Modern Screen (Jan-Dec 1960)

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The boy, who was five-and-a-half now, and who hadn't seen his mother in nearly two years, was cold to her when he arrived, almost afraid of her. Doris' mother, his Nana, was the only woman he knew, and loved. Doris herself was a stranger to him. He could cry, at the very beginning, when they were alone in a room. He would want his Nana. And his Nana was usually close by. "Time," Doris would say, " — I'm not stupid. I know it's going to take time . . . But someday," she would add, "my boy's going to know and understand. When he has everything. When he knows, and sees, what I've struggled for; when he holds it all in his hands . . . He'll come to me then . . . He'll come. . . ." Time passed. Days. Weeks. And then came this day, the Saturday. The studio phoned Doris that morning. "Magazine wants to do a layout on you — full color," they said. "Guys know you were married, that you've got a kid. So why don't we relax and give them the happy home routine . . . Okay?" "Of course," Doris said. The magazine photographer arrived at about four o'clock that afternoon. "This is my son," Doris said, holding Terry by the hand. "Yeah? Good," said the photographer. For the next two hours he snapped away, shouting his instructions as he did (Doris was just another newcomer to him; her son just another newcomer's kid). "How about one near the refrigerator . . . You opening the door, honey, and asking him if he'd like something, jam and bread or a couple of scrambled eggs . . . something . . . Ready? "Now one in the living room — here on the couch . . . Mama telling her boy a story ... I don't know . . . Tell him anything, sweetie . . . Just make it look like love . . . Mother and son . . . Come on, smile — the two of you. "Okay now, the garden, before it gets dark . . . Smell the flowers together . . . That's right . . Smell 'em together. "You got a dog? . . . Damn it! Dogs are always good with kids. "Well, how about — " And so it went, those two hours. Until, finally, shortly after six, the photographer left, and Doris and her son were alone again. She noticed that he was tired, very tired. She took him by the hand and led him back into the living room, over to the couch. They sat. "Terry," Doris said, looking down at her boy, "did you enjoy it today — the man with his camera, all those bulbs popping, all over the place? The boy shrugged. "Terry," Doris said then, "would you like some supper now, before you go to bed. You must be — " "Where's Nana?" the boy interrupted. "Nana," Doris said, "Nana's gone to a movie." "Why?" the boy asked. "She didn't want to interfere while we were taking our pictures," Doris said, "for the big magazine — "Terry," she started to say again, "would you like it now if I went into the kitchen and — " The boy interrupted again. "I want to wait for Nana," he said. "Yes," Doris said, " — you're right, Terry. We'll wait. She won't be long . . . I'm sure of that.'" She looked away from the boy now, and over at one of those Old Masters reproductions that hung on the wall across from them, over the fancy new shining-white fireplace there. And some of the words of that day went spinning through her brain, over and over, hard, loud, over and over, louder and louder: "Big magazine! "Big layout! " — The happy home routine. Okay? "This is my son. "Tell him anything, sweetie . . . just make it look like love. "Where's Nana? "This is my son. "Where's Nana? ... I want to wait for her. "My son. "This is my son. "My son — " When, finally, Doris looked away from the picture and back at her boy she saw that he was asleep. "Terry," she said, half calling. "Mr. Freckles," she said, remembering another time, long ago, the tears beginning to come to her eyes as she remembered. "Oh Terry," she said, reaching over and putting an arm around the still-sleeping boy, " — what have I done to you all these years, Terry? . . . Where have I been? . . What — what am I trying to do to you now?" "Big magazine!" the words came to her again. "Big layout! "The happy home routine. Okay?" Doris shook her head. She took a deep breath. "There's going to be no more of it not around here . . . not ever," she said. "No men with cameras running around. No. Nobody asking my boy questions about a mother he doesn't even know. Nobody following my boy around the rest of his life, turning his life into a big Hollywood sideshow, an empty circus — " With her free hand she began to wipe some of the tears from her face. "I promise you, Terry," she said, as she did. "From now on you're going to have a mother — a mother you're going to get to know, a mother who's never going to leave you again. And a home, a normal home. A real home. And a real life. — And to heck with everything else." She closed her eyes, and she held her son even closer to her. "I promise you this. Terry," she repeated. And then she whispered: "God . ' . dear God in heaven . Don't make it too late. And, please, give me the strength to keep this promise. "For my boy's sake. "For my little boy. . . ." A promise kept Doris has kept her promise. We at Modern Screen learned this in our recent search for the truth about Terry. We learned too that Terry — now eighteen— is a very happy young man. As a close, and normally close-mouthed, friend of Doris' puts it: "You ask about the hidden boy, the