Photoplay (Jan-Jun 1963)

heart — to drain off excess fluids that had begun to accumulate and threatened his life. But that wasn't all. Soon after it was inserted, something began to go wrong with the tube. It clogged up, and Theo’s small body had to be opened up again and a new tube sewn in. Again the tube clogged within a short time, and again the surgeons had to operate. In all, Theo had to have seven dangerous brain operations in the next two years. And all you could do was pray that your child might live, pray that the thin little tube would not clog too suddenly and kill him. As if your own family’s agony were not enough, another person’s suffering began to touch you. The newspapers told of Gary Cooper’s losing fight with cancer, and across the miles your heart went out to this man, the first man you had ever loved. But finally, when Coop’s suffering was mercifully over, you could at least thank Cod that he had died surrounded by the love of his wife and their daughter Maria, with the blessings of the church in whose good graces he had spent his final days. And you knew that your decision eight years earlier, had helped make it possible. But life goes on somehow, and Theo began holding his own. Finally you dared to leave him long enough to return to America for your most important role in years — as Paul Newman’s co-star in Paramount’s “Hud.” But you had it written into your contract that you were to have two weeks off during the filming, to return to England and your family. The movie was filmed in Hollywood and in Amarillo, Texas. And as it progressed and people saw the daily rushes, it became obvious to everyone that the movie contained some of your best work. Perhaps it's true that suffering improves an artist's ability. Whatever it was, your fellow workers and others praised your performance to the skies. They said you were sure to be nominated for an Academy Award. But more important than that, the news from England was good. “Theo is beginning to walk,” you told a reporter proudly, “just a few steps at a time: but it is so encouraging to Roald and me. Although our picture isn't nearly completed, I’m flying back soon to be with my darlings.” The two weeks with Theo and the rest of your family passed all too quickly, and soon you had to return to Hollywood and finish the picture at the studio. You were careful not to seek people's sympathy, but one day at a party a very revealing thing happened to you. Once more alone It was a Sunday afternoon swimming pool party at the home of Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward, on Tower Road in Beverly Hills. And although it was a "bring-your-family” party, and you knew the sight of all those other children might remind you painfully of how much you missed your own, you decided to go anyway. When you got there you saw that most of the children were around the same age as Tessa and Olivia — between five and seven. And you couldn't help smiling at the sight of them all. as they splashed around the pool and ran over the grass. But suddenly you saw something that must have made your heart stop. It was a baby, one of the youngest children there — a baby not too different, really from your own Theo. And without stopping to think about it, you hurried over to the child and its mother, a young actress who was holding it adoringly. “I just love babies!” you exclaimed to the girl, and asked her if you might hold the child. Then, as soon as she gave it to you, you did what might have seemed a strange thing to some people. But any mother would understand, as this one did. You took the baby into another room, and settled down in a comfortable chair. And then you just sat there and looked at the baby, and held it and held it. You just sat there, for almost an hour, holding it. smiling at it, lost in a world of your own. At last, you let the mother have her child again, and once more you were alone. Finally, as England’s short summer turned to autumn, the picture was over and you were back with the children and Roald. The family was complete again. But then, in late November, there came i the worst sorrow of all — a sorrow that must have made you wonder, “How many times can one heart break?” Olivia, who had been a healthy, active i seven-year-old, fell suddenly ill. At first it seemed to be only a case of measles, t But as you watched helplessly, it turned into something much worse: The dreaded encephalitis— a most often fatal disease that causes inflammation of the brain. The doctors did their best, but it was useless. Olivia died just a few days before Thanksgiving. Now her funeral is over, and with Roald at your side you accompany the small casket to the cemetery, where it is lowered into the ground. Gently the minister scatters earth over it: “We commit j the body of this child to the ground . . . give her peace, both now and evermore.” 1 Finally it is time to go home with Roald — home to , Theo and Tessa, who will need you more than ever now. And as I you walk away from the freshly-made grave, there is nothing to say, really, and nothing ot do. Nothing — except to wait for time’s inevitable healing to begin, and to live for the future, and for those who remain. — James Gregory Pat's new film is Paramount’s “Hud.” JACKIE KENNEDY £# 4m lIIFsi Z Continued from page 56 Caroline’s behavior while in the White House that worried Jackie Kennedy. What concerned her then and concerns her still is the subtler, harder-to-deal-with problem of what will happen to Caroline when the Kennedys move out of the White House. For Jackie realizes only too well that her daughter is not a princess; she cannot possibly grow up to be a queen and live in dreamland forever. Maybe after this Presidential term, but more likely after the next, John F. Kennedy will step down from his high office. And when he does, the child-princess will become an anonymous little girl. No longer will the world be as interested in her every word and deed, and no longer will she be held up to P a generation of youngsters as a model of grace and innocence. Caroline Kennedy will awaken one morning and find herself in a new, indifferent world — for which she may be badly prepared. The shock of that awakening is something Jacqueline Kennedy dreads, and with good reason. From the beginning. Jackie bad planned to cushion the shock for Caroline by seeing to it that her formative years, though they were to be spent in the White House, nevei swerved too far from what was ’lorrnal for a little girl. Caroline, she said, would not be made into a “little prisoner of the tower,” but would go to school, play freely with her friends, and have the every-day. casual experiences that are the right of every child. No matter how busy she and Jack became with official duties, they would raise their daughter themselves; her upbringing would not be turned over to nurses and Secret Service men. Moreover, the same loving but strict discipline Caroline had thrived under in the little house in Georgetown would be continued at the White House. Her privacy would be strictly guarded; newspapermen and photographers would be kept away. Caroline would know as little as possible about her father’s job and nothing at all about her own prominence. They were good plans, carefully thought out plans that Jackie Kennedy carried into the White House. But today it is clear that many of them have been only par tially successful, and others have failed entirely. Despite Jackie’s best efforts, Caroline's life is not normal. Nor is it likely to be. as long as the Kennedys remain in the White House. And that is why the question of her future adjustment to ordinary life — albeit the life of a wealthy child from a prominent family — is a very serious one indeed. In what ways exactly have Jackie Kennedy’s plans miscarried? One of the first to go astray was the idea that Caroline could be kept from discovering her father's status — at least until she learned to read. Before the first year in the White House was over, Jackie was startled to hear Caroline introduce her baby brother to a visitor as “the President’s son” — and add brightly, “and I'm the President’s daughter!” Daddy commands respect Nor is the word “President” entirely meaningless to Caroline. She has observed that grownups rise respectfully when her father enters a room; that no one outside the family calls him by his first name; that everyone leaps to obey his orders. Caroline has learned to measure others by their rank, too; she invariably forgets Lyndon Johnson’s name, but she remembers that he’s the Vice President and in