Photoplay (Jan-Jun 1959)

p 98 YOU’D NEVER KNOW I HAD PSORIASIS For 26 years psoriasis sufferers have learned that Siroil tends to remove unsightly external crusts and scales. If lesions recur, light applications of Siroil help control them. Siroil won't stain clothing or bed linens. Offered on 2weeks satisfaction -or-moneyrefunded basis. SIROIL AT ALL RUG STORES Write for new FREE BOOKLET, written by Registered Physician. SIROIL LABORATORIES, INC. IDept. tv)-95 Santa Monica, Calif. I Please send me your new FREE booklet on PSORIASIS, j I NAME t PJease Print I I ADDRESS j | CITY. STATE. j POEMS WANTED for musical setting and recording by artist. Send yours today. Immediate consideration. ZEAL STUDIOS, P.0. Box 152-Y, Jackson Heights 72, N. Y. zYes, now you can destroy unwanted hair ■PERMANENTLY,right in theprivac^, I of your home! Mahler is |NOT a depilatory! following | directions, you too,| can use the Mahler safelyand efficiently. Send 10c today for J important new booklet "New Radiant Beauty” ■ MAHLER'S, INC Dept. 609B, PROVIDENCE 15, R.I.I Enjoy glamorous high-pay career or profitable hobby. Learn Commercial Illustrating, Cartooning, Fashion Art, Lettering, TV, etc. We train you at home. In spare time. Low cost. 22-pc. art outfit free of extra cost. Write for FREE Book describing easy method. No obligation. No salesman will call. Washington School of Art, Studio 592, (Part Washington, N. Y. (Estab. 1914) IT'S EASY TO BE POPULAR! Give Your Friends and Classmates Wallet-size, 2 V2 * 3 l/2. made from your photo. Money-back guarantee! We pay postage! (For Speed-Service, add 25ff). Send Photo & Money to &0 for $2 U.S. PHOTO CO., Dept F. Box 73, Newark, N. J. 25 ..I Everything for the Wedding & Reception! Invitations • Gifts for the bridal party Table decorations • Trousseau items Unusual, exciting personalized items. ELAINE CREATIONS Box 824 Depf. E-194 Chicago 42, III, Strife Corn Pain Stops Gone, Forgotten in a Jiffy . . • Corns Soon Lift Right Out! Dr. Scholl’s Zino-pads not only give super-fast nervedeep relief • . . ease new or tight shoes — but also remove corns one of the quickest ways known to medical science. Also sizes for Callouses, Bunions, Soft Corns . D Scholls Zino-pads TYRONE POWER Continued from page 35 “We’re going to have a baby,” Ty persisted. “Debbie and I are going to have a son. “It’s not that we’re tired of girls,” Ty smiled. “I could have a dozen girls, and I hope we do.” Then, very seriously, “But there has to be a boy, too. At least one. There’s got to be another Tyrone. You know, I’m the seventh Tyrone Power, actor. There’s always been one in my family and it’s like a trust, an unbroken line for seven generations, that one boy will be named Tyrone and that he’ll act. You’d be amazed at how much of my life is wrapped up in that idea. I’m the seventh. And now, at last, there’s going to be an eighth.” Two days later, at the age of forty-four, Tyrone Power was dead. The morning of that terrible day, Ty had kissed her softly as he left the hotel for the Madrid sound stage. Through halfclosed eyes she had watched him go, smiling a little, as he tip-toed out. “Prospective mothers need their sleep,” he had said the night before. “Don’t get up to see me off. I’ll be very quiet . . .” But of course she had awakened anyway, and had pretended not to, even when he kissed her, even when he turned at the door to look back at her and she had seen him smile again. And then Ted Richmond came to her hotel room and told her that that smiling man, so ahve and healthy, was dead. She had fought against belief and, to make it real to her, they told her the rest. How Ty had been in the middle of a duel with George Sanders — “You know, Debbie, the one where he was supposed to fall to the floor and writhe around . . .” Yes, she knew. “Well, all of a sudden, he waved his hand to cut the cameras and started to walk off the set. He looked very pale . . .” They thought he was having another attack of dysentery; he had had one only a few days before. Or maybe a chill — it was a joke on the set about Ty, who always wore wool socks, summer and winter, having to play the entire movie barefoot on the cold concrete floor. Ray Sebastian, his makeup man and friend for twenty years, started towards him. “I’m going back to my dressing room,” Ty had called out. Debbie listened. It