The Lois Wilson Story

by William G Borchert

  While never one to point fingers, Lois’s younger brother had grown up to be the most serious sibling in the family and, though tactful, always said what was on his mind. Over coffee and a sandwich, he told his older sister something she was completely unaware of—that their father had suffered heavy financial losses as a result of the 1929 crash and that he was also carrying most of his patients on credit since so many of them had lost their jobs or businesses. Lyman also revealed that a very close friend in Vermont had told him the good doctor was quietly inquiring about the possibility of selling the cottage on Emerald Lake and that he had already remortgaged Clinton Street.

  They both knew their father was too proud to discuss any of this with his family, but Lyman thought Lois should know the entirety of the situation. Then he tactfully remarked that with her and Bill now living at Clinton Street and with Bill possibly finding a job, perhaps they could help lessen the financial burden on their father, who was carrying the mortgage on the large brownstone all by himself.

  While her younger sibling’s revelation of their father’s financial misfortunes came as a shock, the more Lois thought about it, the more she sensed that her father’s plight could be the reason for Dr. Burnham’s quiet demeanor ever since she had returned home from Montreal—followed by Bill’s sudden arrival in his somewhat inebriated condition. Then, the more she considered all her brother had said, the more embarrassed and ashamed she began to feel.

  After all, if Lyman knew all about their father’s situation, then so did the rest of the family by now. And as much as she had tried to hide the seriousness of her husband’s drinking problem and his inability to hold a job, she felt certain that they, like Lyman, had their suspicions and probably shared the same attitude—that her and Bill’s presence at Clinton Street was simply another burden their father shouldn’t have to shoulder, especially in the midst of his current emotional and financial travails.

  Lois sensed her younger brother was a bit uncomfortable as they said their good-byes. He offered a halfhearted apology in case he had said anything that might have offended her and then quickly dashed off. This was a conversation she wished they hadn’t had, but then, she told herself, she had to stop running away from reality if she was sincere about finding and living her own life. She pulled herself together and went back upstairs to her mother’s room. She sat quietly by her bedside for several more hours. When the sky began to darken outside the window, the nurse returned with some more pain medication. Then Lois finally left.9

  There was much to think about on the bus ride home. Even though every nerve in her body and every thought in her brain told her to move from Clinton Street as quickly as possible, down deep she knew how foolish these urges were. Where could they go? What could they afford? Even a furnished one-room flat was out of the question right now, even if they sold all their clothing, silverware, dishes, and furnishings that Bill said were being shipped back from Canada. Besides, this was something she didn’t want to do. She would put those things back into storage and find some way to pay for it. She would simply have to swallow her pride for the moment while trying to find a way out of this terrible mess.

  By the time she reached Brooklyn Heights, this young woman who felt that she was carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders had already made two very important decisions. First, tomorrow she would begin looking for a job in order to pay her father a modicum of room and board for her and Bill. And if he wouldn’t accept it, she would quietly pay for the food, the utilities, and other such bills without him knowing about it. Second, when she was financially able, she would go back to school and start studying for a career that had always fascinated her and one in which she truly believed she could excel—a career in interior decorating.10 As Lois stepped from the bus into six inches of snow, the stark beauty of the streetlights glistening onto the white roadways and swaying trees, along with her newfound resolve to change the course of her life, somewhat lessened her feelings of shame and anxiety. However, by the time she trudged through the drifts and arrived at the steps leading up to the brownstone, her thoughts of her mother’s pain, her father’s troubles, and her husband’s drinking quickly brought some of the world’s weight back onto her sagging shoulders.

  Her father had already left for his rounds the following morning when Lois entered the kitchen to find her husband bent over the table sipping a cup of coffee. His hands were trembling too much to lift it to his lips. Joining him at the table, she calmly explained her mother’s condition, her father’s predicament, and the decision she had made about finding a job. But Bill, who always prided himself in being the great provider, wouldn’t hear of it. He said he had already made some phone calls before leaving Montreal and would have a new position himself before the week was out.

  For a short while, Lois remained insistent. She wouldn’t allow them to be a burden on her father. Then, even though she didn’t believe Bill’s continuing assurances of getting a new position, she decided to briefly postpone her own job search. After all, the holiday season was already here. She could put up a few Christmas decorations and spend more time with her mother while at the same time combing through the newspapers’ employment ads, sparse as they were.

  As for Bill, the truth was he had an old drinking buddy at a company called Stanley Statistics who said he could always find him a spot there. For a former Wall Street big shot, the “spot” in question was a rather nondescript job as an assistant bookkeeper for one hundred dollars a week. For many at that time, this was a rather goodly sum, but not for the still-haughty Bill Wilson. However, given the circumstances, he knew he had little choice. He accepted the job as “temporary.” Lois was both surprised and pleased. Dr. Burnham was skeptical, and rightly so.

