Alone Together: My Life With J. Paul Getty

by Theodora Getty Gaston

  I’m sorry you used the past time in referring to your love for me. I’ve tried in my own way I suppose to be a better than average husband to you. However, somethings don’t suit you. I’m sorry you didn’t have the good fortune to choose a husband that was a success as a husband. Judging from the records millions of other women are similarly not suited. I don’t know the solution of something that seems to affect a large percentage of women. It must be the man’s fault. Either men are worse now than they were a generation ago or wives are more easily estranged.

  I must close now as I’m so tired. There is a smattering of thunder and a storm is approaching after a beautiful day.

  Yours,

  Paul

  As months went on, it seemed almost everyone knew that we were going to have a baby. Danton Walker, the Daily News columnist, ran it as an “item,” and the Associated Press also sent out the news; so the telephone hummed.

  But two months ahead of schedule, on Flag Day, June 14, 1946, Timothy Christopher Ware Getty was born a mere four pounds, fourteen ounces, and was immediately placed in an incubator. He was so tiny—I cried wondering how such a little being could be or survive, and I prayed so hard for him to live. Paul was at the factory in Tulsa and astonished to hear the news.

  He immediately called Dr. Bradbury. “Ray,” he said, “I thought that our baby wasn’t due until August?”

  The very kind doctor laughed and replied, “He wasn’t. But babies don’t ask. They just arrive. And as for your little redheaded fellow, he evidently wanted to get here ahead of time. He’s tiny, but he’ll grow.”

  “But, Ray,” Paul went on, “I wanted to be there.”

  “Well, Teddy was here, and that was all that was necessary, Paul. It was hard on her, having had that operation while carrying a baby, and wasn’t easy on us trying to keep her quiet these past months. But both she and your son are fine now, so rejoice, Paul, and we’ll see you soon.”

  Paul didn’t make it to the hospital for a week—and by that time “Timmy,” as I had begun calling him, was beginning to gain weight, though the doctors had been very concerned. On arrival in Los Angeles, Paul noted in his personal diary:

  Dashed to the hospital to see my little son Timmy.

  He is a seven-month baby, weighing six pounds now. Poor little man—he has had a hard time. He must remain at the hospital in an incubator for at least two more weeks.

  One month later, Timmy was released, but we still had to have two nurses around the clock. In fact, the first three months were fearful ones, as his hemoglobin was low, and I had to take him back to the hospital two or three times for transfusions. But finally, the doctors said he was strong enough to “go it on his own,” and from then on I was such a grateful mother, for my child was free, growing, and normal. His presence in our home strengthened my bond with Paul.

  Timmy brought me a new career, this time the most important of all—that of a mother. Finally, I had reached the last of the three goals I had explained to Paul. We were at El Morocco. It was crowded, noisy, and we had just returned to our table, when Paul asked me what I wanted to do with my life, and I had said, Be a successful singer . . . marry the man I loved . . . and have his child.

  “So, a career comes first, Teddy?” he had said. “How do you think a man would feel about that?”

  During our years of married life, I found out how a “man” would feel about it. Paul had encouraged my singing career, I had married the man I loved, and now . . . I was spending almost all my time with him and our little son.

  Many times, sleeping with Timmy all night in his nursery, I’d awaken to find Paul leaning over us, after working late at night in his den on business. It was a happiness I had never seen Paul express before. Our completeness was obvious. Paul’s personal attorney, David Hecht, once recalled that “With the birth of their child—little Timmy—began the happiest years of their lives.”

  Like any mother, I spent a great deal of time putting Timmy’s baby books in order, and with the aid of one of the nurses (his first), Miss Lindy, dutifully recorded every inch of growth, each spoonful of food, and every present sent to him by his growing circle of admirers. “Lindy” was head of the preemie department at the Santa Monica Hospital, and was on duty the day Timmy was born. I always thanked God for her devotion, love, and care—not only for my little boy, but for the other dear ones in the premature section. Many of these precious little babes could never have survived past the first few hours and days without “our Lindy.” She was an inspiration to the other nurses. At my request, she agreed to come home with Timmy, and she immediately became one of the family. She stayed with us for years.

  In addition to being a wonderful nurse, she was a reserve lieutenant in the Army Air Corps, and when she was off duty as a nurse and went out for the evening she would sometimes wear her army uniform with its brass buttons and medals, which fascinated Timmy—and me, too.

  Nov 4, 1946

  10:30 pm

  Darling Teddy Boo,

  I just came back from Schrafts—57th Street & Madison. I sat at our little table all alone and thought of you and of the 10 years that have flown by. As best I could I tried to comprehend.

  Just 10 years ago, Roosevelt was running for a second term. Fred and I were thinking of forming a political party. I wrote a manifesto and platform. You and Betzi meanwhile were gaily running about. We were all spending an afternoon at their house on E. 11th or 12th. I just left the Plaza and was settled at 1 Sutton Place. I was more an important oil man than I am now. You and I were dating ardently. We were just engaged. I was 10 years younger.

