Alone Together: My Life With J. Paul Getty

by Theodora Getty Gaston

  A few months after I arrived in Tulsa, we moved to a larger house and lived a life I imagined was routine for an American family of two, one dog, and occasional visitors during wartime. My mother and two sisters, Nancy and Bobby, came to see us. They were now living in Paul’s apartment on Sutton Place, and going to the Hewitt School in New York. The girls were adorable and very grown-up. We also entertained men from Washington, who came to inspect or discuss the plant.

  In the evenings, it was our habit to eat hearty meals at home and to live a typically suburban life. After all, it was wartime. We’d jump into our Ford sedan (although Paul was in the oil business, we lived by our ration cards, like everyone else) and dash off to see The Outlaw or other films playing nearby. And Paul always found time to go to a concert or a new play with me. We finally found a part-time maid, who came to us twice a week. Other days, he tended chores like any husband, sometimes doing dishes with me. He would take out the garbage, rake the lawn, and play with Hildy the dog. Although we lived in a wealthy neighborhood, we didn’t live the life wealthy people are expected to live, for it was foreign to both of us. We were too busy—Paul, with his tremendous responsibility at Spartan, and I, now learning to keep house for him and loving it. It seemed to me that we were closer than ever before.

  Driving home from the movies one afternoon, I noticed that Paul had gotten very quiet. I was thinking about him, his intellect, his obvious business ability, the love and respect he attracted from his colleagues. It was then that I realized that beyond all this, and even beyond the renewed and exciting love we enjoyed, this man had a certain great quality. I was once again “the stargazer,” trying to follow his academic flight through a child’s binoculars. I wondered if I could keep up with him—if I could hold his interest.

  It was just at that moment that Paul looked over at me and said, “You know, darling, you made me proud that night you spoke to the mothers of our pilots. You really charmed everyone, and I can’t help wondering what they would say now if they could hear you sing. I feel a certain sadness that you have worked so hard and given up so much to prepare for an operatic and concert career, and you’re now not singing at all. Just being a housewife for me is not fair, Teddy. Your voice is beautiful, it must be heard. You must start singing again. Let’s give a little concert at the house for a group of my friends from the plant.”

  “But, Paul, I’m really very happy just being your ‘housewife.’ I love—”

  “No, Teddy, tomorrow we’ll find you an accompanist . . . and . . . please take time to practice. When you feel ready, we’ll do the concert. Okay?” And with that, he looked over at me and smiled.

  And so I did what he wanted me to do. Two weeks later, a small group of Paul’s friends came to the house and I sang for them . . . The result was inspiring to both Paul and to me. Paul was now even more certain that I should resume my career and, when I received a note from the New Opera Company—a thriving new organization headed by Mrs. Vincent Astor, who had once leased Mother’s summer house at Martha’s Vineyard—inviting me to audition for them with the possibility of my joining the company for their next season, Paul urged me to go.

  I chose Desdemona’s aria from Otello and, though I was very nervous when I walked out onstage, I lost that fear in attempting to remember my technique. I did my best, which brought from them an invitation to do two Mozart roles in the coming season, on the condition that I stay on in New York for the rest of the summer and work with their coach.

  I knew they were right and wanted to do what they said, but Paul thought I could prepare the roles in Tulsa with Gene Berton and go to New York in the early fall to work with them. The Company didn’t agree to this. I don’t know why I didn’t insist on doing as they wished. I should have. Instead, I went home as he wanted, and never sang with the New Opera Company.

  I guessed at the time he really wanted me with him and didn’t want us to be separated. I could tell he was happy when I came home. Our days together were becoming maddeningly attractive, for finally I was living a really married life, something I’d never done before. I’d spend the day keeping house, doing the marketing, studying singing, and, when Paul came home in the evenings, I’d listen as he’d tell me about the progress at the factory . . . and the frustrations, too. Sometimes he’d bring Al and Blondie Reitherman home for supper, where Al and Paul would be deeply involved talking about how much more they could do to meet the navy’s demands.

