“Teddy, if you keep me talking, I’m never going to get there.”
“Okay. Okay.” I left the telephone to find that Mother, who was in the drawing room, had taken charge and was entertaining Sir Charles and Lady Mendl, the Jesse Laskys, Eddie and Gladys Robinson, the E. A. Parkfords, and my acting coach Eda Edson, whose husband, Ross DiMaggio, was talking to Atwater Kent about the great advance that had taken place in electronics, since the early days of radio.
I was standing in the entrance hall, where I could hear the laughter from the lanai and the animated conversations coming from the drawing room. The music of the strolling players attracted my attention as they approached me. With great gusto they were playing one of Mexico’s most well-known songs, “La Cucaracha.” As each musician passed by, he smiled, bowed, and then marched on. I was enchanted.
But suddenly I was amazed, for there, bringing up the rear, was Timmy, singing and slapping a tambourine in tempo with the music. When he passed in front of me, he stopped, smiled, bowed, and said, “Hi, Mom,” and then continued on with the rest of the men, singing, “La cucaracha, la cucaracha, ya no puede caminar.” I don’t mind telling you, as I watched my little redhead march out of sight, my eyes filled with tears.
At that moment I felt an arm go around me. Paul whispered, “Darling, I’m here.” He turned me to him, and seeing the tears in my eyes, said, “Don’t cry. I’m here.”
I said, “I’m not crying.”
“Well, Teddy, then what are you doing?”
“Paul, you would never guess in a million years.”
“You look so beautiful in that gorgeous red gown. Are you really the same girl with the fierce voice I talked to only half an hour ago? You sounded so annoyed, you almost frightened me away.”
I just smiled. Then, becoming aware of Mitchell Samuels standing at the door, I called out, “Mitch. Welcome.” I walked over to him, extended my hand, and said, “Come on, I want you to meet some of our guests before Paul shows us the museum.” I took his arm, Paul took my hand, and the three of us went into the drawing room, where by now all the guests had assembled. Everyone was enchanted when Paul gave a preview of his new museum. The great collection, even in those days, was unique. The jewellike setting of each gallery displayed to perfection the magnificence of each piece of furniture, tapestry, painting, carpet, and sculpture.
Later at dinner, Mitch asked, “Paul, do you have any pictures in color of the ranch house, the museum, and the most important pieces of your collection?”
“Yes, Mitch, we have a few.”
“That’s not good enough,” Gladys Robinson said. “Paul, you should have your entire collection photographed in color. And what’s more, you should have it done in motion pictures. Then you could send copies of it all over the world to schools, colleges, universities, clubs, and then—”
“Paul,” Jesse Lasky broke in, “Gladys is absolutely right. Do it even if you don’t send it out. Have it done for yourself. You could always have a copy with you wherever you go, and then as you add new works of art to your collection, you can run the film and decide exactly where each new piece should be placed.”
“What a good idea,” Mitch added. “It would be a help to me, too. In fact, to any collector.”
Paul listened, thought for a moment, and then, looking directly at Eda Edson, said, “Well, Eda, how about it? When can you film it? I loved the film you did of Teddy, you know, that test?”
Eda smiled and said, “I’ll be happy to do it, but only on the condition that you appear in it, too.” They decided to film it sometime in April.
By eleven o’clock, dinner was over, the orchestra was playing in the theater room, and the friends invited for supper dancing had all arrived. After being allowed to stay up to hear the “big music,” and telling me he had decided to become an orchestra leader, Timmy went happily off to bed.
I watched as the lights lowered, leaving only tiny spotlights twirling overhead. Then the orchestra broke into an exciting bolero, sending everyone onto the dance floor. Almost immediately, the theater room took on the look of a nightclub. I closed my eyes, and suddenly I was back at the Club New Yorker. The girl and the song was mine, and Paul was saying, “Darling, shall we dance?” He took me out onto the floor and held me close. It felt so right, I wanted it never to stop. But it did. “Sorry, Paul,” David Mdivani said as he cut in, “I must dance with my lovely hostess.” And the moment was lost; I was in another man’s arms.
As the old year slowly neared its last moments, I made my way through the dancers, from room to room, checking to be sure there was champagne on every table. Then I slipped through the French doors and out onto the terrace, where I stood alone for a moment, looking out over the huge lawn surrounded by the wall of towering trees. Hidden illumination, assisted by the light of a very bright moon, made the whole area a fairyland setting.
Suddenly, the orchestra broke into the familiar strains of “Auld Lang Syne.” With the sounds of bursting balloons, screams of laughter, champagne corks popping, the old year was coming to an end. Then the music stopped, and shouts of “Happy New Year” floated out from every room.
I looked up into the night sky and said, “Happy New Year to you, World.”
“Happy New Year to you, darling!” Paul said as he came toward me, carrying two glasses of champagne. I took one and we stood there looking at each other for a long moment. Finally, he raised his glass and said, “Well, darling, here’s to the beginning of the second half of the twentieth century. I wonder just what it holds for us.”
“I wonder, too,” I said.
CHAPTER 34
I CAN’T LIVE WITHOUT YOU, TEDDY
One evening Mother invited us to dine at her new home in Brentwood, the one Paul had given her. He was very complimentary on the way she arranged her lovely furniture, her choice of color schemes, and her excellent dinner. Driving home he said, “Your mother is a remarkable woman, and so attractive. People half her age would be thrilled to have her youthful figure.”
On arriving home I looked through the day’s mail. Then I rushed to Paul’s room, carrying a letter from Hans Hasl, my accompanist in Rome. Hurriedly, I tore the envelope open and we read:
Augsburg, 18 January 1950
Bavaria, Germany
My dear Teddy:
When I received your Christmas card I could hardly believe my eyes! You wrote: “I hope you remember me.” Teddy, how could I forget you? About two years ago I read about your making a success with your voice, but surprised you were also in the water business. I kept the article in my “top secret” box.
Today, in the Paris Herald I read the following: “Wife of American oil man J. Paul Getty—Theodora Lynch, accompanied by Forrest Tucker and Carmen Cavallero and his orchestra, today planed from Hollywood to Hereford, Texas and in ceremonies at the Jim Hill Hotel, Miss Lynch was made Honorary Mayor of Hereford for her outstanding efforts to promote the City through her Hereford Water Company. Later, as honored guest of the City she rode with the Mayor and other officials in the parade honoring—“Hereford Texas—Town Without a Toothache!”
To bring you up to date about me. First—I shall never forget the last time I saw you—that day when those SS Agents came to arrest me at your apartment and they ordered you to—“sing—if you’re a singer!” I was so proud of you—you gave them a magnificent performance of Otello. I will never forget either, how fearful I was that they would put me to death. I was afraid for you too, but I was helpless. They “escorted” me to the German border, where the Gestapo picked me up. I was under house arrest.
In 1944, I met Lorranianes “a gang of resistance.” I was with them helping and awaiting the arrival of the Americans.
The SS used bloodhounds to catch us. Some of my friends were caught and executed. I was lucky. I had that day gone to the Church and hid in the loft.
When the Allied Forces arrived, I offered my services to them. Just last year I gave three concerts in Stuttgart and one in Ausburg. I am now conducting.
Hans
P.S. Please write to me.
ILLUSTRATIONS 2
Happy days at the beach house with Paul. (I was getting fat.)
A PR shot done at our home in Malibu, the Getty Ranch (now called the Getty Villa).
At the Getty Ranch, which was being remodeled, 1947.
St. Louis Globe-Democrat, June 23, 1948.
A very glamorous me! (PR shot by Wally Seawell)
Under the beautiful François Boucher Beauvais tapestry at Getty House.
With my pet lion at the ranch. The cage is still there.