  I had recently been up to Wild Acres and loved it—all except the mosquitoes. My darling mama was still alive and well and my eyes still filled with tears sometimes when I thought of Papa, gone 6 years.

  You were singing more or less about this time at the Stork and occasionally dating Neil Vanderbilt and Dallas Haynes.

  And we used to meet at our little table at Schrafts and dance at the cocktail hour at the Persian Room. I had never heard of Spartan; never dreamed of manufacturing anything. The Beach House was 3 years old and there was no bulk-head, the high tide swept the porch and kept the planks sound, without leaks or splinters. I had a 1931 Duesenberg Roadster and was very proud of it. They never produced a newer model. I loved you then and still do—10 years later.

  Paul

  CHAPTER 30

  SPARTANETTE

  Over the years, wherever Paul was, no matter how busy, if he didn’t have time for a letter he never failed to write notes to me like this one from Tulsa.

  April 27, 1947

  Darling Teddy Boo,

  Your lovely hydrangea is still flourishing. I’ve taken good care of it. I miss you and Timmy—but you most. I’m working seven days a week from 6am to midnight, but results of it are evident. I wired you that Mr. Opperman of Aircraft Products, Santa Monica, will drive my Cad. to Spartan. He’s going to bring a smaller trailer to exhibit to us. I wish I was home. Expect to be home next month.

  Love & kisses,

  Paul

  And this one:

  May 8, 1947

  Darling,

  You’re a pig. You didn’t

  tell me we had a coyote

  living in the wolf run. Please see

  it is well fed and watered. Has

  Hildy seen it?

  Love,

  Paul

  May 24, 1947

  Darling,

  Re Hereford Water. I’m signing $1,426 of checks for Hereford Water but this is positively the last time and if it leads to a break between us, so be it.

  I’m sure Hereford Water as a business proposition stinks. Personally, we both believe in it and like it and I wish we had stuck to having Sank Ramey send us filled bottles. I recommend you write a polite note to the customers explaining the situation of delivery costs and set a minimum delivery of 3 bottles. Anyone that won’t help that much is not very interested so why pay them to drink Hereford Water. If the business
won’t break even on the 3 bottles minimum, then send another note asking them if loyal believers in the water (if customers are taking more then 3 bottles more thank them in the note) to order the water direct from T. Lynch Hereford in 15 gal containers. Mountain Valley does this in many places including L.A. You could then get rid of the white elephant charges in L.A. and anybody that really was loyal to Hereford Water could still get it and you could make some profit instead of using me as a milk cow to feed a white elephant. I’m so tired of being milked to feed the white elephant.

  Darling—I won’t forget Timmy’s birthday. I miss him but I miss you more.

  I love you,

  Paul

  And whenever I sent him a newspaper clipping of a review regarding a professional appearance I had made, he would reply at once to compliment me, and always a note from him if I telephoned him.

  I’m so glad you phoned me and told me you loved me!

  I feel better now.

  I love you.

  Paul

  Over the next years, during the rebuilding of the ranch, when Paul and I would drive up to see the progress we would take Timmy and Miss Lindy with us, and it was always such fun. Timmy would hide in the bushes, come out and surprise his father, who would immediately turn from a silent and deeply concentrating individual concerned with his huge investments into a playful father—delighted to romp with his young son. Then, Mother and my sisters, who were living in the guesthouse, would invite us in for tea or sometimes for a picnic supper. Timmy looked forward to these times and as he grew up, enjoyed taking walks, picking flowers, reading, and playing checkers, Parcheesi, or cards with my mother, who he called “Lulu.”

  I knew little about Paul’s business day except when he would do some of his work at home. He’d be on the phone for hours talking to people all over the world. And building Spartan trailers now occupied as much of Paul’s time as did the oil business. When he was in California, he tried to find time to be with Timmy and me. One day, before leaving for his office, he stepped into the nursery, where Timmy had built a fort with a huge pile of Lincoln Logs. Indians, soldiers, and cowboys were spread all over the nursery floor. Tim and I were waiting for the battle to begin.

  Paul stood at the door for a moment, smiling. Then said, “Hi, everybody, who’s fighting who?”

  Looking up, Timmy cried, “Come on in, Daddy, you’re just in time. I’m the Indians, Mom’s the cowboys, and you can be the soldiers and we’ll fight you!”

  Paul looked wistfully at us and said, “I’ve got work to do, Timmy, and I’m late now. Maybe later. Thanks for inviting me, son.”

  Blowing kisses at us, he started down the stairs, then stopped, came back, and said, “Teddy, dear, you know in addition to our line of Royal Mansions and Royal Manors, we’re building a smaller trailer. Here’s a picture, but it’s not named yet. You’re usually good at things like this. Have you any ideas?”

  I looked at the photograph for a moment, then said, “I might have a name for it, Paul, but if your company uses it, they must pay me.”

  He smiled. “Darling, that doesn’t sound like you to be so demanding.”

  I laughed. “Well, Paul,” I said. “Were you hoping to get it for free? You were the one who told me to put a value on myself. Remember? Sherman Billingsley and the Stork Club contract?”

