Alone Together: My Life With J. Paul Getty

by Theodora Getty Gaston

  We had known each other so long and had gone through so much together that I felt we belonged together. But more than that, we had made a marriage vow! Not the vows spoken at the marriage ceremony, but the inner vows of the heart, which, unspoken, hold two people closer than any matrimonial law or writ of court.

  We dined alone that next evening at our beach house. I was wearing my prettiest gown. Paul’s look of admiration assured me that I looked very attractive. He seemed to be studying me. I felt he liked what he saw—his wife, in his home—something to be proud to come back to. Or could it be a look of pride of possession—that it was his, to leave behind whenever he wished to be alone?

  Or . . . Let’s face it! Was he perhaps comparing me with another woman thousands of miles away?

  I couldn’t tell what he was thinking as he looked at me, but I’ll bet he never dreamed that I, the woman looking at him with such a sincere look of love for him on her face and an even deeper love for him in her heart, might at the same time be considering cutting herself off from him . . . rather than let our love die a slow death.

  Dinner had gone on longer than usual, and we weren’t aware of the hour until, suddenly, from the top of the stairs, we heard Timmy’s eager, long-suffering little voice calling, “Mom, please! Isn’t it time yet? Lela says I have to go to bed!”

  Bless his heart. He had been waiting all evening to help blow out the candles on his daddy’s birthday cake. “Come on down, Timmy,” was all I needed to say. There he was in minutes, standing in his “night-nights,” looking like a little cherub.

  “Happy birthday all over again, Daddy,” he said, leaning up to kiss Paul. Then, sliding onto the chair between us, his eyes fastened expectantly on the door to the butler’s pantry.

  Paul was in great spirits, pleased when we toasted him with ginger ale, and sang “Happy Birthday,” as Robert appeared carrying the cake. With Timmy’s help, Paul blew out the candles and cut the cake, which we had with ice cream. Then Timmy gave both of us a great big kiss and ran upstairs to bed.

  Christmas morning, 1950, started at sunrise, with Timmy checking to see if the peanut butter and jelly sandwich he’d left on the table for Santa Claus had been eaten. The weather was so perfect that everyone who came to the house just naturally ended up at the beach. As we walked along, we all were very happy, until the conversation drifted to the war in Korea and how badly we felt for those boys who were in the midst of it. I couldn’t seem to stop thinking about them. Later, when everyone had gone and the house was very still, I wrote down my thoughts in this little poem:

  Christmas used to mean to me, children’s joy around the tree.

  Lights, laughter . . . a day of fun, with loving gifts . . . for everyone.

  A time for remembering those so dear, who came to our house every year.

  And from those dear ones far away, a card or call on Christmas Day.

  But this Christmas it seems to me, the day is filled with solemnity.

  Tho childish laughter I still hear, yet many a mother sheds a tear.

  For all the children are not at home, some still in far-off places roam.

  Some still must fight so we be free, to worship this day of Nativity.

  Dear Father-Mother of everyone . . . Help us, that the soldier lay down his gun.

  As for me, personally, Christmas had been such a glorious day I wished I could stop the clock and defy the twenty-sixth of December to show up! But I well knew that days move on without ceasing, in strictest rhythm down the measured corridors of time. And before I could even protest, it was already the day after Christmas, and events as usual were quick to take over.

  Paul’s eighteen-year-old son, Paul Jr., drove down from San Francisco to visit his dad, and stayed for several days in the guesthouse at the ranch. He had dinner with us the first night. He liked Robert’s cooking so much that I didn’t have to do much persuading to get him to come to dinner every night while he was in Los Angeles.

  “He is such a fine boy,” Paul remarked, “but not quite as well informed about things as I was at his age.”

  “How could he be, Paul? He’s not you!” I said.

  We had no plans for New Year’s Eve, since I wanted just the two of us to celebrate quietly. Paul had gone to the ranch early that afternoon to look over some plans for a possible addition to the museum. Timmy and I made several calls to his little friends, stopped by Mother’s to wish her a Happy New Year, then scooted on home.

  When I reached my room, there was a written message on my desk from Robert:

  Mr. Getty telephoned and said he could not be home for dinner.

