Alone Together: My Life With J. Paul Getty

by Theodora Getty Gaston

  A week later, on New Year’s Eve, I hadn’t planned a special party or any celebration for us. I just wanted to be with Paul at home.

  After dinner I excused myself and went upstairs. I didn’t tell Paul, but I wasn’t feeling well. I walked out onto the terrace. It was a cold clear night and all the stars were out. I looked over the ocean, watching the waves break into iridescent crests. But as beautiful as it was, it was strange. The instant the waves dashed up to the dark beach below, their brightness was instantly extinguished, as if an unseen hand had turned off a light. It seemed ominous—perhaps because I felt ill. Very ill.

  Slipping into a gown and robe, I lay down on the bed. I must have gone to sleep immediately.

  This was noteworthy. So noteworthy that Paul wrote in his diary that night:

  We spent a very quiet New Year’s Eve. Home with Teddy.

  She was asleep by 10:30. First time in history.

  She looked so tired, didn’t waken her.

  I spent the night in the guest room, so she could sleep soundly.

  CHAPTER 29

  MY NEW CAREER

  Little did Paul know, I walked the floor all night—in pain. By morning I felt better, and Paul had to leave.

  “You’re full of stones,” Dr. Bergman said as he leaned over the foot of my hospital bed, “and I’m slating the operation for tomorrow.”

  “What do you mean stones?” I asked.

  “Gallstones. You’re full of them and—”

  “Why you’re . . .”

  “Now wait a minute, Teddy—you’re full of stones and besides that, you’re pregnant.”

  “What! I am? How wonderful. Is it true?” I said, not daring to believe.

  “Yes, it’s true. But if we don’t remove the stones immediately, you’re going to have a hard time holding your baby.”

  “Oh—I must tell Paul . . . He’s in Tulsa.”

  “I’ve already spoken to him, but you should call him. He can’t be here, Teddy, but he’s sending Dr. Ortman Shumate to consult with me.”

  Then he handed me the telephone. “Right now, Paul’s waiting,” and he walked out of the room.

  I lifted the receiver immediately, and to my surprise the operator said, “Mrs. Getty, I have a call for you.” It was Paul.

  “Teddy? Is that you?”

  “Hi.”

  “I told Dr. Bergman to tell you to call me. I’ve been waiting and waiting.”

  “Well, he just now told me.”

  “Teddy—did he tell you about the baby?”

  “Yes—are you happy about it?”

  “Of course I am! It’s wonderful. But, Teddy, he also said that you’re full of stones.”

  “I know. Must be something left over from the war.”

  “Teddy—stop joking. It’s serious.”

  “I know, Paul, and . . . I’m scared.”

  “Don’t be. Everything’s going to be all right. It’s got to be, for we’re going to have a baby.”

  I sat up late that night and made out my will on a piece of scratch paper—folded it—and stuffed it into a little receptacle in the post of my hospital bed.

  It was six A.M. A nurse opened the door and handed me the phone. I heard Paul say, “Darling, I’ve been thinking about you all night long. I couldn’t sleep. I’m so worried—I don’t know what I’d do without you. I don’t want you to die. I’d give up Spartan and all I have if you’ll only live . . .”

  “Paul, dear, you don’t have to give up anything. I’ll be okay—really. I’m trusting God. You better trust him, too.”

  “But I should be with you—you’re all alone.”

  “You’re with me in your heart, so I’m not alone.”

  “Teddy, darling, you’re such a brave little girl—and I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  As I hung up the receiver, the nurse came back into the room and gave me a shot. The orderlies lifted me up. I felt I was moving through space. I knew where I was going, but I wasn’t afraid. I was just sad that Paul was. A few hours after the operation, Paul phoned but was told I was resting and was not to be disturbed. The next afternoon I was able to talk to him. Later that day he wrote this letter:

  Hotel Tulsa

  Jan. 27, 1946

  Darling,

  It was so wonderful to hear your voice this afternoon. But I’m distressed. I feel you are disappointed in me—and I feel I made a mistake in not being with you for the operation. Your love and your well-being mean everything to me.

