Modern Screen (Dec 1952 - Nov 1953)

D is for daddy (Continued from page 56) they stare glassy-eyed at the TV. But at other times, in the grip of the enthusiasm that energizes all new home owners, they stalk about their property and marvel at their accomplishments and fall in love with the place all over again. It is then that they stand at the huge window — that is two glass walls of the living room — and look down at the million lights of the city far beneath, and with arms about one another grin at their handiwork and frustrations alike and contemplate happily the certain joys of the future ther,e on their mountain top. There is no doorbell. Attention is gained by knuckling the heavy front door. Michael Wilding greeted me dressed in a pair of faded blue jeans, moccasins and a casual sport shirt. He ushered me to the lone sofa and handed me a tall cool glass of iced tea. Elizabeth Taylor Wilding came in a moment later and she was a sight to behold. I have no talent for describing fashions, but she wore a pair of clinging corduroy trousers and a short jacket ^of the same material, trimmed and lined with checkered satin. She carried herself with the regal poise of all young mothers. Pregnancy has not altered her beauty. Her full mouth was as mobile as ever and as quick to smile. Her huge violet eyes were as bright, her exquisite complexion as fair as when I had seen her last. She wore her hair cut like an urchin, with wispy strands caressing her forehead and the back of her neck. As she strutted about the room she looked like an expensive doll that might be seen in a Fifth Avenue shop window. • The purpose of the call was, of course, to talk about the coming baby, but, as we sat there talking, it suddenly developed into a briefing session. I observed that to Michael Wilding the birth of his child was an event bristling with possibilities of disaster. Not tragedy, but minor disaster that added up could muddle things intolerably. There is an old joke, still cackled over in country territory, that goes something like this: A gentleman, calling on a lady who lived in a fourth floor apartment, melted a few too many ice cubes. As he was leaving, he mistook a pair of French doors for the main entrance — and seconds later was picking himself off the sidewalk below. There he encountered an acquaintance who confessed that he, too, was about to call on the same young lady. "Then I am in a position to give you some advice," said the near-casualty. "When you leave, watch that first step. It's a Lulu!" Someone, somewhere at sometime must have convinced Michael Wilding that the first step in the raising of a family is a Lulu, for he approaches the date with extreme anxiety. As a matter of fact, he prepares for it very much in the manner of the classic caricature of a moving picture father-to-be. He doesn't actually spoon-feed Elizabeth or help her in and out of chairs, but he views her every unexpected move with alarm. And her oftsaid, "Now really, Michael, I'm all right!" is taken with a grain of salt. It has been a smug practice for ages for other -people to smile slyly at a man's concern at the time of birth. He has been depicted in cartoons and on film trembling like a thief at a convention of detectives. He has been lampooned as a dolt who, in time of stress, pulls his trousers on over his pajamas and races to the hospital alone, unaware that his wife is still casually packing at home. He has been pictured as a fool with an active passion for pulling on the lapels of obstetrical physicians while he pleads for assurance that the little lady is going to pull through. The mildest canard is that he is a nimble idiot who can smoke an entire package of cigarettes at one time in the narrow area of that comedy institution, the Fathers' Room. Well, none of these caricatures will fit Michael Wilding on The Day. He has seen to all eventualities. Not like a floundering simpleton, but like a man quite aware of what can happen if even the smallest detail is left to chance. There is a hazardous distance of some ten miles between the Wilding home and the hospital in Santa Monica where the child is to be born. It has been thoroughly reconnoitered. Trial runs have been made in both the Wilding cars, Elizabeth's Cadillac and Michael's Jaguar. At the present time Elizabeth makes it more quickly and with less effort in her car. According to the plan I listened to, at the first sign of a suspect pang, the obstetrician— who has been requested to keep in touch during the last month — will be calmly called and the nature, extent and area of the discomfort will be described to him in a matter-of-fact tone. No hysteria. If, as is to be expected, the doctor considers it nothing more than a bit of dinner salmon, the Wildings will return to bed and to sleep. Upon the occasion of the real thing — and Exclusive to Modern Screen: Artist Michael