  My heart almost stopped. I could hardly breathe. Not home for dinner? But it’s New Year’s Eve. Where is he, and who is he with—this time? Oh my God, how could he . . . ?

  Lela had already gone to a New Year’s party, so Timmy had dinner with me. I watched television with him until eight, and then after reading a story, he was off to bed.

  With a fire in the fireplace, a tray of freshly baked cakes, and a bottle of Dom Pérignon on ice, I waited for Paul. The clock struck midnight, the telephone rang. I grabbed it—my kid sisters were on the other end, screaming, “Happy New Year!”

  I hung up and burst into tears. Finally, I wrote this note:

  Paul, I waited for you. It’s now 12:30, I’m going to bed. I don’t know where you’ve been all evening, nor whom you’ve been with. Don’t wake me. We’ll talk tomorrow.

  Here’s Donald Duck! You gave him to me as a symbol of your love. Now, I’m giving him back to you.

  Teddy

  I put Donald and my note on the pillow of his side of the bed, drank the last of the champagne, turned over, and cried myself to sleep.

  CHAPTER 36

  TRIAL SEPARATION

  January 1, 1951, was to be a memorable day in the life of one Teddy Lynch Getty.

  It was 5 A.M. I reached for Donald, he was gone. It was still dark outside. Was the sun late in rising? No, I had awakened early, even earlier than the birds. There wasn’t a sound, except the incessant pounding of my thoughts . . . Sad thoughts that had finally resolved themselves into this final decision: I must step out of this uncertain, obscure role as Paul’s wife and step into a role I can play.

  I could no longer even imagine sharing this man, Paul, with others, and pretending I didn’t care. Because I cared terribly—so terribly that I preferred to end our relationship rather than watch it disintegrate. I would no longer enact a part foreign to my nature. I lived with myself and had to be true to that self or the very structure of my being would fall apart, and I wouldn’t have any reason for being. I had a right to be me, not a phony me.

  With this decision came a feeling of peace, a feeling of security. I was my own self again! Suddenly, I felt buoyant. Joyful. Like a kid. I jumped out of bed, slipped into blue jeans and a shirt, walked barefoot down the stairs, through the house, and went outside. I stepped onto the lawn. The grass was wet and icy-cold on my feet. The air was bracingly fresh. I closed my eyes for a second and inhaled deeply. I felt so alive! I looked up just in time to see the sun coming up behind the Palisades. How wonderful! The beginning of a new year! A new day! My new life!

  I was just putting the finishing touches to a bowl of cut flowers on the huge round coffee table in the lanai when Paul walked in. He came over, kissed me, and said, “Happy New Year’s, darling. I want to talk to you . . .”

  I put my hand up and pushed him away. “I want to talk with you, too, Paul, but it’ll have to be later, because our guests will be arriving any minute.”

  Just then the outer-gate bell rang. And our friends arrived.

  After a delightful luncheon, we watched the Rose Bowl game. Unhappily, UC Berkeley lost to Michigan, and after much discussion, we left the sports world, and said good-bye to our friends. Finally, we were alone. It had been obvious all day that Paul was anxious to talk with me, and now was the moment.

  “Darling,” he began. “You arranged such a lovely day.” I could tell by h
is voice he was upset. I didn’t answer. He went on, “That was a fabulous luncheon. Everyone enjoyed themselves, didn’t they?”

  “Yes, but I want to talk with you—about us—our future, and the way I feel.” My heart was pounding. My mouth was so dry, I could hardly speak.

  “Teddy, I’m sorry about last night. It—”

  “Let’s forget last night and talk about tomorrow, Paul. I want a divorce.”

  “Teddy, no, you don’t mean it.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “You mean because of last night?”

  “It was New Year’s Eve and you didn’t come home! You drank champagne with her—whoever she is—not me. It’s cruel. Don’t you think that hurt?” I looked straight at him. “This isn’t the way married or unmarried people who love each other should live. And I just can’t live this way, not anymore. It’s killing me. Either I’m the woman in your life, or I’m not. And the way it looks, I’m not.”

  “Teddy, that’s not true. I don’t want you to divorce me. You’re being irrational.”

  “Irrational?! Are you crazy, Paul Getty?”

  “Teddy, please. I love you. I don’t love anyone else. And you . . . you love me, too, don’t you?”

  “I do, but I don’t want to be unhappy anymore.” I started to cry. “Don’t you understand? I’m unhappy.”

  “Darling, last night was wrong, and I’m sorry. I’ve made mistakes. But we’ve been together for so long, please forgive me. We’ll work it out.”

  “What do you mean, ‘Work it out’?”

  “We could have a trial separation. You’ve heard of people doing that, haven’t you?”

  I sighed. “Yes . . . I mean, what do we do?”

  “You talk it over with Ludwig, and then tell me what he says.”

  “But, I’m not married to Ludwig Gerber, I’m married to you, Paul Getty. You tell me.”

  Just then the phone rang. It was for Paul, and I ran out to the beach . . .

  In May, Paul left again for Europe, and I drove him to the station. I was very sad and quiet as we drove along. Several times, especially whenever a street signal stopped us, he would reach over and hold my hand, telling me that I must “not act like a child and sulk, but be an adult and try to understand.”

  “Paul, I’m not sulking. I’m just sad, and I feel lost. In fact, I’m terribly lonely, and you haven’t even gone yet.”

  “Lonely? Why, Teddy? You have Timmy, your mother and sisters, and . . . Why, you have everything you need.”

  “Yes, Paul, I have Timmy, my mother, my sisters, and everything I need, except a husband. And I’m the kind of woman who needs a husband.”

  “But, Teddy, you do have a husband. It’s just that I can’t always be home.”

  I was silent. I was trying not to cry. Not just because of this lonely moment of separating, but because I could see the long lonely months ahead without him again.

  As I swung the car into the railroad station and came to a stop, Paul turned and looked at me for a moment. Then, putting his arms around me, he pulled me close to him and said, “Darling, you simply refuse to grow up. You know, you make me feel like I’m deserting you, when all I’m doing is what I must do if I’m to stay in business. Don’t you realize that there are thousands of people depending on me? Don’t you understand that it’s important during this period for me to be at the helm, when I’m needed?”

  “Yes, Paul, I understand. I really do understand.”

  “That’s good, Teddy. Now, what about you? Are you going on with your voice?”

  “Yes, of course I am. Only just for a split second in time, I sort of wished that we might have had a few months this summer to be together as we once were, without any thought of career or business. But I see this is an impossible wish, and I shan’t ever mention it again.”

  “Well, dear, if I had your talent, I’d get back to work. You’ve already spent too much time and money on your career, and you’re still far from your goal. Here you are, a beautiful woman, your singing voice is right now, your film test shows you can act . . . You can do concerts, musical films, or opera, yet here you sit, putting your personal life ahead of your work.”

  “That’s not true, Paul. I only put you ahead of my work.”

  We weren’t aware of it, but the train had pulled in. I could see the porters, flagmen, conductors, and the passengers hurrying to board. Paul held me, kissed me, then we both got out of the car. I stood by his side as the porters loaded his suitcases and boxes of books onto their carts and into the Pullman car. Suddenly there was the familiar shout of “Alllll Abooooooard!”

  As Paul started for the train, he pressed my outstretched hand, and said, “Stay right here, darling, and I’ll wave to you from the platform of the rear car,” which I believe he did until the train pulled out of sight . . .

  But I had left. I don’t know why I drove so fast from Pasadena to the beach. I don’t know why I drove directly onto the Santa Monica Pier. I don’t know why I stopped at the merry-go-round with its flying horses. I don’t know why I chose a big black horse to get on, or how I managed to get him . . . There was such a crowd clamoring for a big black horse.

  But I do know that when the merry-go-round slowly started to move, and the music of the organ started to grind out the familiar “Skater’s Waltz,” and all the other people on their horses were laughing and grabbing for the brass ring, I just threw my arms around my horse’s neck and burst into tears. When the merry-go-round stopped, I got off and went home.