  I was swamped here last week—general disorganization. People quitting, waste and extravagance to be immediately checked, engineering and designer question to be settled that were holding up progress of an important tax meeting to prepare for. I felt I could only leave in case of an emergency. Your operation wasn’t an emergency. Ortman, you said, advised you to wait a few days or maybe a week or two. I wanted to be with you and this delay would have permitted me to spend a week at Spartan, prepare for the tax meeting, and be home the first week in Feb. You then could have the operation and I would be with you. You wanted it this way, so did Ortman, so did I.

  Foolishly, I advised you to do what neither of us wanted—have an immediate operation—not even to wait one day, even though I couldn’t arrive in time for the operation. I advised you thus because I love you and felt your well-being would be best served by an immediate operation without any delay because a delay would mean anxious days of waiting would distress and weaken you in my opinion. I wanted you to clear your mind of any anxiety—to get this operation behind you at once and not pass days waiting for it and dreading it. My own personal longing to be with you was subordinated to plans for an operation the next morning.

  Please don’t think I’ve failed you. I didn’t mean to—I know now I should have advised you to wait until I returned.

  I love you,

  Paul

  Two days later, the door of my hospital room opened and there stood Paul with a huge bouquet of red roses. Quietly he said—“Teddy, darling, the doctor tells me you’re doing fine and our baby is, too. I’m so thankful.” Then he came over and kissed me. For the next week he was with me every day and night. And the day I went home, as they wheeled me from my room, I remembered my will, retrieved it from its hiding place, and tore it up.

  More and more Paul was traveling back and forth between California, Oklahoma, and New York. It seemed hard on him but it was even harder for me—having had a major operation and being pregnant at the same time. I was also concerned because the doctors held little hope that I would have the baby. I was constantly in and out of the hospital for the next four months, and since Paul was away so much, I wrote to my mother that I needed her and asked if she and my sisters would come to the coast and stay with me. Without delay they were on the train, and my friend Churchill Ross met them at the Pasadena station.

  After taking their luggage to the beach house, Mother and the girls came to see me at the hospital, where my doctor had sent me due to complications. After talking with Dr. Bradbury, Mother arranged that I be allowed to go home with the promise that I would be kept quiet . . . and not drive for a month, especially not in “that little green Morgan car she runs around in,” Bradbury said, feeling I might lose the baby. So I phoned Paul and asked that he rent a heavier car for me. He said, “No, you don’t need to drive . . . your mother and sisters are there.” I was so taken aback, I started to cry . . . then I phoned his lawyer, Tom Dockweiler, for his advice. “Isn’t this baby you are carrying Paul’s?” he asked. “Yes,” I said. “Well then, pick up the phone, my dear Teddy, rent a car, and charge it to him.” And with “I simply can’t understand Paul at times,” he rang off.

  So I did what Tom told me to do. Paul never spoke of it again, and I put the whole episode in the back of my mind . . . along with Paul’s strange aversion to paying telephone bills.

  It was so good to be home again and to see my lovely “baby sisters,” Nancy and Bobby, who were now gorgeous young ladies. Everyone fell
in love with them. Our telephone rang like Central Casting, and handsome young men were calling at the house day and night. When the girls were out on dates, sightseeing, or in the pool, Mom and I had quiet times together, catching up. It was then that she promised that she would stay on in California after my baby arrived. Plans were made for her and the girls to live at the guesthouse on the ranch until we found the house that Paul had promised me he’d buy for her.

  Our baby was scheduled to arrive in August. We had already selected names. A girl would be named Louise after Mom (and me), and her second name would be Christina, which means “bearer of Christ.” If a boy, his name would be Timothy, because it meant “gift of God.” His second name would be Christopher, meaning “bearer of truth,” and his third name, Ware, mother’s family name.

  April 20, 1946

  Saturday

  Darling Teddy Boo,

  Thanks for writing me—the first since March 5. I’m lonely and you don’t write me.

  It’s such slavery here. 13 hours a day trying to get the trailers into production. Meanwhile, the factory is losing money like mad.

  I haven’t been to a movie or done anything worth writing about.

  The little house is still just a basement. My hotel room is cheerless and hot. I want to be with you and Hildy at the beach. Maybe I can settle the factory so I can leave it by the end of the month.

  Darling, Ruly Cutten and his bride are in L.A. I think at the Beverly Hills Hotel or the Beverly Wilshire. E. F. Hutton and Company will have the address.