  Most nights we’d listen to the radio for news of the war, then climb into bed and fall asleep. I thanked God each night for where I was, safe and protected. Lying there close to the man I loved, I realized why Paul was so right not wanting us to be separated at this time, even for three months. For I, too, hadn’t wanted to leave him or this novel married life.

  Belonging to someone who so perfectly satisfied me sexually and seemed to care that we lived each day together was too wonderful to give up. I decided I was not at all unhappy about not going to New York to sing for the opera company this time.

  Sometime that fall, a film company in Hollywood, seeking a wartime story and having read my article in Life magazine, asked if I would present a synopsis to them of my experience in Italy. Paul thought it might have value and suggested Gene Berton come out to Tulsa and write it with me, and also to go through my repertoire of songs to prepare me for a possible audition.

  Even though working on the synopsis, which we titled Music in the Storm, brought back vivid, horrifying memories of my experiences, it was good for me, because now I was safe in America.

  Paul and I spent a wonderful Christmas that first year, just being together. He gave me a beautiful gold-linked watch, and I gave him a pair of pajamas and two Scottie puppies—brother and sister, Penny and Peter. They were only six weeks old. I put them under the tree in a box all wrapped up in silver paper tied with a great big red satin bow, and suitable breathing holes on all sides. It was my hope that the puppies would make up for the death of Paul’s little dog Sophie, his pride and joy for ten and a half years, who had died in California the year before. He had talked at length to me about her and, as I presented the box to him, I prayed the new additions would fill the void. And that they did. Paul laughed when he opened the box. They jumped out and Paul raced them upstairs to bed. I followed. He looked at me and said “Why don’t you join us?” I did and was kissed to death. The dogs remained as loyal to Paul as he was to them for years to come. Paul was much happier around dogs.

  In January, I received a first draft of Music in the Storm from Paramount. It was totally unacceptable to me, but Paul insisted that I should go out to California to discuss it with their writers. While there, I could also call on Dr. Lippe, who had been so encouraging when I sang for him and Mr. Behymer three years earlier. I remembered he had asked me to call on him on my return. So Paul handed me the keys to his beach house in Santa Monica, and before I realized it, I was on the train to Los Angeles.

  Once in town, I headed the car up Wilshire Boulevard, all the way to where it ended in Santa Monica, turned right onto Ocean Avenue, made a quick left at the top of the cliffs, and drove down the ramp to the beach road—then called Ocean Front, now known the world over as Pacific Coast Highway.

  What an experience, that first breathtaking view of the ocean—so vast, never-ending till it reached the horizon. For me, coming down the ramp was like gliding down a children’s slide into a wonderland. It was wonderful to see again that wide expanse of blue, its waves with their whitecaps following one another onto the shore, and the beach with its row of houses. It hadn’t changed at all since I’d driven Paul’s mother there in 1939.

  Passing Marion Davies’s house, I slowed the car and turned in next door at No. 270, a charming two-story, white-shingled, New England–style house with green shutters, sheltered from the street by a high white fence. I parked the car in the garage, walked through the patio, and headed for the house, dragging my two bags and music case with me.

  I had scarcely turned the key to t
he door, when the phone rang and Betzi Beaton, my roommate from our Algonquin days, was welcoming me to California. “Betz,” I cried. “How did you know I was coming?”

  “Paul told me. He phoned last night,” she said, “and Jeannie is here, too. When can we meet?”

  “How about lunch at Romanoffs, tomorrow at noon?”

  “Great!”

  I put the phone back and stood there, lost in thought, wondering how we’d all changed over the years. I was so distracted that I forgot my bags. They were still sitting outside. Dragging them in, I closed the door and walked through the house, down the hall to the steps leading to the living room. I looked around and loved what I saw.

  A thirty-foot-long, high-ceilinged room, windows happily decorated above built-in window seats, bookshelves on one end of the room, simple maple furnishings throughout, and a huge, comfortable-looking couch in front of the fireplace at the other end. Straight ahead was the doorway to the outside porch, which led to the beach and the sea. I opened it at once and stepped out into the blazing sunshine. The sand came right up to the level of the house . . . the sea only forty feet behind. The high white fence, which protected the entire property, ended at the water’s edge. I tossed my shoes off and ran out through the sand to the gate leading to the public beach. It was locked, so I just stood there breathing in the fresh sea air, astonished at the tremendous waves curling up almost to the gate, and wondered what would happen if there was a storm, or just a high tide.

  Looking up the coast I could see Malibu . . . looking out to sea was Catalina . . . and southward, right next to the beach house, the magnificent home of Marion Davies, which William Randolph Hearst had built for her. Then, beyond, as far as I could make out, were the lovely homes of Anita Loos, Mae West, Mrs. Will Rogers, the Louis B. Mayers, Douglas Fairbanks, and the Jesse Laskys. In the distance, I could make out the Santa Monica Pier with its merry-go-round and restaurants.

  There were two master bedrooms in the front of the house, overlooking the sea, each with a bath and a dressing room. I chose the room with the canopy bed and a small marble fireplace with windows looking southward, then I phoned Paul and told him how happy I was to be in his adorable beach house. I also told him how sad I was that he wasn’t there with me.

  “I’m sorry, too, Teddy,” he said, “but happy you like the house.”

  “I never want to leave, so you must come here,” I told him. “It’s so like the Vineyard, I love it.”

  “Isn’t the ocean great?” he said, and I could hear in his voice he was missing it. “I wish I could be with you, darling, but I can’t leave now. Don’t forget to call Dr. Lippe tomorrow. Get an accompanist and sing for him, and let me know what he says . . . and call Paramount for an appointment.”

  “I will—”

  “And by the way,” he cut in, “remember to phone me after six. The night rate is cheaper, and we can talk longer. Now good-bye, darling, take care. I love you . . . and say hello to the girls.”

  Romanoffs was packed. It always was in those days, and Mike, the owner, greeted me with a kiss and a hug. We hadn’t seen each other since the Stork Club days. He seemed delighted that I was married to Paul, and escorted me to the table where Betzi and Jeannie were seated. Our reunion was wild. We all talked at once and I was thrilled to learn that Betzi had written a screenplay for Columbia called The Boy with Green Hair, and that Jeannie was a successful actor’s agent.

  I hadn’t seen Betzi since our New York days, nor Jeannie, since she and her husband had fled into Switzerland at the beginning of the war. They looked great . . . Betzi, still the blond beauty, and Jeannie with her tousled red hair . . . both tanned, happy, successful, and excited at seeing me.

  “How long are you staying?” Jeannie asked.

  “I don’t know. I’ve found an accompanist, Marjorie Fahringer, and I’m planning to sing for Dr. Lippe.”

  “You mean you’re going back to work?” Betzi said, wide-eyed.

  “Hopefully,” I answered.

  “So, Teddy,” she whispered, “is it true? Are you getting a divorce?”

  “Who, me? Divorce? No, I’m not . . . unless Paul’s divorcing me. Why? What have you heard?”

  “Oh . . . no . . . nothing. It’s just that he’s there . . . and you’re here.”

  “I know, but it was his idea that I come to California and sing for Dr. Lippe.”

  “Oh . . .” said Betzi.

  “What do you mean, ‘Oh’?”

  “Oh, nothing. It’s great. Welcome to Worksville.”

  At that, Jeannie cut in. “I have an idea. I want you to meet my best friends, Gladys and Eddie G. Robinson. You know, Little Caesar. They love music and art, and maybe they can be of help. May I bring them down to the beach house to meet you?”

  “Of course, Jeannie. I’d love to meet them. He is one of my favorite actors.”

  And so it happened, just like that. They came the very next Sunday, with their son, Manny, laden with baskets of food, just as Marjorie and I finished rehearsing.

  Insisting Marjorie stay for lunch, they asked me to sing, which I did. They all applauded, with Jeannie excitedly pacing up and down the living room saying, “I told you so . . . She’s great, isn’t she? Worked hard . . . went to jail . . . boy . . . I really think she’s got it.”

