmas tree. Here he was making so much money for them, and they took it all for granted.

  The truth was, Bill’s investigative genius was constantly pulling rabbits out of the hat and keeping Rice & Company clients quite pleased. At the same time, while they maintained their business relationships with the young broker, a number of customers began to lessen their social contact with him.

  Almost every stock he recommended had a dramatic move up. In addition to investing for himself, he was building his own clientele, mainly from the recommendations among the customers in the speakeasies where he had become well known and respected. He also had Rogers and Dr. Leonard Strong investing with him now, as well as some of the wealthy summer people in Manchester he met during the sojourns he and Lois took together to Emerald Lake.

  By August of 1927, he discovered that sitting in his office or in a gin mill wasn’t producing enough new “targets of opportunity.” And besides, with his drinking now increasing at home, Lois was talking more and more about getting him out into the country again. So he decided another research venture on the open road would help both situations.

  Bill took out his Moody’s manuals from the hall closet while Lois reviewed her old list of traveling supplies. Only now, their trusty old Harley-Davidson was in mothballs and a Dodge sedan was parked at their curbside instead.

  Still, Lois hoped that somehow they could find a way of recapturing, at least in part, those warm and lovely moments of their trip the year before when they found as much time to make love as they did to investigate companies. Even though their world was different now, she could at least hope. And she would have her husband back out in the country where, perhaps, he would have one more chance to find sobriety.

  After visiting companies in upstate New York and Connecticut, they headed for Holyoke, Massachusetts, and a firm by the name of the American Writing Paper Company. It was presently in receivership, but as Bill had explained to Frank and the other partners, with new management and an influx of cash, there was a good chance the company could be turned around and thus produce a substantial return on their investment. After a week of meetings, Bill telephoned Frank to say he was convinced this could be done.

  One of American Writing Paper’s board members—trying to polish the apple, no doubt—heard how much Lois and Bill loved to be surrounded by nature, so he loaned them his log cabin for the week. It was located in the nearby hills, only a few miles from the plant. Lois recalled the cozy place not only had heat and running water but also everything from clean sheets and towels to a radio and a telephone. But the thing she remembered the most was the lovely view of Mount Tom through the front picture window.3

  Those few days together in Holyoke recaptured at least some of the feelings, some of the closeness, and some of the intimacy they had while touring the South. First of all, Bill did not have a single drink after leaving Brooklyn. Maybe it was that old “fresh air and exercise” potion working again, Lois thought. Second, their rugged surroundings and the crisp fall air reinvigorated them both. As Lois later wrote, “This morning, as there was not a soul around, we swam in the river ‘au naturel.’ Later, on a long walk, we picked a lot of hazelnuts which I haven’t found for a long time. And for supper I stewed up the blueberries and elderberries w
hich we had gathered earlier.

  “That night when Bill and I went to town to the movies, clouds of white moths swarmed all around the street lights, whitening the ground with snow-like piles at the foot of every lamp post. Never having seen anything like it before, we inquired and learned they were gypsy moths and a great menace to the trees. Thank goodness I had never seen them in Vermont.

  “Tomorrow we leave for Canada.”4

  That last comment said it all, for that’s where Bill resumed his drinking despite still being “out in the country.” They had been in Montreal for several weeks. Bill had been trying hard to get the goods on a major Canadian aluminum enterprise but without any luck. He was spurned by management as well as the workers, whom he said “didn’t speak the same language even though it was English.”5 He hadn’t received this much resistance since that very first call he made on General Electric, and this time there were no Goldfoots to soften up with a few beers. And, as for beer, Bill still hadn’t had a drop, even though there was no Prohibition law in Canada. Finally, he gave up and headed for home. Lois could tell he was very down, almost depressed. Nothing she said cheered him up.

  Just as they were about to cross the border back into the United States, Bill casually mentioned he had run out of cigarettes and needed to stop to pick up a few packs.

  “I realized this was nonsense since cigarettes were a lot more expensive in Canada,” Lois said. “But liquor was cheaper and more easily available than in the U.S. in those Prohibition days.”6

  Bill had parked the Dodge in the plaza near the International Bridge that marked the United States–Canadian border. He had gone off with both the car keys and all their money. Lois sat there and waited for several hours, trying to decide exactly what to do next. It was almost dark by the time she set out to look for him, passing by all the shops, restaurants, and tourist traps and surveying only the bars.

  “In the very last saloon in the area, there he was hardly able to navigate,” she recalled. “And he had spent practically all of our money except for a few dollars.”7

  Lois was exasperated, not so much by the fact that she now had to drive most of the way back to New York herself, but mainly because those ever-present butterflies in her stomach told her this was merely a precursor of things to come.

  As the cold winds of late November blew in, so did another one of Bill’s unusual investment ideas: Cuban sugar. With the economy booming and everyone he knew having a sweet tooth, he saw sugar as a growth industry and Cuba as the lowest-cost producer. So he talked Frank Shaw into an all-expense-paid trip: he and Lois would “investigate” the island just off the coast of Florida.

  It was probably only a coincidence, of course, that Bill had received a letter at about that time from his father, Gilman, who had remarried. They hadn’t seen each other in years. Gilly was working outside Miami, cutting rock to build the Overseas Highway that would connect the mainland with the Florida Keys. How convenient it would be to pay his father a visit on their way home.