  Please call them and show them the ranch.

  I love you even if you are mean.

  Paul

  May 9, 1946

  Darling,

  It was cheering to hear your voice yesterday. You sounded happy and gay. As you know I’m slaving away here trying to manufacture trailers and it is a back breaking job. Once the trailer line is moving I should be able to return home. I am so homesick and anxious to see you.

  Now, sweet, I must ask your cooperation in financial matters. I have the following wire from Lloyd Hughes. “Mrs. Getty is requesting reimbursement on numerous clothing bills which she feels we should pay from this office rather than forward the check to you. I have no authority to sign these checks, please advise.”

  Our understanding is that I pay you a weekly allowance of $100 and this was to pay for your clothes and pin money. I just paid several hundred dollars of your clothing bills and I can’t do this and give you an allowance too, for clothes, and now it seems there are additional bills for clothes.

  You were sweet and like yourself in your last call, but in the one before you seemed a different girl and not the one that I always loved. You mentioned having something on me or the same effect. Now, dear, you have nothing on me and you never will have. After much cogitation I decided you referred to the Anderson’s. Some time ago in a trade with an oil company I took an equity in a house in Castellamara. I considered it a good investment and didn’t mention it to you because the housing shortage is so acute that knowing your kind heart, I thought some of your friends would pester you to arrange it or more likely pester me too. Mr. and Mrs. Anderson are not California residents and I did allow them to stay there during their visit because it was short. I want to see my equity as soon as prices peak, and I don’t want troublesome tenants and they are all troublesome now because they have no place to go. It is hard to sell a tenanted place because buyers want immediate and untroubled possession. I don’t see that I should be apologetic about this, but if I should be, I apologize.

  Now dear, before I left, several times you talked about getting a divorce, setting aside the property settlement we signed, and indicated you were dissatisfied with me, principally I understood, because you felt I didn’t give you what I should. If this is your attitude it will be necessary for us to settle this definitely and formally.

  I am the head of the household. I am the one that provides the money. I think I provide generously for you. Maybe you don’t think so. Maybe you think you can get more money in a court fight. I don’t know. I do know, however, that no judge can make me pay the bills for Hereford Water, your singing career and contribute to your mothers support. I don’t believe that any judge would give you more than one thousand per month for your support (if there were no agreement) and from this you would pay all your expenditures. As long as I am voluntarily paying your bills and there is no court settlement, you should, in fairness, allow me to determine the amount in advance and not try to take control of the situation. I mean in regard to your personal expenditures.

  I hope you don’t misunderstand my frankness. I don’t mean to offend you but it was necessary to clear the air.

  I love you and I don’t want a divorce and I hope you love me.

  Your devoted husband,

  Paul

  PS: I would particularly like to be with you these months that are so important to us.

  I answered Paul’s May 9 letter at once.

  May 11, 1946

  Darling,

  Paul, your letter of May 9 arrived this morning and I was happy that you thought enough of me to write what was in your heart. You are mistaken about several things which I feel should be straightened out.

  First: I believe you have not stated fully the facts concerning your arrangement with Mrs. Anderson and I am led to believe by certain other facts that I am correct. What I know or think I know is of no importance really except that you have lost your standing in my eyes. I have always looked up to you but I shall no longer unless you are worthy of my faith and trust.

  Secondly: Paul, you are very wrong to suggest that I want or desire more than my right as your wife and a woman you love. I have never taken you or your money for granted. I do not expect you to do more than a man in your position can do . . . I have never taken advantage of you . . . and I never will. I do not consider that by being a mother I can suddenly demand and get more materially from you. If, during all the years you have known me, my character has not shown itself to you clearly as one of honesty and faithfulness then it is about time for you to awaken from the dream you have been living in and see me as I really am. I have been most appreciative for all you have done for me—never taking it for granted that because of any reason you had to give me what I wanted, I have deserved all and perhaps more than I’ve received but I have never lacked a grateful heart. What seems to slip your mind is the important fact that prices are from 4 to 6 times higher than in 1939. I do not ask you to pay for my normal wearing apparel but simply for the clothes I have needed during the months I am carrying your baby. Dockweiler said “THEY ARE DEDUCTIBLE” SO HERE AGAIN YOU HAVE LOST NOTHING. As for the expense of a big car . . . it does seem silly to rent a “[car]” but my doctor thinks it wiser and God knows after the operation three months ago and the hard luck of losing a wonderful contract I find the comfort of riding in a heavy car so important to my life and to the life of our baby that I can hardly find words to describe it.

