Modern Screen (Dec 1948 - Oct 1949)

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Insist on ZiP. thing had gotten to be quite a problem and would send Jeanne into deep studies about it. "That's what they're all supposed to want. Pig's knuckles, maybe? With toasted pound-cake? Wild cherries dipped in hollandaise?" Then Paul took her for a ride. They had hardly turned onto Sunset Boulevard when Jeanne sat up straight. "That's it!" she cried, sniffing the air. "That's it!" "That's what?" Paul asked, pulling the car to a stop. Jeanne was looking around for where the smell might have come from. A half block back there was a street peddler's hot-dog cart. Then she knew. "Hot dogs!" she said. "Hot dogs with chili sauce. That's what I've been wanting all this time!" "Ah-h-h," mourned Paul, pretending a great disappointment. "I thought my wife at such a sublime time as motherhood would want something different from that. Something exotic, maybe." "That is exotic," said Jeanne, dreamily. "Hot dogs with chili sauce! Oh-h-h . . ." And that's what they had. help wanted . . . Yes, the first few weeks at home were fun. She and Paul were never closer. They went out a lot. She found that if she rested a good part of the day she could go out with him without getting too tired. They were together more often than ever before, it seemed. And then . . . they lost their household couple. Rather, it was a case, first, of the couple losing each other. Something came between them and they said they could no longer work together in the house. They left. Jeanne found herself with the house, Paul Junior, and the day's meals all on her hands. The holiday was over. She started in on her housework determined to handle it systematically. But she reckoned not on little Paul, on late deliveries from the market, on other things that could go wrong, and on spells of tiredness that would assail her without warning. Little Paul's favorite sport was unrolling the paper towels in the kitchen. There were times when she stopped him. Then there were times when she couldn't leave what she was doing and decided it was worth the towel to have him safely occupied. But the trouble was, he was interested only in rolled towels; once he'd unrolled them, he walked indifferently away from the mess. Further, he got so adept at it that instead of taking an hour to get a towel unrolled, he learned to do it in 10 minutes. Then he'd be ready for something new. That would generally consist of pulling out one of the kitchen drawers and spilling the contents — silver, cookie-cutters and what not — all over the floor. One day Jeanne was busy at the kitchen sink when she heard a crash just behind her. Little Paul had pulled a drawer out (leaping clear, as he had learned after his toes had been whacked the first time) and the floor was simply littered with everything, including a spaghetti-like heap of the paper towelling. "Oh, Baby Paul!" she exclaimed, running to him. Just then there was a horrible noise from the sink. She didn't have to look to know what happened. A fork had slipped into the grinding garbage-disposal unit. She ran over, fished it out — knotted and gnarled like a pretzel — and stood looking at it ruefully. At that moment her husband chose to come home. He strode into the kitchen, looked at the havoc and then at her and little Paul. And then — he said it. "I wonder how other women do it? Some women have four children and they manage somehow. What would you do if you had four children to care for as well as a house to run?" That's what he'd said. That was exactly what her husband, Mr. Paul Brinkman, had said. . . . Jeanne, still seated at her vanity on this early morning when she was preparing for i her trip to the hospital, had to smile when ; she recalled this scene; her despondent feeling as she stood there in the kitchen, little Paul's bright face as he looked up at his daddy, and big Paul's words about "women with four children." She'd taken Paul seriously enough to go and talk to some friends of hers who had four children— and more. What did they do? They told her and she went back and told Paul. "They just do what they can and that's all," she reported to him. "Sometimes they get everything done and sometimes they don't and just lie down and let the house go to pot. Or, sometimes, when the older children are big enough, they just sit and give orders. See?" Paul had nodded. He was watching her closely. "Any comment?" Jeanne had demanded. Something told him he had better not have any. "Oh, no!" he had replied. "No comment! 1 just wanted to know. It was — just a question, you understand. And now you've told me. Right?" He smiled brightly. Shortly after that Paul showed up with another couple, an elderly pair. Jeanne welcomed them with a cry of delight. They grinned and replied — in French. "They've just come over," Paul volunteered. "Can't talk English yet," he added, as if he had to. It didn't work out. The couple was willing but revealed utterly no idea of the' duties, and explanations, in view of the language barrier, were extremely difficult. Only one person in the family seemed to know how to make himself understood — little Paul. The international language of babies was as effective with the old couple as it was with his own parents — too much so. Jeanne and Paul realized little Paul was being spoiled by the old couple. In two weeks, Jeanne was sole manager of her menage again. But by now she had fallen into a real system. If she was tired, she rested. If she saw little Paul playing with something he had taken from a drawer or off a table, she didn't call out or go racing after him. If the object wasn't worth over a dollar or so, and not made of glass or with sharp corners on which he could cut himself, she just forgot about it. The fireplace had been scrubbed clean and was no longer a fireplace; it was strictly little Paul's house and he could play in it as that's Now listed among Hollywood's backstage literary classics is William Powell's reply to a correspondent who wanted to know how, despite his age, he managed to keep so physically fit. "I have a swimming pool," the star replied. "Every day I give it a long and critical look. I think a lot about tennis, and I talk a good game of golf. After that I start to worry because I never get enough exercise. Worry makes me lean. Leanness is fitness. And there vou have it." Irving Hoffman Hollywood Reporter