  In Cuba, Lois and Bill were given a warm reception and treated as important American investors in the island’s economy. A car, a chauffeur, and even a motorboat were placed at their disposal. In Havana they stayed at the elaborate Hotel Sevila. Bill lived it up, especially when he took a fancy to two other island specialties: Cuban cigars and Cuban rum. It was the rum that turned the whole trip into a near disaster and almost a total waste of the firm’s money. As Lois remembered quite vividly, “It was a frustrating time for me, though, because of Bill’s drinking. One day, to keep him from going down to the bar, I threw one of his shoes out the window, but this did no good. It landed on a nearby roof, and Bill simply called the porter to retrieve it. In no time, he was down at the bar wearing both shoes.”8

  Frank Shaw soon heard of Bill’s escapades through one of his Cuban financial connections. He immediately called the hotel and read Bill the riot act. This so upset Bill that before leaving the island, he wrote Frank a letter of apology. It read, in part, “I have never said anything to you about the liquor question, but now that you mention it and also for the good reason that you are investing your perfectly good money in me, I am at last very happy to say that I have had a final showdown (with myself) on the matter . . . I am finally . . . rid of it . . . That is that so let us now forget it.”9

  With Bill making so much money for the firm, Shaw was happy to forget it—for a while anyway. On their way home, Lois and Bill did stop to see Gilly and his second wife, Christine. They also met Gilly and Christine’s daughter, Helen, Bill’s half sister who was only ten years old. The visit was pleasant enough, but Lois made sure to keep it short for fear her husband and father-in-law would start drinking together.

  A few nights after they returned to Brooklyn, Bill came home drunker than usual. Lois helped him into the bedroom and undressed him. As she tried putting on his pajamas, he fell onto the bed and pulled her down on top of him. He wanted to make love. She could smell the whiskey coming out of every pore in his body as he rolled over on her. His hands were sweaty, his breath repulsive. She tried to move away but he wanted her. He kissed her and fondled her. She tried not to feel her feelings. This was her husband, but there must be times—there had to be times—when a wife had every right to say no to her husband.

  His breath came hard and heavy as he struggled to perform. She gave him little help. Then she realized that the booze had made him impotent again. They had had problems before, but this night it was hopeless. After a few moments Bill, as drunk as he was, finally realized it himself. He crawled away from her and buried his head in a pillow. As he moaned like a poor, hurt little animal, Lois began to weep. Her feelings of disgust suddenly turned into deep empathy. “I love you, Bill,” she murmured, running her fingers through his hair. “How can I help you to stop all of this? Dear God, please show me how I can help my husband.”

  The next morning, Bill had no recollection of the night before. He was now beginning to have “blackouts,” a state where the brain becomes so dulled by alcohol that a person can continue to function but not remember what he did or when and where he did it. Bill only knew he had come home very drunk again, and judging by the look on his wife’s face, he had probably hurt and embarrassed her one more time. So he apologized one more time and went off to work with a terrible hangover—almost certain to stop somewhere for “a hair of the dog.”10

  Despite lunching and attending the theater and such with Elise and the wives of other Wall Street executives and investors, Lois still had too much time just to sit around the house and think. Despite her disagreement with YWCA during the war years, she still had many friends there, and she returned now for some volunteer work. She not only enjoyed it, but it took her mind off the problems at hand.

  A few weeks before Christmas, Lois planned to have her entire family and some guests over for a holiday dinner. She wanted everything to go well. She made Bill promise not to drink too much, at least not while everyone was there. He sarcastically tossed his glass of gin and tonic into the sink and promised to be “a good boy.” By now, she was used to his sarcasm after he had had a few and wanted to continue drinking.

  Lois decorated the Christmas tree and the entire apartment in the spirit of the season. Everything was beautiful. It made her feel better doing it. She even hung mistletoe over the front door. When the special evening arrived and the clock struck six, she put on a happy face and greeted everyone as though there wasn’t one single problem in the entire Wilson household. Even Bill’s sister, Dorothy, who had been expressing concern over his drinking to her doctor-husband, Leonard Strong, was fooled by Lois’s performance. But two people there certainly were not—Elise Shaw and Clark Burnham.

  During dinner, while Rogers and Leonard were complimenting their host for “buttering their bread” with such high-flying stocks, Bill turned to his father-in-law and graciously invited him to be his guest at the New York Stock Exchange one da
y soon “to see how your son-in-law works his magic,” he winked. Then he toasted him with his glass of Chablis.

  “Not on your life,” Lois remembered her father replying rather abruptly. “I hear it’s like watching a herd of wild buffalo stampede. Nothing but a parade of heart attacks all trying to get to the waterhole at the same time. No thanks.”11 Bill’s face showed not only shock and disappointment but also deep hurt. Ever since he married Lois, he had been trying to earn Dr. Burnham’s respect—not those measly, patronizing “Keep up the good work, son” platitudes, but his respect. Now here he was moving among the giants of Wall Street and showering the doctor’s daughter with all the things the good life can bring, and getting no credit for it. “Well, he can go to hell,” Bill said under his breath as he excused himself from the table and went into the parlor for a stiff belt.

  There was a momentary pause in the conversation since everyone couldn’t help but notice the incident. Lois quickly drew their attention by rising herself and inviting everyone to join her and Bill in the parlor for an after-dinner cordial and some dessert.

  As the guests were leaving, Barbara, who had always liked and admired her brother-in-law, pulled Lois aside and naively told her she shouldn’t get so upset just because her husband has a few social drinks once in a while, or even gets tight now and then. After all, wasn’t it part of his doing business—entertaining people, being sociable, being a good host? And look at her lovely apartment. A phone in every room. Partying with the elite.

  Lois wanted to grab her younger sister, look into her eyes, and tell her the man she admired so much insulted people in restaurants after “a few social drinks,” that he bought so many rounds in a speakeasy he could have owned the place, that he often couldn’t remember what had done last night or the night before, that he often came home so drunk she had to undress him and then, reeking of his stinking booze, he would try to make love to her—and couldn’t.