  Thirdly: You refer to paying out so much for my career and Hereford . . . that no law or judge could force you to pay these bills. That is perfectly true, but you overlook the simple fact that I, on my honor have paid you 10 percent of all monies I have received since my return to this country which makes you my partner, backer or whatever you care to call yourself. It also shows that I, stand BY MY WORD, have not used you falsely, that my intentions have been and are most honorable. I might add that although you have been so kind in paying for lessons, your own conduct in the social world we live in has been very hard for me to bear . . . your association with cheap women . . . plus the notorious and humiliating Chaplin case has not been conducive to a closer relationship with me. You know full well that my employing a press agent was an attempt to hurdle, for both you and me, the unsavory reputation you have strewn about from this town to New York and back. It is with a sad heart I say all this to you for I have loved you dearly and have made every human attempt to abide by your wishes in everything I have done since first
we met, trusting completely in your wise knowledge of what was good or bad for me, however I see I have been mistaken, for I now realize that “what is good for Teddy rests solely on whether Paul decides that it will not inconvenience him in any way” first.

  To put you at your ease, may I inform you that I have done some research on our problem, which in reality is NO PROBLEM . . . UNLESS you make it so, and have found out a few important points which should make your burden less heavy.

  First, all of my clothes, hairdressers, photograph session, publicity and traveling expenses can be definitely deducted from your income taxes . . . as I’m a professional. Also 100% on all lessons. THE Hereford TEXAS WATER CO. is a GODSEND to you for you can write it off completely this year, as you in your bracket need to have some things to write off.

  Furthermore and please lets get this straight . . . stop accusing me of spending so much on HEREFORD AS THO IT WERE SOMETHING YOU WERE GENEROUSLY BUILDING FOR ME ALONE. You ALSO OWN A PERCENT OF IT AND ARE BENEFITING FROM IT THRU THIS PERIOD OF LOSS AS WELL AS WHEN WE MAKE IT A PERIOD OF PROFIT.

  I have just finished a recording session at A.R.A. and my album will be released in August . . . it might make you some money so be grateful you have such a sweet wife and stop grumbling. THANKS for letting me have mother and the girls out here . . .

  Your Teddy

  Hotel Tulsa

  Saturday

  May 18, 1946

  Teddy,

  I must answer your letter but I can’t write much because I’m so tired. I’ve been on my feet all day, up and down the length breath of the factory. I suppose the rail or coal strike will shut us down.

  I had no “arrangements” with Mrs. Anderson and there is nothing untoward or improper about my acquaintance with the Andersons. I am not guilty of any wrong doing with the others you mention. RE the Chaplin case she never accused me of anything, his Lawyers made a great to-do about me and intimated to the press that once I was on the stand and they could question me and their client would be exonerated, etc. The first trial resulted in my being excused by them after two minutes of testimony as follows. Name, Address, Occupation. Do you know Joan Berry? Did you see her in 1941? Dismissed. The second trial they again broadcast they were going to tear me wide open etc. And then decided they didn’t want my testimony. Joe Scott did and when I was on the stand asked me various questions establishing our acquaintance was proper and the loan was made in good faith and against collateral. Then I was turned over to his attorney to be torn to pieces on cross examination. I was asked did you lend Miss Berry money? Answer: “Yes, on a mortgage.” “Did you see her in Tulsa in Nov. 1942?” Answer: “Yes.” “Dismissed.” I think this speaks for itself and so did the jury. I won’t go into a money matters now, but I think you should—among other things—have asked my permission before authorizing or ordering an extension to the guest cottage or spending several hundred dollars in renting a big car. I might have preferred to get a chauffeur to drive you in my car. Don’t you think you’ve been rather fresh in these and other money matters recently? It was supposed to be that you spent your allowance as you so inclined, but other proposed expenditures were to be approved by me in advance—not afterwards or not at all.