The other part of the 22 years of telegrams was just bookkeeping. You went on a telegram list. Birthdays, anniversaries and other special events were noted on the secretary’s daily calendar. Year after year those lists were updated and transferred. As the pages flipped, the secretary sent the telegrams or reminded mother to dictate personal notes. I got on the Los Angeles list. No matter where I lived or where mother lived, the telegrams originated from Los Angeles. The secretary simply copied last year’s message, looked in the black leather phone book under Crawford, Christina … noted the current address and sent the telegram along with all the others for that particular day. Simple as that.
The next message from mother, dated May 3, was brief.
Christina dear:
I sent you your Easter gifts, but as yet have not received thank-you letters to Cathy, Cindy, Chris, Aunt Bettina, Aunt Helen and Uncle Mel.
Love
“Mommie”
Cathy, Cindy and Chris, of course, were my sisters and brother. Ludicrous as it now sounds, I had to write formal thank-you notes to my own family and they had to do the same. Not only did I have to write them, I had to send their thank-you notes to mother instead of simply mailing them from school. Besides checking up on me to make sure I actually wrote them, the maneuver was designed to keep me uninformed as to their location. I was not supposed to have any direct contact with either my sisters or my brother because mother had personally declared me a “corrupting influence” on their young, tender, innocent minds. So I had to write the letters, put them in unaddressed envelopes and forward them to mother.
The “Aunt Bettina” referred to was the fan-now-secretary named Betty. Mother had changed her name to a more gracious, endearing form, though neither of those qualities was particularly suitable as far as I was concerned. I never called her by the newly coined name implying family membership. To me she remained just plain Betty. The “Aunt Helen” referred to was also a fan of long standing, one of the original three including Betty who used to sit on the garage steps waiting for a glimpse of their idol. Uncle Mel was the writer mentioned earlier.
The next letter, in retrospect, is chilling. Not just for what it actually says, but more importantly for what it neglects to say.
May 9, 1955
Christina, my darling:
Thank you so much for my lovely Mother’s Day present. Sorry we didn’t get to talk on Mother’s Day, but your first message at nine o’clock was, that I had to call you by one, or you couldn’t be reached, and I was not available at that time. So I didn’t try to reach you, since you said it was impossible.
Then, when you called later in the afternoon, I was being photographed for a layout in Look and could not call back then either.
You were sweet to call, and I send you all my love,
As always,
“Mommie”
It was never-never land again. However, notice the date on the letter: May 9, 1955. (Note: Every letter received from her during the past four months has already been included.)
On May 10, 1955, Joan Crawford married a man by the name of Alfred N. Steele in Las Vegas, Nevada.
I heard about the marriage over the radio. I was stunned. Of course, everyone in school wanted to know what he was like, but all I could reply was that I’d never seen him or even heard of him until this very moment. The radio said he was president of Pepsi Cola. That was all I knew.
Sister Benigna had a long talk with me that day. She recognized how humiliating the situation was for me and tried her best to calm me down. I swung back and forth between being mortified about hearing the news over the radio and being furious at the insulting behavior that considered me no more important than the general public getting their information from the news media. Since none of the broadcasts mentioned the newlywed’s location, it was several days before I was able to reach mother, though I left several messages with the secretary at home.
Mother never did call me back. When I finally called and she was at home, the instant she got on the phone O could have strangled her. She was pompous, condescending and every inch the consummate bitch. She icily inquired why it had taken me so long to congratulate her! I told her the radio hadn’t given any location and I’d left messages with the secretary. Then she said something that is emblazoned on my memory forever: “Christina, all you had to do was call Las Vegas … the whole world knows who I am … it’s very simple, the information operator would have been able to locate me. Obviously, you didn’t try very hard. Hundreds of other people found us!” The tone of voice she used was so degrading it made you feel like you’d just publicly shit in your pants. “Fine,” I said, shaking violently from head to foot. “I hope you’re both very happy.” With that I hung up. It was useless. Totally useless.
She runs off and gets married to a total stranger, without having the common courtesy or decency to inform her children or even have the secretary call them if she was in such a bloody hurry, then turns right around and berates me for not tracking her down. Call Las Vegas, indeed! I’d rather die first. Can you imagine … “Hello, Las Vegas information? My name is Christina Crawford. I heard on the radio this morning that my mother, Joan Crawford, married a man named Alfred Steele. You wouldn’t happen to know what hotel they’re staying in would you?”
I did not speak to mother again for several months. She and Mr. Steele left for Europe on their honeymoon. She did take time to write me this note from Paris, Hotel Plaza-Athenee.
Tina darling
Congratulations on being made Vice President of the Student Body- I am so proud and know you are too –
Aunt Bettina will see that you get your skirts -
We leave Paris in the morning early for the south of France touring by car - will be back at Plaza Athenee on the 11th of July - sail the 13th
My love to you always -
“Mommie”
Sister Benigna, however, received quite a different letter from mother which was handwritten on Hotel Hassler stationery and mailed from Rome.