  CHAPTER 37

  FAITH WITH REAL COURAGE

  In January 1952, Paul was still overseas. Timmy, now five, went back to the Brentwood Town and Country School, and on Saturday afternoon, April 12 of that same year, I gave a party for children at the ranch in Malibu, inviting them and their parents to come dressed as pirates and hunt for buried treasure.

  History books say that, in 1616, the explorer Juan de Iturbe was attacked by Dutch pirates and lost a ship in the waters near this ranch. The treasure was reportedly brought ashore and buried “in the Sycamore Grove near Castle Rock.” Smugglers, including Joaquin Murrieta, had often used this area as a hideout in the centuries since then.

  Believing that this 160-acre Boca de Santa Monica coast ranch was filled with buried treasures, I decided it would be fun to have a Treasure Hunt party. I invited children in the community and also children of some of the stars we knew, namely Betty Hutton, her husband, Charles O’Curran, and her two daughters, Lindsey and Candy; Joan Bennett (Mrs. Walter Wagner) and her daughters, Stephanie and Shelley; Dorothy Lamour, her husband, William Ross Howard, and their two sons, Ridgley and Tommy; Mr. and Mrs. Don DeFore and their offspring, Penny, Dawn, David, and Ronald; Judy Garland and her daughter, Liza Minnelli; the Edgar Bergens and their daughter, Candy; and the John Farrows (Maureen O’Hara and their brood of six moppets, including Mia).

  We asked Art Linkletter, the famous television producer, to supervise excavation operations by handing out maps and shovels. The children happily searched and dug on all parts of the ranch grounds to find small pirate chests filled with toys, chocolates, and coins. Others rode ponies, took carriage rides around the ranch, listened to the Mexican band, played games all afternoon, and feasted on hamburgers and hot dogs. It was a great day, and everyone had fun—even though the chests of gold were never found.

  Instead of a party at home on Timmy’s sixth birthday, we drove to Palm Springs. Early each morning before sunrise, a cowboy would bring horses to our bungalow, and we’d ride out across the desert, ending up at a real covered wagon, where we were given breakfast, Western-style, and serenaded by the ranch hands and cowboys singing old cowboy songs. It was like a history lesson for Timmy about the early days of California.

  In the afternoons we’d always go swimming in the hotel pool, and some nights we’d have supper at a funny little restaurant right near the movie house on Main Street, where, to the delight of every child in town, they often showed Western movies.

  The nigh
t before we were to go home, Timmy said he felt ill and that his head hurt. His eyes were red, rather bloodshot. Thinking it was from too much sun, I had us stay indoors the following day. But when he still complained, we immediately went home. I took him to an optometrist in Santa Monica, who sent us to an ophthalmologist in Westwood. During the examination, this doctor took many X-rays. Waiting in the outer office for his report, Timmy grew impatient “just sitting there,” so Lela took him out to our car, where they could turn on the radio and listen to music.

  Finally, the doctor came out and said, “Mrs. Getty, will you please come into the X-ray room?” He then showed me the X-ray prints and said, “See the dark spots?” and he pointed them out. “Mrs. Getty, I’m so sorry to have to tell you this, but Timmy has a tumor on the optic nerve. He will lose his sight, perhaps even his life, if you don’t have him operated on immediately. The first thing you must do is to talk this over with your husband, and if you want the name of a neurosurgeon, I can help.”

  I stared at him, not sure if I’d heard what I thought he said. Then I thanked him and walked out of the office, frozen with fear, but inwardly screaming to myself, “No! No!! No!!! It’s not true! This is just a story about a little boy who doesn’t even exist. It’s not about Timmy . . .”

  Yet I knew it was true. I had to get control of myself. I mustn’t look upset or Timmy would see it on my face. I stood in the corridor for several minutes, and from the open door of the building, I could see my little redhead in the front seat of the car. He was having an animated conversation with Lela, laughing and acting out what he was saying. Tears came to my eyes, and I prayed. I ran to the car, opened the door, and enthusiastically slipped into the seat beside him.

  Fortunately for me, he spoke first: “Mom, what did the doctor say? When will I get my glasses? I can’t wait to show them to the kids at school. When will I get them, Mom?”

  “Real soon, darling. Real soon!” Then, with my beloved little magpie chattering away, we drove home.