was like a story, like a film plot. It was very interesting, but it had no connection with her, or her husband or her life. “I don’t know now at what point Ty left his trailer but he did,” Gina Lollobrigida told her, “he must have been feeling better, because he came over to my little trailer to talk with me . . . and he was just like usual, just like usual . . . we talked, then he said he had to get back to work. He laughed and said, ‘Life goes on,’ and went back to his room. So a while later, we went over to see him, Martha and me, and he was standing in the middle of the floor with his hand on the breastplate he wore for the movie, and he . . . there was such a strange expression on his face . . .” Martha Labar, Gina’s dialogue coach, picked up the thread. “I never saw such a look. A sort of mixture of surprise and pain — but with such depth to the surprise. I knew. I don’t think he understood, but I did. I prayed without even thinking, ‘Holy Mother, help this man.’ I got Gina out and then I started back in to him, but just then Ray got there, with Ted Richmond right beside him . . .” When they opened the door and walked in, Ty was leaning helplessly against a wall. His face was contorted. Before Ray’s frightened eyes, he began to choke, to gasp for breath. With shaking fingers, Ray loosened the breastplate. “Ty — ?” Ty shook his head. He retched. Ted ran over, and he clung to him. Then his face began to lose its ashen shade, to redden in splotches. He retched again. “Ted,” he said. “Ted — what — ?” “Get a car!” Ted Richmond shouted out the door. “Hurry!” They hurried. They half carried Ty into the auto. Ted slid behind the wheel, pressed his foot to the gas, turned toward the nearest hospital. But on the seat beside him, Tyrone Power slumped, unconscious— and died. A nd because Debbie Ann Power had to believe it and couldn’t, they told it to her over and over again, until Gina had to leave the room weeping, “It’s ter i rible, terrible . . .”, until Ted’s wife arrived to help Debbie to bed, until a doctor came to give her sedatives and troubled i sleep. Until at last she woke up with belief in her eyes and said, “I want to see ji him, Ted. Take me to him, please . . .” So they took her to Torrejon Air Base ten miles away because Ty’s body was \ there now, in respect for his wartime service as a Marine pilot — and there she i saw him, and knew it was true. After that, there was a blur. A blur in which she moved about, going where people told her to, signing the papers they put before her, nodding to the arrangements for the flight home, the funeral in , Hollywood. She had been married for six months, , and it was over. She had gone to Europe with her husband, and now she was bringing him home. And they told her to think of something j else. “I can’t,” she said. “I don’t mean you shouldn’t think of him,” the stewardess said. “I only mean — remember the good things. Remember the | beginnings, not the ends. You must have I had such wonderful times . . .” “I can’t,” she whispered. “I can’t . . .” Later in Hollywood, her friends had said the same things. “Try to remember the good things. Remember him alive . . .” “My son won’t have any memories at all . . .” she answered them. And with an odd look on her face, she had walked out of the room. Behind her, her friends looked at each other. “Doesn’t she ever consider that the baby might be a girl?” “Before Tyrone died, she did. But now — ” “Now it has to be a boy. I don’t know why, but it has to be a boy . . .” But Debbie Ann Power knew why. Knew it, and clung to it. It was that knowledge, that dream, that began from that moment to bring her back to life. It was that that gave her the strength to live. It was that that got her through the funeral, enabled her to sit during the services beside the coffin, touching Ty’s hand with her fingers, praying — and not breaking down. Because suddenly she had work to do during the six months ahead. Work that left her no time for other thoughts. Almost no time for sorrow. “I think,” someone said, “that she’s building a world for her son.” It was absolutely true. Her own words: “My son will have no memories . . .” had stayed with her. They echoed over and over in her mind. And Ty would have hated them. He had such strong memories himself. He believed in a past. In linking your