My sisters, my mom, and me at the beach house. (Photo by Harold Davis)
I knew he was not a saint!
Standing with Allied Artists president Steve Broidy (right), right after we’d signed a contract.
With Liberace at the Brown Derby.
From Scheherazade.
From a screen and test shot by Wally Seawell.
With Bette Davis and Robert Stack at the beach house.
Still from the movie The Lost Weekend, the New York Journal American, January 7, 1945.
A write-up about Hereford Water Company, which I started with Paul.
My grandfather Lytton and me in Chicago.
Playing the piano at Getty Ranch.
Paul at Spartan Aircraft Company in Tulsa during the war.
Paul dining in Saudi Arabia, trying to complete the Kuwait deal.
With Timmy at the Getty Ranch.
Timmy at four, playing the piano at the beach house.
With Timmy at Getty Ranch. (Photo by Wally Seawell)
Paul showing Timmy how to open a secret drawer in an eighteenth-century desk at the Getty Ranch.
With Timmy at the beach house. (Photo by Wally Seawell)
Timmy with Candice Bergen and Liza Minnelli at his birthday party.
Timmy’s last visit with his father in Paris.
The press accompanying Timmy’s death: “Poor Little Rich Boy Dies,” the New York Herald Tribune; “Getty Delaying Plans to Attend Son’s Rites,” the Los Angeles Times, 1958; “Son of Oilman J. P. Getty Dies,” Mirror News; “World Wide Hunt For J. Paul Getty,” Herald Express, August 20, 1958.
My letter to Dr. Kupperman about the death of my son.
On my yearly visit to Paul and Timmy’s gravesite, July 2013. (Photo by Jerry Zucker)
“It’s incredible,” Paul exclaimed.
“Yes,” I said. “Reading this makes me remember everything I want to forget.”
“Well, Teddy, you’re a long way now from that Roman prison and the frantic days of insecurity.”
I ran to him. “Hold me. Make me feel secure, Paul.”
“You are secure, darling.”
“No, I’m not. You see, I feel that your life—your interests—have grown so much bigger now, as they should. I don’t blame you for this, but your time is so taken up by business, also by what you call ‘old girlfriends’—like the one you were with New Year’s Eve at the Beachcombers. Please”—I pushed him away—“Don’t stop me. I know all about her. It’s, well, it’s just . . . we simply can’t. We can never be as close as we once were because by leaving me for months at a time, you are forcing me to accept a situation I abhor. And when I’m alone, I just feel lost . . . so insecure that I could cry. Be honest—you and I both know that when you leave for Europe again, you won’t be taking Timmy and me.”
He didn’t answer. I turned, started to cry. “Oh, how I wish I were such an important human being you just couldn’t live without me.”
“I can’t live without you, Teddy. I love you. There’s no other woman. It’s just that I’m involved in the most important deal I’ve ever attempted to work out, which leaves me no time for you and Timmy right now. And really, Timmy is too young to travel. He’s much safer here . . . also I really can’t afford—”
“Please, Paul. Don’t say you can’t afford it. Remember, last year you said that, too. No, the real reason is, you must feel free . . . And I understand—well, I mean, I’m trying to understand.”
I started to walk out of his room, but he shut the door. I stopped and looked at him. He walked over to me and tenderly wiped the tears from my face, kissed me, and said, “I love you.”
When Paul left for Europe the next spring, I refused to be sad. On June 14, 1950, my son became a very grown-up little boy of four, and at his birthday party, he showed how grown up he was by putting his arm around Liza Minnelli and kissing her soundly on the cheek, much to the horror of Alexis Sharff sitting on the other side of him.
During that summer, I spent long hours getting to know Timmy better. Each day we swam, played in the sand, walked by the seaside, and sometimes we’d go shopping, and that summer he had his first haircut. (I saved his hair.)
He rode his tricycle—I rode my bike.
He had his friends in—so did I.
He practiced his piano—I studied my singing scores.
