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BY
RUTH
WATERBURY
It’s three on a mountain-top for Jeanne Crain now that little Paul has come to live with her and big Paul
T an hour after dawn on Easter Sunday the phone rang in a flower-bedecked room in Los Angeles Queen of the Angels Hospital.
It was all wrong that the phone should have been jangled at that hour — and one of those flukes that exactly that moment the nurse had stepped out on some errand. The doctor had left — but the whole hospital understood that. He had had a tough night — delivering four babies since ten p.m.
The beautiful girl in the bed, still drowsy from anesthesia, reached out a hand and held the receiver close to her ear.
“The report is out that Jeanne Crain’s baby has been bom,” a man’s voice said. “Can you tell me if that’s true?”
“Yes, it’s true.”
“Boy or girl?”
“A boy. Seven pounds and fifteen ounces.”
“Did they name him yet?”
“Oh, yes. Paul Frederick Brinkman Jr.”
“How’s the mother?”
“Oh, she’s fine. And the baby — he’s simply perfect.”
“Thanks,” said the reporter, and hung up, so excited about getting his scoop that he never realized that he had talked to Jeanne Crain herself.
As for Jeanne, she hung up, and didn’t even know she had held the conversation — or with whom. She just went back to sleep again. But that was how it happened that the news of her baby’s birth made the papers less than an hour after the proud and adoring father was allowed upstairs into the room.
They laugh about that now, Jeanne and Paul, as they camp with Paul ( Continued on page 89)