  Just three days before Christmas, Bill got himself involved in a barroom brawl. The altercation wasn’t much different than the many other drunken fights he had been in over the past several years—a torn jacket, a black eye, a bloody lip. But this time when he woke the following morning, he suddenly realized that the set of company books he had taken with him to work on over the holidays was missing. He must have left the books in the speakeasy after the fight. But which speakeasy, and where? He began searching his favorite haunts all over Brooklyn and lower Manhattan. He even called a number of places where he was now persona non grata. The company books never turned up. He was finally forced to call his drinking buddy at Stanley Statistics, who immediately informed his manager, who immediately fired Bill. So he cashed his last paycheck and set off on another binge—the day before Christmas.11

  Matilda Spelman Burnham died that Christmas evening, 1930, surrounded by her husband and her children. The only close family member who wasn’t there was Bill Wilson. In spite of the fact that he truly loved and respected his mother-in-law, and in spite of the fact that his wife needed his solace and his arms around her at the time, he never made the wake nor the funeral. He was in his own private, drunken world, oblivious to anyone else’s pain and sorrow except his own.

  For some baffling reason, the more her husband hurt and disappointed her, the more Lois seemed to understand the depth of his illness. Recalling her feelings at that tragic time in her life, she said:

  As much as I was hurt and embarrassed, deep down I felt that for anyone to do such a thing—especially a man whom I knew sincerely loved my mother and myself—he had to be very sick and in need of much help.

  My family and friends kept wondering why I didn’t express my anger and condemnation of my husband for not being with me at the funeral. But at least there was no longer anything to hide, nothing more to cover up. Now everyone close to me knew what I had tried so hard to keep secret—that Bill was a terrible drunkard who did things few could understand or tolerate.

  It took me a lot of years and a whole lot of soul-searching before I finally came to understand that I had been trying to hide and cover up his drinking problem mostly for myself—because of my own s
hame and humiliation. But now with people finding out, especially those who knew and cared for me, I found myself playing the martyr. Although, to be perfectly honest, I didn’t realize I was doing it at the time. But Bill would go on his binges and I would bathe in the pity and admiration of others for being such a loving and self-sacrificing wife. I never understood until much later how sick that was.12

  Perhaps the shock of Bill’s absence at the funeral, and his terrible condition when Lois brought him home from the drunk tank four days later, helped Dr. Burnham comprehend that it had to be more than a weak will and a bad case of immorality to make a man act this way—a young man he once knew as charming, kind, caring, hardworking, and courageous. As a result, and despite his lack of understanding, the good doctor’s attitude toward his son-in-law began to soften from that point forward. He sought, almost against his better judgment, to help his daughter care for her husband, particularly in times of crises.

  As the new year of 1931 rolled in, Lois found a job at Macy’s department store in Manhattan. Since she had no experience at selling, she was hired to demonstrate folding card tables and chairs for the Leg-O-Matic Company. They paid her a salary of nineteen dollars a week while Macy’s chipped in a 1 percent commission on sales. But her goal was still to become an interior decorator, a goal she had now shared with her father, who offered his encouragement and his blessing, in addition to any financial help she might need. She insisted she could do it on her own.

  One day when Dr. Burnham found his daughter paying some household bills out of her meager salary, he became rather cross. Actually, it offended his pride. He insisted she use her hard-earned money to pursue her career goal and offered again to help her. With her father’s encouragement, Lois enrolled in the advanced course at the New School of Interior Decorating in Manhattan. Because of her training and experience in painting and design, she only had to attend classes two nights a week for two semesters; she could be home most evenings. The very idea of moving in the direction she and her mother had discussed boosted Lois’s morale greatly and also bolstered her confidence that, should it be necessary, she could make her own way in life.

  Bill, on the other hand, was getting occasional “handouts” from some old friends on Wall Street, which usually entailed some simple research projects. As soon as the task was completed or as soon as he got paid, he’d be off on another toot. Often he’d come home so physically ill that Dr. Burnham would have to inject him with a sedative to calm his nerves and put him to sleep.

  But Lois kept plodding ahead. By early 1932, she had not only finished school, but she had proven to be such an effective Leg-O-Matic demonstrator that Macy’s offered her a sales position in the novelty furniture department, raising her salary to twenty-two dollars a week. However, she now found herself with a department manager who tried to become much too friendly. In fact, when he somehow discovered she was supporting a drunken husband, he became quite forward and overt in his propositions. Despite her angry protestations, the man was relentless. Finally she realized she would either have to file an official complaint and chance being fired, or she would simply have to quit.

  Fortunately, her hard work and excellent sales results had come to the attention of the store manager, a gentleman named Guy Kolb. When Lois also told him she had studied interior decorating, he immediately moved her into the home furnishings department, two floors removed from her would-be paramour. His attentions toward her soon ceased, especially when he saw Lois now in the good graces of top management.13

  It was around the middle of June when Lois came home one evening to find her father pacing the living-room floor. Asking her to remain calm, he explained that Bill had staggered in that afternoon sweating and shaking. He appeared on the verge of delirium tremens, so he rushed him to Kings County Hospital for treatment. He would be there for at least a week to “dry out.”