  “Yes, she has,” said Eddie. “You’ll go far, Teddy.”

  “Thank you so much,” I said.

  At lunch, Gladys, a most attractive woman with great brown eyes and a warm heart, said, “Teddy, your voice is beautiful. You should have your own radio program, and I know just the station that would want you. I’m going to call them right now.”

  As she left the room, Eddie smiled and said, “That’s my Gladys. You know, Teddy, if she thinks you should have your own radio program, you should have it . . . And right now, if she’s doing what I think she’s doing, you will have.”

  And I did have, and it happened just like that.

  Naturally, I had to audition for the executives, who offered me a contract and a time slot. They assigned Neil Reagan, Ronald Reagan’s brother, to produce the show, which they titled Serenade. It was to start in August.

  I was to sing every Thursday evening from 8:15 to 8:30 over station KFWB, from the stage of the Warner Bros. Theatre on Hollywood Boulevard, accompanied by pianist/conductor Leon Leonardi, and the Warner Bros. Orchestra. The format was for me to sing one concert or opera aria and one modern song; the orchestra was to play one number. And I was to have guests, too. Of course, I had Gladys and Eddie to thank for sponsoring me, and Jeannie for introducing us.

  Before accepting, I phoned Paul. “Darling, what a great opportunity . . . Sign at once,” he said. “And I’ll be there. Now, what about your story? Is Paramount still interested? I haven’t heard from you in days.”

  He sounded upset, and later that night I received a letter he’d sent from New York asking, “When will you come back to me?” Of course, now that I had this offer, Paul agreed that I should stay in California.

  The very next day, I called on Dr. Lippe and arranged to study the arias I was going to use on my program. I also spoke with the writers assigned to me at Paramount. They were so busy rewriting their last script that we agreed to postpone getting together . . . And so my story was never done.

  I worked with Dr. Lippe several times during the summer. I met with Leon Leonardi to discuss what guests he planned to invite on our show at KFWB, but I was lonely. I really missed Paul, and I think he missed me, too.

  On June 16, 1943, Paul sent me a note:

  It brought back memories of that meeting, our reunion after so many years of being apart. It also made me cry, because, here we were, doing the same thing all over again.

  CHAPTER 26

  HEREFORD, TEXAS

  One evening, after reading an article titled “The Town Without a Toothache,” in the February 1943 issue of Reader’s Digest, Paul was so impressed, he called me from Tulsa and suggested we meet in Hereford to investigate the story.
He planned to drive there and bring Hildy with him. I agreed to hop the train from LA and meet him there.

  On arrival, we located Dr. Heard, the only dentist in the entire area. We learned he had found little or no evidence of tooth decay in the people of the county, and believed it was due to the drinking water.

  The Hereford city records showed that out of every hundred men in the area, 93 percent were accepted for the armed forces because of good health and almost perfect teeth. It was also noteworthy that in Hereford you couldn’t tell the age of a horse, cow, or a dog by its teeth. Hereford is situated on the staked plains of Texas, that wonderful short-grass country, called the Llano Estacado, which fully supplied the nutritional needs of the buffalo, who once roamed this area, and now supplied the needs of the famous Hereford cows. It just seemed to me that since nature had put such good water in the ground for the citizens and animals of Hereford, surely the same water should be good for the rest of the world.

  The slogan “The Town Without a Toothache” kept running through my head. “Paul,” I said, “let’s take some water back to California and have a chemical analysis made. If it really contains natural fluoride, we’ve got something no other bottled water has, and we could do this together. I mean, bottle and sell it.”

  “You’re right, Teddy. It may also have potassium and phosphorus, and that would make it even better.”

  “Oh, Paul . . . can you imagine how it could bless the whole world? Please, let’s do it. I’d be thrilled to be doing something like this with you.”

  “Teddy, dear, it’s a marvelous idea and I love your enthusiasm, but to go into business and make it work is a twenty-four-hour-a-day job. Right now my hours are taken up with Spartan. Yours are filled with singing. But let’s take a couple of bottles of water with us to California, get the analysis made, and go from there.”