Photoplay (Jan-Jun 1952)

No Blue Notes ( Continued from page 43) the most of them? One evening they visited friends who’d built in the hills. The three-tiered English house left them gasping. The countryside, rolling from windows to faraway skyline, lifted their hearts. In the car Doris turned to her husband, but he said it first. “Tomorrow you go out with a real estate man. If you find something you like, I’ll come and look.” Next morning they took it up with Terry, whose every freckle seemed to leap in pure panic. “You always said a dead-end street was important. Where would I ride a bike or roller-skate? You can’t do that to me. You can’t take me away from all my friends. We have the fort and everything. I sort of help to run things around here — ” The voice that had started in outrage threatened to falter. Over his head the others exchanged a swift glance. “There’s the answer,” said Marty quietly, and Doris nodded. He spoke to the boy. “We’re not leaving, Terry.” “But you said — ” “That’s before we knew how you felt. Now we’re staying put.” “Is — is it all right with you — ?” “It’s swell with us,” smiled Doris. “We’d rather stay.” Two young arms half strangled them. “Gee, thanks, Mart. Thanks, Mommy. Wait’ll I tell the fellas,” and Terry was gone. Marty’s thoughtful gaze followed him. “You figure and figure and suddenly find you’ve been thinking only of yourself.” “Gee, thanks, Mart,” echoed Doris softly. “For what? He’s my boy too. Well, bride, now that we’re going to live in the place, let’s fix it up the way we want it.” 74 IN saltbox, shack or three-tiered elegance, it’s the atmosphere that counts. Wherever they lived, the Melchers would carry theirs with them. Their home is plainly a place of warmth and peace. Like a radiant blonde butterfly Doris flits about, looking tinier, blonder and still more radiant as she comes to ’light beside her big dark husband. They make no parade of their feelings, but neither do they mind expressing it in their own fashion. Melcher’s a man both articulate and intelligent, his speech shot with lazy humor. “I believe the principle behind any marriage is closeness. Doris and I have a talent for staying close, and for two excellent reasons. One, I like it. Two, she insists on it.” “Then why do you go to sleep in the backyard?” “Because the sun makes me sleepy.” The sun makes her talkative. She loves to stick her face right in it and gab. When she’s working, she can’t. The freckles show up too much. “When I’m not working, my husband falls asleep on me, and I end up talking to the wall. So I get real mad, and march back to the house. Dragging him after me.” “The picture,” says Marty, “of Doris dragging me may seem unrealistic. In essence, it’s true. Through my slumbers I hear her heckle, ‘Why don’t you come in?’ For the above mentioned excellent reasons, I go-” From the age of eighteen till he married Doris Day, Melcher had lived in hotels and longed for home. Now he has what he wants, knows it and revels in it. Let others fly off to Honolulu or Palm Springs. Burbank is Shangri-la enough for him. Not long ago he and Doris spent the day shopping. Back within their four walls, he drank the room in as though they’d been away for weeks. “I love coming home,” said the simple Mr. Melcher, and his simple wife choked down a lump in her throat. Home means not only Doris, but her mother and her son. Mrs. Day used to worry at first. “Look, I think maybe you kids should be by yourselves — ” “Nanna, you’re never getting away from us. What’s more,” he continued placidly, “if the bride ever acts up, I hereby give notice that I’m taking you and Terry.” It looks as if he’s taking Aunt Reeree too, who came on from Cincinnati for a visit and promptly established herself in Marty’s affections. “She’s a great gal,” he informed his wife, “and a comfort to your mother. Think we could keep her here?” “Nothing like asking,” said Doris, both tickled and touched. Instead of asking, he told her. “We’ve decided you’re a member of the family. We love you, Reeree, we’d like you to stay with us ” A childless widow, accustomed to fending for herself, Reeree needed a moment to recover. “Want your answer now, or can I think about it?” If the voice came out dry, the eyes didn’t. So Marty seems to have copped himself an aunt. And if all this makes him sound like an unthinking pushover for his wife’s family, the impression’s wrong. His attitude’s based on a solid foundation. “We’re friends,” says he. “I have no use for the in-law relationship. I dislike the term. We’re friends because they’re nice people — gentle, gracious, helpful, good to have around. It’s just a coincidence that they happen to be relatives too.” Then, of course, there’s Terry. With wonder and thanksgiving, Doris watched the love between man