  Paul smiled again. “Yes, I remember, but— Well, darling, okay, if we take your name we’ll pay you three hundred dollars.”

  “No,” I countered. “It’s worth five hundred.”

  For a moment he looked at me, then gave another smile. “Okay, Teddy, what’s the name?”

  “Spartanette,” I said. “Isn’t that great? I’ve got a fabulous idea on how to drum up business. Listen. In every city where you plan to sell Spartanettes, arrange to have a beauty contest. Then, the girl who wins will be named ‘Miss Spartanette,’ and your new trailer and the lovely girl will be photographed and shown in every newspaper. Isn’t that a good idea? It’ll sell trailers . . .”

  “Uh-huh,” he mused. “Yes, it’s good. Thanks, dear.” He smiled, kissed me, and went on down the stairs.

  Well, the new little trailer was christened Spartanette and took to the highways of America, and I got a check for $500 from the Spartan Aircraft Company.

  Paul had an unusual way of making a personal evaluation of people. At times when they least expected it, he would pay them a visit. One day, Paul decided to drop in on my brother Ware, now president of the public relations firm of Russell Birdwell and Associates, whose offices were on the fiftieth floor of 30 Rockefeller Plaza. On this particular visit, Paul just dropped in and said, “Hello, Ware. How are you doing?”

  “Doing fine, thanks,” Ware replied, and proceeded to show Paul the names of some of his accounts among which was Linguaphone, the language school.

  “What languages do they teach?” Paul asked.

  “More than fifty,” Ware replied.

  “Do they teach Russian or Arabic?”

  “Yes, they do.” Ware showed him the price list. “If ever you wish to order, I’m certain they’d be glad to send it to you—at list price.”

  Getting up from his chair, Paul looked around the office again, admired the magnificent view of Central Park to the north, the New Jersey marshes to the south, and, walking toward the door said, “Ware, will you please order the Russian and Arabic lessons for me? Nice to have seen you again, and give my best to Peggy.” Then he walked out, closing the door behind him. Speechless for a moment, Ware mused, Master of five languages. I wonder why he wishes to study more?

  One day, the billing clerk called my brother.

  “Who is this guy, Getty?” he asked.

  “My brother-in-law.”

  “Well, his bill better be paid. I looked him up. He’s known as a slow pay.”

  Ware laughed. “Don’t worry, Mr. Getty is good for it.”

  ON THIS SAME visit to New York, Paul made the Walter Winchell, Eddie Sullivan, and Danton Walker columns:

  “Paul Getty doing the night spots, seen in the company of this and that lovely girl.”

  “The mystery man from the West—J. Paul Getty—in town to take a look at his super elegant Pierre Hotel where the maitre d’ at the hotel’s swank Café Pierre almost fainted when he discovered the man he’d just refused to seat at a ringside table was none other than the Hotel’s owner, J. Paul Getty, dining ‘a deux’ with a beautiful socialite.”

  “Who was the glamorous beauty on the arm of Paul Getty last night at El Morocco?”

  “At the Metropolitan Opera’s gala opening of Othello, oil magnate Paul Getty was seen skipping the second act to sip champagne with his lovely companion in the Met’s fashionable supper room.”

  One evening, quite late, Paul called. “Teddy, how are you and how’s my little Timmy?” Rather coolly I answered, “We’re both very well, thank you.”

  “Darling, guess who I took out to lunch the other day?”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea.”

  “Audrey, one of our old friends. We went to Schraffts, and sat at ‘our table.’ Remember?”

  “Yes, I remember. But who did you sit with at ‘our table’ at El Morocco the night before? Remember ‘our table,’ Paul?”

  For a moment there was silence, then, “How did you know I went to El Morocco, Teddy?”

  “Well, I can read. And the columns have been very busy reporting your nightly activities with all of the socialites in New York.”

  “That’s rubbish. Anyway, it’s getting late and I have a very important meeting in the morning, so I’ll just say good night, dear. Call you from Tulsa. Bye.”

  And the phone went dead. I felt numb as I hung up. I realized this was the first time Paul had said “good night” without “I love you.”

  He’d been abrupt, cool, and had made no attempt even to placate me. Couldn’t he tell I was upset? But he obviously didn’t care to explain. “Being with our dear old friend Audrey” didn’t worry me . . . it was those nameless
“new ones.” And, why was he going out with so many? What was he searching for? Well, after all, I thought to myself, he’s been in New York for two weeks, why should I expect him to dine alone every night? But, why didn’t he realize I was lonely and wanted so badly to be there in New York with him, as before when we were dating. Visualizing him with other girls at all the old, familiar places hurt. I started to cry. I so wanted to go out and have fun like a kid again. I hadn’t been anywhere with Paul since Timmy was born. I was simply a mother with a child . . . Not so glamorous—or was I just not glamorous to Paul anymore?

  Right then, I made a decision. I’d get a job, be seen, and show him. I couldn’t let my career end like this. I’d worked so hard to be good, damn it, and I was good. I’d call Mommy Saunders for massages, work with Marjorie, start fencing with Faulkner, ride and swim again—get in shape, fight back.