Radio and television mirror (July-Dec 1942)

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The line proved to be busy, and for five minutes he paced the room undecided whether to be relieved or disappointed. Finally he tried again — and Eleanor answered. Dorothy had already left, and wouldn't be back until late, she said. W/"ELL, that was that. He went to ™ the Stork Club, and stood at the bar sipping a drink. The Stork was about as usual — crowded with people who had famous names, and with people who rather wished they had them. Suddenly his idle survey of the room was halted by the sight of a girl in a pink candy-striped dress. Dorothy! And sitting at a table all alone! Dick put down the glass so abruptly that some of the liquid spilled out. Dorothy caught sight of him as he came toward her, and smiled a welcome. "I thought you were on tour!" she exclaimed. "I have been, but now I'm in town for a while." He stood over her, beaming idiotically, and went on in a too, too casual voice. "As a matter fact, I tried to call you this afternoon. I know a wonderful new place to eat, where they have a little orchestra that plays Viennese waltzes. . . ." "Sounds nice. . . ." "It's early yet. If you — " "I couldn't now, Dick," she put in quickly. "This is going to be a birthday party for a friend." "We could go now, before it gets started," Dick urged. "And you could telephone later with excuses. Your hostess wouldn't mind, maybe." Laughter wrinkled Dorothy's tiptilted nose. "But maybe she would," she said. "You see — I'm the hostess!" But the next night there was no birthday party, nor anything else except just the two of them, going together to a hotel where they danced every time the band played. That was all right for the first date but for the second they went to a quieter place, where they wouldn't be known. And for the third, they went to a movie, and for the fourth just for a walk in the park. For two such modern people, it was a curiously old-fashioned courtship. Dorothy lived at home, with her family, and when Dick called for her it wasn't like meeting a girl who lived alone or with a roommate in an apartment hotel. While Dorothy dressed, Dick would sit in the living room, chatting with her father, Jimmie Kilgallen, who was a famous reporter long before Dorothy ever read a newspaper, or with Eleanor. He was a friend of the whole family. It was on their sixth date that Dick proposed. On the air and in plays, he had rehearsed and enacted a thousand proposals, but for the first and only real one of his life he stumbled, and reddened, and got words twisted, and finally concluded bluntly: "So what do you say — yes, or no?" "Yes!" said Dorothy, and added an ominous, "But — " before Dick had had time to catch the breath that had rushed out of his body in a flood of relief. "But what?" 58 "Well — this may seem old-fashioned," Dorothy explained, "But after all, we've only been out together a few times and . . . and I want to be sure. And I've always thought that Dad. ... I mean, you ought to. . . ." "You want me to ask your father?" Dorothy blushed. But she nodded. "What if he doesn't like me? What if he thinks, like a lot of people, that actors aren't very reliable, and — " "Dad won't judge you as an actor," Dorothy said softly. "He'll judge you as a man." Which is exactly what Jimmie Kilgallen did. His exact words were: "If you're good enough for Dorothy, you're good enough for me." On April 6, 1940, Dorothy Kilgallen became Mrs. Richard Tompkins Kollmar. Eleanor, whose insistence that Dorothy keep a luncheon date some fourteen months earlier was really responsible for the wedding, was maid of honor. It was a formal ceremony, with bouquets and telegrams from all over the nation. Of the ceremonies at St. Vincent Ferrer church, Dick, in typical bridegroom fashion, remembers little. All he recalls is that "it took an hour and fifteen minutes." The following day, in place of the Kilgallen column in her New York paper there appeared this notice: "Miss Kilgallen is on her honeymoon." The item appeared for a week. Meanwhile, Mr. and Mrs. Richard Kollmar were in Cuba. They had planned on a longer stay, but one week was all the time Dick could get off from his hit Broadway show, "Too Many Girls." A good many Broadway romances end, literally, with the wedding bells. The Times Square cynics who were waiting for the rift that often occurs when a woman has both husband and career have been disappointed by Dorothy. And when the word got around last spring that the Kollmars were expecting a baby, the skeptics went into seclusion to live on a diet of their own words. The baby was born on July 11th. Dick thought it would be a girl. "Maybe with a vegetable-garden hat," he laughs. But Dorothy had been certain it would be a boy. "I even expected him to be wearing orange socks," she says . . . and she was right about everything but the socks. The eight-pound boy was given his father's name, Richard Tompkins Kollmar, Jr. ON the surface, the child hasn't made any difference in the lives of its parents. But one look at Dorothy playing with young Richard in the nursery of their Park Avenue home is enough to indicate her chief interest. Her heart is more in the nursery than in the night clubs where Broadway news is made. She was trained in the newspaper school of doing a job right, and being a mother, she feels, is the most important job in the world. "I want to learn all I can about babies," she explains, "so I'll know everything there is to know about the next one." Meanwhile, Dorothy carries on with her daily newspaper column and her radio program. Skeptics, watching Dick rush home from his Bright Horizon CBS show, and from guest-star appearances on other networks, have finally given the Kollmars up as a pair of Manhattan's real people. The reason? Only real people can be so hopelessly happily married. RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR 1