and boy take deep root new hope for hearts AMERICAN HEART WEEK FEB. 10-16 and grow. Terry introduces Mart proudly as his daddy, and signs his school papers “Terry Melcher” with a flourish. He’s not too old to jump into Marty’s arms the moment he sights him, nor to crawl into bed with him mornings, where they talk airplanes or Terry asks serious questions — and gets serious answers — about what it means when a man’s prime minister and why we’re fighting in Korea — “I stay out of it,” says Doris. “To be perfectly honest, I don’t understand boys. My son, for instance, collects very odd things. He’ll walk in with a huge spider, and I’ll die. Marty gives him a cosy chat on spiders, then explains that you shouldn’t catch things and put them in jars. Happy endings for all, including the spider. “Or take fights. Kids are always having big scraps. Maybe six turn against one, so that one sits alone in the house and he’s trapped. When Terry got involved, I’d say, ‘Go to your room. You’re not being a gentleman — ’ Sounded silly even to me, but I couldn’t think how else to handle it. Marty handles it fine. Gets them all together, holds court, hears evidence, has them roaring inside five minutes, so they can’t remember what the fight was about. Another thing’s dirt. Dirt used to bother me out of all proportion. Marty says, ‘Look at our blackface comic,’ and sends him up to wash. ‘A boy has to get dirty,’ he told me. ‘I used to get dirty. It comes off in the water.’ And all of a sudden dirt stopped being a problem. “I used to scold. Not Marty. His voice just gets firm.” At eight-thirty Terry’s playing the piano. “Time for bed,” says Marty. Terry gives out with a hopeful line of doubletalk. “It’s time now,” says Marty, who’s opposed to dilly-dally, and now it is. Or maybe junior’s trying to steer clear of a shower. “I took one yesterday and I didn’t play very hard and I’m not very dirty.” “We won’t discuss it. Upstairs.” End of discussion. And though Terry may grumble on principle, his heart isn’t in it. Doris feels that deep down he enjoys taking orders from Marty, that it gives him a sense of security; of belonging. In Marty’s mind there’s never been any question as to where Terry belonged. From the beginning he said: “As soon as we’re married, I want to adopt him.” Adoption is a long-drawn-out procedure and the wheels move slowly. Not till last October were the Melchers called downtown for a conference. At its close, they were told that an investigator would be sent to look their home over, to inspect Terry’s room, and to talk with him. Doris conveyed this information to her son. “There’ll be a lady out here to see you soon.” “What lady? What about?” “About Marty’s adopting you and how you feel about it.” “How I feel about it! How does she think I feel about it? Anyway, why does she have to ask me? Because you certainly wouldn’t let him if you didn’t love him and know he’s a nice guy and a good father.” “You’ll never find a better,” contributed Nanna, always ready with her two-centsworth on the subject of Melcher — “That’s just what I’m going to tell her.” Marty surveyed his domestic circle. “Do I bow now,” he inquired, “or wait for an encore?” LOVE’S an essential cornerstone of marriage, but not the only one. Common interests, common values and a common faith are equally important, and these the Melchers share. Their faith teaches humility, patience, tolerance. “It’s a goal,” says Doris, “even though you’re forever falling short. I fall shorter than Marty. He’s got a wonderful disposition and better control.” Flamboyance holds no attraction for them. Normality is the keynote of their daily living. They eat on the screened-in porch where there’s a breeze and no flies, and toil happily in the backyard. Doris weeds and cut flowers. Marty waters, puts up trellises and keeps an eye out for Terry and his gang. Big Moo, the kids call him. “Don’t you call me Big Moo,” he growls, and dunks them in the pool. Terry’s nickname is Little Too, acquired when a lady of three fell in love with him and the nearest she could come to Terry was Tooey. Helped by a cook, Nanna runs the household. Marty’s gained twenty pounds, swears he hates every ounce and continues to eat his way ’round the clock — with Doris a close second when she isn’t working. Since the day her uncle brought them a German salami, Marty hangs German salamis all over the place. Nanna garnishes salad plates with wafer-thin slices that never reach the table because Marty prances behind her, gobbling them up. Anything she lays hands on tastes better to him. Charlotte Greenwood, a close friend, asked them to stay for dinner one evening. “We’ve got hickory smoked ham.” “I’m not hungry,” Marty announced. “I’m not eating tonight.” Till he crossed his own threshold, sniffed. sd.