  As his daughter sank onto the sofa weeping, her father quietly suggested that Bill might require much more than a week of detoxification from alcohol. For a long time now, the good doctor posed, his actions seemed to border on the edge of sanity. Perhaps Lois should at least consider the idea of committing him for a while to a mental institution for psychiatric help. He said he was so concerned, he would be willing to sign the commitment papers—for her sake as well as his.

  “You can’t keep going on like this,” Lois recalled her father saying in a voice filled with utter frustration. “There’s nothing more you can do for him, not if he wants to keep on drinking like this.”14 Lois was shocked to hear her father even suggest such drastic measures. She would not hear of it and told him so. Bill was sick, yes, but certainly far from insane. What he needed was to get out from under all this pressure, his constant struggle to find a position back on Wall Street to prove he wasn’t a failure. He needed to get away from people who were whispering behind his back, always putting him down. She would take some time off from work, that’s what she would do. They would go back up to Vermont, back to the lake and the mountains he so loved. There he could find some peace and solace and get well again. Then he could start over. They could start over again. It was not too late. She would be there with him, to help him, to convince him that all was not hopeless—that he was still young and bright and capable and could begin a whole new life.

  Dr. Burnham simply shook his head. He tried to explain to his daughter that she was simply doing the same things over and over and expecting different results. If it didn’t work before, why should it work now? But Lois wouldn’t listen. The good doctor finally threw up his hands and left the room. As she sat there all alone, something deep down inside whispered that her father was possibly correct, but she wasn’t ready to hear it—at least not right now.

  Because summer was the slow season at Macy’s, exacerbated now by the Great Depression, Guy Kolb was willing to give Lois a three-month leave of absence, especially when he learned her husband was ill and needed to be nursed back to health.

  Since Dr. Burnham was now negotiating to sell the cottage at Emerald Lake, Lois called Bill’s sister, Dorothy, and her husband, who had purchased a farm in Green River, Vermont, not far from Manchester. Because they had managed their finances well, the Strongs planned to be abroad with their children for the summer, so they were delighted to have her and Bill use the place.

  Fearing Bill might try to wiggle out of the trip, Lois showed up at the hospital with their bags already packed. The next stop was Vermont. By the time they arrived at Green River, Bill was smiling again, happy to be back out in the country he so loved. Soon Lois felt hope return as her husband seemed to have no trouble staying sober for the next four months.15

  As the weeks went by and Bill regained his strength, both he and Lois began to adopt Dr. Burnham’s philosophy that hard work in the clear Vermont air makes for a healthy body, a healthy mind, and a healthy spirit. The couple began fixing up the farm as though it were their own. They repaired the plumbing pipes, refurbished the water system, and created a beautiful waterfall by damming up the brook that ran across the meadow below the house. As they hiked through the mountainside, they gathered wildflowers, which they planted in a garden near the front porch. And in the evenings after frolicking in the brook, they made love in front of the fireplace.16

  “Bill’s sister and her husband were pleased as punch when they finally returned and saw all the improvements we had made,” Lois recalled years later, “but it was the new start I had hoped for. Bill never thought about drinking all the time we were there. At least he didn’t mention it if he did. A friend of mine had given me a copy of Mary Baker Eddy’s book, Science and Health, which I left next to Bill’s pillow the first night we arrived. He read it and reread it and told me before we left for home how much it helped to strengthen his willpower and resolve to stay sober once and for all. That summer our love was renewed once again as we camped in the mountains and made love under a heaven filled with radiant hope. Both of us regretted t
he day we had to pack up and return to Brooklyn.”17

  Had they known what was about to happen, however, those regrets would have turned into shouts of joy. For almost immediately upon arriving back at Clinton Street, Bill was given one more tremendous opportunity that could have changed the direction of his entire life—had he parted company with John Barleycorn once and for all.

  Lois’s sister Katherine had married a gentleman by the name of Gardner Swentzel who also happened to be a Wall Street financier. Despite the crash, Swentzel was still doing quite well at Taylor, Bates and Company, a firm closely connected to J.P. Morgan and its far-flung financial enterprises. Katherine’s husband had always liked Bill and, more importantly, had always respected his research theories and his ability to make money. Still, he was puzzled by Bill’s willingness to throw it all away for booze. But now he heard his brother-in-law was sober and that the whole family was buzzing about the “miracle” that had taken place in Green River, Vermont. Even Dr. Burnham was amazed and told his oldest and dearest daughter so.

  One of Gardner’s closest friends and clients was Arthur Wheeler, the only son of the president of American Can Company and a man he considered one of the gutsiest investors he had ever met. He knew that Wheeler and another wealthy gentleman from Chicago named Frank Winans were putting together their own private investment syndicate. They had the notion that if one could overlook the present timidity on Wall Street, gather enough capital, and take a long-term view, a vast fortune could be made from the stock market recovery that was bound to come eventually. They sought Swentzel’s advice about choosing the right companies to invest in. That’s when he suggested they meet his brother-in-law, Bill Wilson, whom he described as an “analytical genius.”