you. You have wanted something from life that I have not found. Without me you’ll find it. ‘Greater love hath no man than this that a man lay down his life for his friend’ and that’s what I’m doing for you.” “ But I want you,” I pleaded. “ You are all I have. You are all I want.” Some time, toward dawn, the nurse came to the bed, looked at Mother and called another nurse. Together they wheeled the bed out of the ward. I fol lowed them. They wheeled it into the elevator and I went down with them. They wheeled the bed onto the first floor and down the corridor. I followed them. They stopped at a big door and one of them said, “ You can’t come in here. We’re putting your mother in the ice box.” Mother was dead! Numb with shock, I walked away. What should I do next? Oh, yes, she had to be buried. I went to the front desk and asked the charge nurse, “ Where can I get an under taker?” “ I can’t call one this time of morning. Wait until seven or eight o’clock and I’ll phone one,” she replied curtly. I sat down in the dreary hospital waiting room, without hope or God in the world. Within my heart stirred the question, “Where is my mother?” Daylight crept through the window. The electric lights were turned off. My body ached and my brain throbbed. A t( last, the undertaker came. He was a rather handsome man in his thirties. We discussed the funeral, and though this was 1928, when prices were lower, he said, “ You are a transient.. Therefore, you understand that I can’t touch your mother until I’m paid five hundred dol lars.” That was all right. I knew how I could get hold of the money. What I was anxious to know was, “Where is my mother?” “ Lady, I don’t know. When I get them, they’re dead.” He walked away. Stunned by his answer, I tried to go on. I went to my father’s lawyer, ar ranged for him to pay the undertaker and I to pay him. Then I went to Mother’s room at the Parker House and waited, I suppose, two nights. I was a living dead thing. I didn’t cry. I just waited. This was death, awful death, and one had to live through it. The appointed morning I went to the services. Shocked by Mother’s appear ance, I had the coffin closed. There were flowers from one of her sisters, but no relatives came. I had not known enough to notify people and I don’t know how the sister knew where to send the flowers. There was a minister who preached a sermon which I did not hear and a woman who sang something, I know not what. Afterwards, as Mother had requested, she was cremated. I drove back to New York, but I didn’t go near the night club. I had hundreds of dollars in beautiful cos tumes, silver cloth, gold cloth and shoes M A Y , 1 9 5 2
with rhinestone-studded heels there, but I wanted none of them. I was through with show business and all it stood for. It had brought me empty glamour and heartache. Instead I began my search for the answer to, “Where is my moth er?”
I scarcely saw anyone. At times I went to two or three picture shows a day, to forget, until the pictures blurred be fore my eyes. I read and on the victrola I played Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue by the hour. I decided that the Spiritualists, since they contacted the dead, should know where mother was. Mother had gone to Mae Taylor, a well-known Hollywood medium, so I arranged for a private interview and asked my usual question, “Where is my mother?” “ She will wander in outer darkness until such time as she would normally have died and then she will begin to evolve upward.” Thoughts of my mother wandering in outer darkness were no comfort so I continued my lonely way. After about three years of this, through a friend, I met Roy A. Haskin. He was some years older than I, a kindly, gentle person. He was not a Christian at that time, though he had been brought up in a Christian home. We were attracted to each other, mar ried quietly, and he arranged his affairs so he could move from San Diego to Los Angeles. He did many things to make the house more livable and my grief began to lessen. I enjoyed walking and often walked the mile and a half from my home to Hollywood Boulevard. When I did, I passed the First Presbyterian Church of Hollywood. It is large now, having a membership of more than 6,000, but to me it was large in those days when it had about 1,200 members. The min ister s name was Dr. Stewart P. Mac- Lennan. Scotch, no doubt, and I wasn’t going to let any dour Scotchman tell me what to do! I wouldn’t attend the services, but I phoned the church and asked, “ Do you have a week-day Bible class?” “We have a Rim Bible class for women on Thursday afternoons in Jun ior House.” The next Thursday I went to the Bible class. It was taught by Ella E. Pohle, who had been secretary to Dr. C. I. Scofield when he compiled his Annotated Bible. The class was attended by a small group of dear, middle-aged Christian women. They were studying Ephesians, Philippians and Colossians the church truth for this age. It was convenient for me that the class was specializing in three short books, be cause I borrowed a Bible from one of the members, and typed a copy of the books, thus having all the Bible I needed. She did not teach the way of salva tion. All the women were Christians, but gradually I comprehended that Jesus Christ was the Son of God in a different way than the rest of us were sons of God. For years in Christian Science I had heard, “ Beloved, now are we the sons of God.” But when Miss Pohle spoke of Christ as the Son of (Continued on Page 18) Page Fifteen
Mother of Dorothy Clark Haskin. She wanted her daughter to become a star.
Having been brought up in Christian Science, it was logical for me to turn to them for the answer. .1 looked in the phone book for the name of a practi tioner and went to her office. She was a suave, polished woman. I paid her fee and asked, “Where is my mother?” “Your mother has become a part of the Great Infinite.” This vague, cheerless answer did not satisfy me. I did not want my mother to be part of the Great Infinite. I wanted her to be a person. I decided next to ask the Catholics. They were an old, established religion and ought to know the truth. I did not have the nerve to go into one of their churches but waited around until I saw a priest, and asked him, “ What happens to anyone who commits suicide?” He was careful to find out that I did not intend to kill myself, but that my mother had. Then he told me, “ Your mother is in purgatory. You can pray her out.” I went back to my room, knelt by my bed and tried to pray. But no words came. I did not know how to pray, no matter how great the need! I packed my clothes and returned to my home in Hollywood. There I lived quietly with my grief. I had sufficient money in the bank to live on. I wouldn’t see anyone who knew mother, therefore
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