Wilding's conception of his future son or daughter. Mother-to-be Liz had "no comment." the Wildings plan to trust to the obstetrician's instincts on this — there will be an orderly but speedy preparation for departure. A bag, containing the needs of the mother in the hospital, will, of course, be packed and placed near the front door well in advance of The Day. Michael and Elizabeth figure it will attract no more attention than an occasional "What's that?" There will be no getting into the wrong things. Although Michael has never been in a fire house, his clothing will be arranged so that he can slip into his most important garments with no waste of time or energy — much like a fire-fighter, who can leap from a sound sleep in his shorts to a fully-dressed thud at the bottom of a brass pole in 60 seconds. Although completely inexperienced in the business of fatherhood, Michael Wilding is, of course, fully aware that a long-legged bird is not going to flap onto his chimney some night and drop his heir into his waiting arms. He knows that getting his wife to the proper place of arrival is his responsibility, and that transportaton over that hazardous ten miles must be arranged with the closest attention to detail. Altogether too many children mix their first angry cry with the unmusical click of a taxi meter; and policemen are delivering as many babies in some localities as doctors. The Beverly Hills Police Department has been alerted and has agreed to provide an escort, complete with sirens to terrify all non-expecting motorists out of the way, to the hospital. With this assistance Michael figures he can get Elizabeth into the maternity quarters almost as fast as if he lived next door. The method of summoning the coppers will probably have to be by telephone, although there is the hazard there of wrong numbers, fingers stuck in dials and operators who, in emergencies, can't speak English. A flare might do the trick, but then the men on the desk watch at the Beverly Hills Police station would be required to keep their eyes peeled to the north sky all during the month of January. Too risky. Elizabeth made a suggestion during the briefing that they drive sanely down the mountain and pick up the escort at the Beverly Hills Hotel. This may be adopted. Another thing that Michael Wilding is cognizant of is that babies born in hospitals sometimes get mixed up. He remembers reading somewhere that it happened right in Los Angeles about 1936. "A man takes an awful chance," he said. "They put a lot of them in back of that glassed-in pen in little cribs, and the Lord knows how they keep track of who they belong to. No sense in taking a chance on that, is there?" In order to avoid this possibility, the Wildings have already engaged two rooms at the hospital with a door between, so that either Michael or Elizabeth can keep an eye on the tot from the time it is delivered until they take it home. He has been assured by his wife's doctor, the hospital staff and most of his friends that the babies are footprinted immediately after birth, tagged with identification beads and never out of the sight of a wary nurse until they have been settled in their own marked crib But he doesn't trust the system. And he and Elizabeth both excuse the other room and the special nurses required on the grounds that in this way they will be able to see their first born at any time, and that Michael will not have to observe regular visiting hours and press his nose against a pane of glass to get a peek at his offspring. Beyond ushering Elizabeth through the hospital doors and into a room where she will be in competent hands, Michael has no definite plans. He feels that when this has been done his duties as a prefather will have been discharged. His only obligation from that point forward will be to see that the doctor is kept awake and aware of the importance of the occasion, and that the nurses remember they are disciples of Florence Nightingale and spare Elizabeth all possible discomfort. No one has had the heart, apparently, to tell him about the hours of waiting. He has not been briefed on the Fathers' Room. Well, having been there, I can tell him about that. When Elizabeth has been taken beyond the one-way door that leads to the alien * area of the maternity ward — a place which!* no male without an MD tacked on his name may enter — his usefulness in the jjs matter at hand will have ended. He will J™ be treated like an old lover, abandoned and forgotten. He will be ignored by all members of the hospital staff, who will brush past him in the halls as though hefty didn't exist. After a few hours of pacing a rubber <t tiled floor like a wraith, he will be drawn, as though by a magnet, to the Fathers'!^ Room, Here he will find his own kind, wan. skeptical, harried men to whom the sound of each footfall is the tread of approachit 74 fe ll 4: