So, immediately following the adoption, Joan Crawford drove by herself with a one year old child, three thousand miles across the entire country to “pay tribute” to her benefactor in Miami.
However, only three years later she evidently felt no need to legally adopt brother Chris in Nevada or anyplace else because years later we were unable to locate any record of his adoption in the states surrounding California. And, since she bought all five of us on the black market, there wasn’t any government agency to check.
3 As an adult I learned that Helen Hayes was my Godmother. When I became an actress at seventeen and was on my own in New York, I went to her for advice about the Broadway theater, hoping she would help and guide me. She was pleasant toward me but never offered either mentoring or assistance.
4 Phillip told me in 1980 that they were married in Ventura, California, with little publicity. I never remember being told in advance nor meeting him beforehand. After they were married he was informed that a baby boy had been ordered from the same broker who found me. That child was named Christopher and lived with us for between six and nine months until his biological mother reclaimed him. She came to our house when mother was working and Phillip was at home with us and the servants. She did manage to take the baby after a violent argument during which I hid in a closet, terrified by the screaming police sirens and scared I would be abducted also. Even with police and FBI assistance, that baby was long gone.
Immediately, mother placed another order for a baby boy, requiring that he come from another state. This baby trade was completely private without any state or local social service/adoption agency involved. In effect, it was done outside the law devoid of supervision.
Just before my fourth birthday, the second baby boy arrived at night and was called Phillip, Jr.
My stepfather Phillip told me that he tried to dissuade mother from getting another baby so quickly but she insisted that they needed a “family”. What she meant was that she needed a positive image for her fans and the publicity a new baby generated because she had been labeled “box office poison” by movie critics and the press. Her career was careening toward the toilet and Metro gave her no film roles except a cameo in Hollywood Canteen.
CHAPTER 4
In the early 1940’s our house at 426 North Bristol Avenue, in the area known as Brentwood, stood in the middle of a quiet but very fashionable neighborhood.
Our property covered nearly an acre which began on Bristol and ended on Cliffwood. It was one of the very few which went clear through from one street to the other. We had four next door neighbors, two in the front with Bristol addresses and two in the back with Cliffwood addresses.
In front, Mr. and Mrs. Robert Preston occupied one house and the Fedderson’s owned the other. Their son, Mike, was a friend of my brother’s and they played together frequently. In the back, a woman named Mrs. Hudson had two children: Martha and Tommy. We went back and forth to mutual birthday parties but mostly we played with Martha and Tommy through the fence. Our other Cliffwood neighbors were very private people whom I never knew and rarely even saw. For a while, Larry Olivier (later Sir Laurence) rented the Hudson’s house and we became good friends with him and his son.
Across the street Frank Fay, who had been a big star in the early days of motion pictures, owned the entire block fronting on Bristol. We used to see him in the morning and evenings walking his big Saint Bernard, but other than that he kept pretty much to himself. When mother had first moved into our house, Frank Fay was married to a young actress named Barbara Stanwyck with whom mother became friends. They were about the same age and when Barbara decided to end the marriage and escaped by climbing over the high wall entirely surrounding the Fay estate, mother took her in until Barbara could find another place to go. But now, Mr. Fay was an old man who lived quietly and walked his dog. He did, however, contribute generously to the Catholic church and on many Sundays donated his estate to church functions. Mother was always provoked by the usually empty street being filled with automobiles, but there wasn’t much anyone could say about it officially. When Mr. Fay died, the estate was broken up and the Doheny’s built a new house on a large lot taken from the far side of the property.
On the corner, Jennings Lang and his wife had a pretty house. I had been in elementary school with their son and we continued to be friends. Jennings was one of mother’s agents at MCA.
Behind the Fay estate, Cole Porter had a beautiful house where mother often went for small dinner parties. I visited it once years later when Mike Nicols was living in it. A few houses down lived Mr. and Mrs. Hal Roach. I was very good friends with both of their daughters and we were always at one another’s birthday parties. We played together frequently because I could easily walk to their house without mother worrying about my safety. They had a lively household and always offered us something to eat. Mr. Roach, of course, owned Hal Roach Studios.
Too far away to walk, but still considered part of the neighborhood, lived Shirley Temple. She was a number of years older than I was, so we were never actually friends, but mother took me to visit her once. Her parents greeted us at the door to a nice but not lavish house. The major thing I remember about that visit was taking a tour of Shirley Temple’s closets! Her parents had saved all her clothes and all her movie costumes. They were hung very neatly in several rooms that were con-verted into closets. Those closets ran the entire length of the rooms on both sides. They had sliding doors and inside there were clothes racks on two levels. The clothes seemed to be arranged chronologically because on the beginning of the tour we saw tiny little dresses which seemed to grow larger as the tour progresses. I never saw so many clothes. Even Mommie didn’t have so many clothes and she had lots of closets filled to the brim. I met Shirley Temple that day, but my most vivid memory is of those closets.
There, of course, were lots of other people who lived in the same neighborhood … Tyrone Power, the Henry Hathaway’s whose son Danny was a great favorite of mine, the Jaffes whose son Andy was my very first boyfriend in elementary school, the Wheelwrights and the McCauleys. Sharon and Linda McCauley were two of my closest friends, particularly Linda who was just about the same age as I was. In fact, Linda was probably my best friend throughout most of the early years I lived in the house on Bristol. We told each other all our secrets. She was just about the only person in the whole world that I totally trusted. She kept every confidence and all the little childhood secrets just as though she’d never heard them. I loved her dearly … she was a true best friend if there ever was one.
The legend of my birthday parties has already been established. In truth, there were several years when they were circus spectaculars.
We had a very large back yard. In it there was a rectangular pool of near Olympic size, a building on one side of the pool called the theater and another building opposite it called the bath house. Beyond the pool and these buildings there was a badminton court flanked by large flower beds, olive and magnolia trees. Past the court was a lattice work pavilion that spanned the width of the garden.
When mother bought the house and this property, there was only a dirt road out to it from Sunset Boulevard. Everyone, even her closest friends, told her she was crazy to move out so far into the country and that no one would come to visit her. The house was originally small and she added a second floor and two wings for a total of 24 rooms, including the baths. The day she moved into the house she saw deer, fox and rabbits. There were not even any street lights yet.
But ten years later the house had been completely remodeled, the pool and other buildings all constructed. This entire back yard was turned over to the birthday parties when I was little.
It was a private circus … a miniature Disneyland before one ever existed for the public. There were balloons everywhere and music. There were brightly colored clowns, an organ grinder and his monkey. There were ponies to ride and a magic show to watch. There were games … group games like “pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey” and tug-o-war. All the
children were dressed up, even by Hollywood standards. The girls had fluffy dresses of pretty pastel fabrics and ribbons in their hair. The little boys had short pants and long socks and ties. Some even had velvet jackets. Everyone had a starched and polished look … clothes and faces as well.
If this was the progeny of the royalty of Hollywood … then I was the crown princess. My dresses were of the finest hand embroidered organdy. My petticoats and fancy panties trimmed in lace and ribbons. My shoes and socks were so white they gleamed. My pale golden hair fell in cascades of soft curls that were held away from my face with more satin ribbons. As close as hours of devoted human effort could make me … I was perfectly beautiful. The perfect child in every respect, my clothes were certainly gorgeous, my manners impeccable, my curtsy smooth, my hair beautiful and golden … there was no doubt about it … I was the incarnation of the perfect child. Mother had created me in the image of perfection and then created these birthday parties to celebrate another successful year of happiness with that creation.
The luncheon feast was in our formal dining room which was nearly a separate wing in itself. The big dining table was removed (heaven only knows where, since it could easily seat 25 people) and a rented table that could be lowered to “kid size” was substituted. Little children size chairs were placed around it. The table stretched nearly the length of the dining room and was always decorated with wonderful, fanciful figures and animals. All the children were given party favors at each place.
Not too long ago I saw photographs of one of these childhood extravaganzas and I was struck by the image of all these little children without any smiles on their faces sitting around this long low table with these pointed hats on their heads like so many little dunces. The mothers and servants hovered over us ministering to our wants and passing out the food. The uniformed servants in the background looked very stem in their white starched uniforms and sensible shoes.
The expression on my face in that photograph is beyond description. I am sitting at the head of the table presiding over a rather large group of four, five and six year olds … but no one is paying attention to me and I look quite bewildered.
There was one thing I didn’t like about those birthday parties. I didn’t know most of the people there very well. I only saw them a couple times a year … at other birthday parties. Oh, there were always a couple of my friends from Bristol Avenue and a couple of other people I liked, but most of the children were practically strangers. However, many of them knew each other independently because their parents were close friends. And a strange thing happened at several of those parties … I got left out of most of the games and the playing. I rode the pony and talked to the clown … I slid down the slide with the rest, but I wasn’t included in any of their games. Today I cannot tell you the names of most of the children in the picture of my birthday party luncheon table. I didn’t know them then and I don’t know them now.
It was during those parties where everyone seemed to be having such a good time and I felt so left out that I had my first memorable feeling of loneliness. There I was … it was my party and I was all dressed up in organdy with satin ribbons in my hair … feeling vaguely out of place.
One year, I think I was about six, I threw an absolute fit just as all the children were about to arrive. I was up in my room getting dressed with the nurse tying the bow of my pinafore and mother putting the finishing touches to the ribbons in my hair. I asked if my friend Alma had arrived yet, she was supposed to come early. (Alma is not her real name.) Mother said she’d forgotten to tell me, but Alma could not come to the party. I looked directly into my mother’s eyes and announced: “In that case, I’m not going to the party either.” I should explain that Alma was my constant playmate. She lived a few houses away from us with her mother who was a housekeeper. Alma was black. “If my friend Alma can’t come to my birthday party, then I’m not going to it at all.” With that I sat down on the floor and refused to budge. There was much scurrying around and in just a few minutes Alma appeared in the doorway to my bathroom. She looked at me sitting in the middle of the floor and the two of us started to giggle. I got up and the two of us went hand in hand downstairs to the party.