We drove to Santa Barbara with the top down, and as we spun along the wonderful winding coast road, listening to the wind, the sound of the waves, and the magical music blaring out at us from the car radio all at the same time, Tim laughed and chatted away like a magpie. We sang every chorus we knew at the top of our lungs. We fished off the pier, sailed in a sailboat, and when we returned home, we planted a garden and played croquet on the lawn. With my mother and my sisters and their children, we visited museums, the zoo, Del Mar, and studied the stars through the telescope at the Observatory. And each night, just before bed, Timmy and I said our prayers. I couldn’t believe how fast summer went by.
In the fall, Paul returned to New York, then went on to Tulsa and after that to California. I was to meet him at the Pasadena Station, but I arrived five minutes late. The train had come and gone. Paul was nowhere in sight. I phoned his office. There was a message that he had taken a taxi and I was to meet him for dinner at the Rendezvous Room of the Biltmore Hotel at eight.
I arrived exactly at 7:59 P.M. He was waiting for me. I rushed into his arms; he kissed me and held me tightly. Then, as we were being shown to our table, he said, “Darling, I should have waited for you at the station. But when I didn’t see you, or the car, I just took a taxi. I should have phoned you, but I had a proxy meeting downtown.”
“Well, Paul, I’m just glad you’re home.” After dinner we went to the Philharmonic to hear Tagliavini’s concert, then drove to the beach house. Along the way, I asked many questions about Europe and our friends. Paul’s description of his life was so fascinating that I had to tell myself not to be jealous.
Arriving home, we were greeted by Hildy and Jocko, the French poodle who’d been a present from Betzi. Wild with joy at seeing Paul, they were all over him, almost knocking him down. Paul rushed up to the nursery to take a look at his sleeping son, then joined me on the terrace, while Robert carried his bags up to our rooms.
“It’s so good to be home, Teddy, dear,” he said. “I’ve missed you and Timmy and our sweet little house.” He sighed.
“And the sea . . . and the waves pounding up on the shore,” I added. “Can you hear them, Paul?”
“Yes, darling, it’s the Welcoming Home Committee!” We both laughed as he reached for my hand and led me upstairs to our bedroom, where he took me in his arms and kissed me passionately. Then, unzipping my dress, he pushed me down on the bed, where we made love.
CHAPTER 35
INNER VOWS OF THE HEART
It was December 15, 1950, an important day. Paul’s fifty-eighth birthday. Precisely at nine A.M., Timmy, Paul, and I had breakfast out on the lanai, after which we presented him with a tray of useful little gifts, including a pocket-size binocular and initialed gold cuff links. Then we three went for a walk up the beach with Hildy and Jocko.
Hildy, somewhat fatter and older, was not as fast a runner as she had been, but what a great big black furry loving giantess she was! Still obeying Paul’s every command, she’d dash out into the huge oncoming breakers t
o retrieve a piece of driftwood he had thrown out for her. Jocko spent his youthful energy just dashing madly up the wet sand, trying to catch a sandpiper. More often, I found myself wondering, now that Paul’s gigantic business successes dictated that his social activities parallel these achievements—meeting exciting, important people—would the simplicity of our home life be boring, uninteresting to him?
Later, we sat poolside to watch Timmy swim across the pool underwater, do a fairly good racing dive, and swim down the length of the pool without stopping! “He’s absolutely fearless,” Paul said. “Such a strong swimmer.”
We three spent the entire day together, catching up on the past months. But since Paul had been gone for so long, I wondered if we could reach across that barrier of time and pick up as we were before he went away.
And what about the beautiful women in Europe, who had become a natural part of Paul’s life? Could I compete with their glamour and allure?
Was all this just my imagination, or was it really happening? Being careful not to show it, I tried to reason it out with myself. Even though he had gone away so many times without me, I wanted to believe him when he’d say, “Teddy, I love you. There’s no one else.”
Alone Together: My Life With J. Paul Getty Page 26
