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self with a tradition, becoming part of it. He believed in his own past — in the good things, say, that had kept him friendly with his first wife, Annabella, had made him bring Debbie for a lunch with her in Paris. And she had been glad to go, for Annabella was part of Ty’s past and therefore precious. He believed in remembering his father and his grandfather, had loved to tell stories of them. One of his dearest possessions was a recording of his grandfather’s voice — one of the first records ever made — reading “Hamlet.”
He believed in the past the way he believed in the future. And to Ty Power — his future was his son.
So for a while it seemed to Debbie that even greater than her own tragedy was the tragedy of their son — who would have no memories. She had carried that grief with her across the ocean, unspoken, the worst of all. It had been hard for her to say it out loud.
But she took a great step when she did.
For in that moment, she knew what she should have known all along.
She could give her son his past.
It was in her power to do it. “Remember the good things,” the stewardess had said, and she had wept, “I can’t.” For herself, perhaps not — perhaps they hurt too much. But for the sake of her son, for the sake of her husband, she could do it very well indeed.
So through the long months of waiting, Debbie Minardos Power collected in her mind the stories she would tell her boy. The stories that would make him know his father, feel the link with the Power men who had been named Tyrone and had grown up to act on the stages of the world. The stories that would re-create the man who would have loved him so much, the life he had lived . . .
Stories like the one of how they met, his mother and his father . . .
“You see, I had been married once before and your father had been married twice. Now, his second wife — her name was Linda — had a sister, who had a husband who was a friend of mine. Well, I guess this friend knew that your Daddy and I were both lonely so one day he asked your father if he could bring a friend to lunch with him. And your father said yes. So he brought me. And you know what was the first thing your father ever said to me in the world? He said, ‘Good grief, you look just like me!’ Later on, when we would go out on dates together, people thought we were related to each other. But I didn’t think about that then. All I thought about was, ‘That’s the man I’m going to love.’ And he — he was thinking about someone else. You know who? He was thinking about you. Yes, you. That very day, when we hardly knew each other, he started telling me how much he wanted you, how he wanted a son who looked like him and carried his name, and would be a great actor. And who would sail on the boat he wanted to get and go all over the world with him. Even if he did die before you were born, you had just as much love as some children get in a whole life. Oh yes, your father loved you very much indeed . . .”
She could give him that, for a memory.
PHOTOGRAPHERS' CREDITS Kim Novak color by Gene Dauber; Pat Boone and Dolores Hart color by Carmen Schiavone; Sal and Sarina Mineo by Gene Coolc; Tyrone Power by Murray Laden; Dolores Hart by Carmen Schiavone; Dick Clark staff by Gene Dauber; Big Beat pictures by Gene Dauber; Janet Leigh and Tony Curtis by Sid Avery; Jean Simmons and Stewart Granger by Newcomb.
And more — so much more. Stories of their one summer together — for that was all they had had, really — six months of marriage, a spring, a summer, a little bit of fall. But six wonderful, wonderful months. They had been married quietly in Memphis with just a few friends. Debbie’s mother gave her in marriage and her stepfather was Ty’s best man. They had honeymooned in Dallas and she had been so proud — her face was always one perpetual blush at the way Ty talked about her to others. With awe in his voice he would say, “She’s unbelievable. She doesn’t want to be an actress. She doesn’t care about expensive clothes and jewels. You know what she cares about? Me! My success, my welfare. Isn’t that amazing? She’s — impossible.” So she would blush. Because when he told her she was beautiful or brilliant she could laugh and deny it — but it was no use denying the other. Ty was all she cared about.
And it was a wonderful six months. Ty took some time off for the first time in years. They bought the boat he wanted, a 45-footer with sails and a motor and an automatic pilot — all the latest gadgets. They docked it at Newport and every weekend they’d get there as fast as possible. They spent a lot of time with Natalie Wood and Bob Wagner, and Claire Trevor and her husband — with everyone who had a boat. Ray was with them of course, and Martin Steckler and Bill Gallagher, two other good friends who worked for Ty. One day Ty went out with Nat and Bob on their boat and around noon a friend called by to pick Debbie up in a motor boat and take her out to join them. They took off from the dock, racing through the waves, and suddenly Debbie heard her own voice shouting above the motor, “If you don’t slow down I’m going to have my baby right here!” And, just as suddenly, she knew it was true, for sure. She began to picture how Ty would react — would he laugh, kiss her, faint, call her folks — what?
She never dreamed she would see tears in his eyes.
That too would make a good memory. Six months they had lived together. Six months of laughing and loving. Not long, compared to the lifetime most people had. But long enough, if it had to be.
Through the long grey days while she waited alone for her baby to be born, Debbie Ann Power went over those six months time and time again, sorting her memories, weaving them into a story.
A story beautiful enough to erase the nightmares from her mind — to make her forget, almost, the other stories of pain and death. A story long enough to keep her son-to-be from being born into a void, into a featureless past.
A story that would make of him the Tyrone Power IV his father had dreamed of for so long.
Because, of course he would be a boy.
If — by any chance — the baby were a girl, she would be loved. Loved by Debbie with all her heart, the way Tyrone would have loved her, the way he did love his two daughters. And she would mean that Ty’s death was meant to be the end of the Powers, that it was God’s will that the dream should not come true, the line should be no more.
But waiting for her baby, Debbie Power does not believe that that can be. Counting over her memories, she believes they are for more than one child — for the generations of babies still to be born with the Power name, the Power tradition, the Power ties to the past.
The ties she is fashioning herself out of memory and courage, for the son . . . the son she is praying to have . . . the son Tyrone Power prayed to have. The End
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