To this day, when I look through that baby book, which is a large black scrapbook easily six inches thick, and I see the photographs of that party … Alma and me on the slide … Alma and me playing pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey … and see a smile on my face, I’m grateful to her all over again.5
Those legendary parties only lasted for about four years. From the time I was about three until I was about seven. Later on there was just a group of school friends over for a swim and after that a lot of teenage birthdays were spent at boarding school.
A lot of times I had to choose between Mommie and Phillip. I remember the last time. It was about which movie to show … his or hers. I didn’t want to see either one, I just wanted to get out of there. I’d never seen one of Phillip’s, so I really should have and wanted to choose his film. They were angry with one another and for some reason at that point mother walked out of the room. “Call me when you’ve decided”, she snapped at me as she left.
I waited a moment feeling very uncomfortable with Phillip staring at me and knowing that in all fairness we really should see his movie. We were standing in the kitchen and when I figured that mother had time to get to her room upstairs, I called on the house phone.
That night we screened a movie of mother’s, I don’t remember which one.
It wasn’t long after that that Phillip left.
One day he just didn’t come home. I don’t think much was said about it, except that he wouldn’t be back. I don’t even think we had a chance to really say goodbye to him. He was just gone.
Then an amazing thing happened: within 24 hours of his departure there was not a trace of him left anywhere in the entire house. He’d had his own room and bath and every single personal item was gone. All the pictures of him in mother’s room and in the downstairs library were gone. And, in our baby books where all the photographs of my brother and me were neatly mounted on page after page, Phillip’s image was ripped out of every picture in each of our books! Sometimes only his head was ripped off but other pictures were ripped down the middle to remove him completely. Except for those torn photographs, it was like he never existed at all. It was so scary that I couldn’t think about it much. We never dared mention his name and it was years before we ever saw him again.
The lesson I really got from that was that mother could make people disappear if she wanted to … grown people too, not just kids. If she got mad enough, maybe she’d make me disappear. I couldn’t think about that very much either.
Phillip had been a nice man and we did miss him even if he and mother did lock me up in the shower a couple of times and left me there until the nurse found me tied up. Even if he did let mother make me stand in the linen closet with the door closed as another punishment … when they knew I was scared of the dark and thought rats might come down from the attic and eat me alive in there. I had a vivid imagination.6
Shortly after Phillip left, my brother’s name was changed from Phillip Terry, Jr. to Christopher Crawford. He was about three and a half then and can remember it very well. I was just six years old.
5 Her real name is Yvonne. She called into a Larry King Show I did and we spoke for the first time as adults.
6 Phillip told me later that his mother and father were very upset that he left two helpless children with “Crawford” as he called Mother. He said that since he could not get custody of us, the best he could do was insist that my brother have a trust fund and guarantee of a college education. For that he agreed to give up all visitation rights. The divorce papers he signed had those clauses in them. But, when I found them on microfiche in the Los Angeles County Courthouse archives (purposely difficult to locate because she used “Lucille LeSeur” and Phillip, his legal name, also) when my brother and I were contesting Mother’s will in 1977, the official record showed
no mention of children at all and no provision for my brother.
When I told Phillip, he looked shocked. His face registered anger, sadness and finally resignation. All he said was: “I shouldn’t be surprised, after all, that was the ‘old days’ and she was part of the system”. His career as an actor never fully recovered after his divorce from “Crawford” because she sabotaged both friendships and progress behind his back.
CHAPTER 5
We used to spend part of each summer in Carmel. First with mother and later at Douglas Camp.
It was a long drive up the coast in those days. We would pack up the car and leave home in the early afternoon. The first night we would spend in Santa Maria at a lovely old Spanish inn which was covered with bougainvillea and honeysuckle vines. There were no freeways, of course, so about an hour after we left home we were really out in the country.
Mother loved the country and we used to go for long walks picking wildflowers and watching the dog jumping through the long grass. We used to have a lot of picnics near home in Mandeville Canyon before there were any houses there.
The next day of our journey, we would get up early, pack up the bags and have breakfast. Then we would drive on to Carmel. We always stayed at the Pebble Beach Lodge in private cottages. They were just like little houses with the bedrooms upstairs and a living room downstairs. Because it was often cold and foggy, each cottage had a big stone fireplace which we all adored.
We would have lunch in the big dining room at the lodge which overlooked the lovely green lawns and the sea beyond. Mother was always happier here. She seemed to relax and enjoy us and her friends here more than in Los Angeles. It’s hard to imagine now, but there were many years when mother never left California. She lived and worked in Los Angeles and the furthest she traveled was Carmel. Even if she wasn’t working she didn’t take vacations as such. She’d create busy work at home … cleaning out the basements and endless correspondence. So Carmel was a super treat for her and for us.
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