Dear Sister Benigna-
Thank you so much for your sweet letter - I would rather Christina stay at school - since she cannot behave at home - I have no assurance she would behave when a visitor -
It will do her good to have time alone when you are all in “Retreat” - to be alone instead of having someone to show off to - It will give her a “thinking time” which she needs - She never ever says love in her letters to me - but to other people - she says - “my love always to your dear Mother” - knowing I will read the letters -
It also took her Aunt Betty to scold her after eleven days after her birthday for not thanking me - I would like Tina to go to Sacred Heart next year and graduate - since she is doing so well - I think she should finish her high school there - In case of an emergency please contact Betty Barker-day at Oldfield 42500 - evenings Normandy 21440 - ask her to call me in Paris - she knows where -
Thank you oh so much for your kind helpfulness with Tina - and I hope you will allow Tina to be with you another year - I’ll be in N.Y. the 18th of July - 36 Sutton Place So. - home the following week. I would like Tina to remain with you till she graduates.
Thank You
Joan Crawford
The only reason I know about this letter is that Sister showed it to be and let me copy it. I feel compelled at this point to back track a bit.
I had been at Flintridge for seven months now. During that time I had never seen mother, never stepped foot off the campus. For seven months I had been punished severely for the incident which started over Christmas card lists in November and resulted in her taking all of us out of Chadwick School. During those seven months of agonizing personal hell, I had never once done anything that could be remotely considered wrong.
My report card, even by mother’s admission, was excellent. I had been elected Student Body Vice President for my senior year. That was the highest office a non-catholic girl could hold at the school. The position of President was reserved for a catholic an
d I was, therefore, ineligible, even for nomination. I had not broken any rules, gotten in any arguments with mother, strayed from the straight and narrow path in any way, shape or manner. Even under circumstances that depressed and discouraged me, I had become a model student with the honors the faculty and. my peers could bestow upon me. I got everything the meager situation had to give.
You would never guess that in a million years from the letter mother had just written to Sister Benigna. Sister Benigna knew the truth … I knew the truth … but the truth didn’t make a goddamned bit of difference to mother. She was off on a honeymoon, couldn’t be bothered with me and trumped up feeble excuses, mostly constructed of her own curelty and paranoia to punish me further. By now it could no longer be connected even remotely to my behavior. My behavior had been exemplary.
It was excruciating for me … frustrating beyond what words can convey. There didn’t seem to be any connection, any relationship, between what I did and what I got. No matter how hard I tried, no matter how long I worked it didn’t seem to be enough to get me out of this everlasting punishment. It didn’t make any sense anymore. She held all the cards: “Her will be done.”
So I stayed at Flintridge that summer. There was no summer school and the days dragged by interminably. For two weeks, the Dominican sisters went on retreat. That meant, for two weeks, not one sister said a word. They prayed and listened to religious lectures, but they remained silent. It was eerie being around all these silent people. I no longer found the entire surroundings strange, but it was lonely and depressing.
In order to keep me from going totally stir crazy, Sister Benigna asked me if I’d work in the office during the retreat. I was glad for anything to occupy my mind, so I answered the phones and opened the mail for eight hours a day. The rest of the time I spent taking walks by myself, going for an occasional swim by myself and reading alone in my room.
If I’d had a notion of loneliness before, it was nothing compared with this summer. I was so lonely I felt hollow. I was so lonely, the office telephone sounded like a cannon. The closest thing to companionship I had was food. It was the one and only source of anything remotely resembling pleasure. I was so unbelievably lonely, I wondered if I was going to loose my mind. I thought about prisoners locked away in solitary confinement and marveled that they retained the will to live at all. I thought about hermits and the mountain men of the old west and wondered if they too battled the enticing seductress of insanity. I now knew how people went mad … they gave up fighting. They went mad because it was a hell of a lot easier. They went mad because it comes to be a far better place than dying from the slow pain of loneliness. You sink willingly into going mad … you ease into being crazy … it doesn’t happen overnight. You get tired of the constant battle with no victories. You become exhausted hoping for the “cease-fire” … you loose your grip on the world slowly and drift into the chasm of your own hopelessness. The now of your grief stretches endlessly into the future … no hope, no relief, no rewards, no change … ever.
That summer I stood shakily on the tightrope of my loneliness. Each time I wavered I saw below me that chasm of madness … beckoning me to join the other lost souls who had given up the fight and slipped into a special world. It was a terrifying journey no one else knew about. I was the solitary traveler, somewhere during each day suspended just above the beckoning chasm, hovering unsteadily, feeling my grip slipping. I was just sixteen years old.
I had gotten post cards from France and Italy as the honeymoon progressed. Mostly they held glowing praise for the lovely countryside and fabulous meals Joan Crawford and her new husband, Alfred Steele, were enjoying. On July 8th she scrawled this letter to me.
Tina dearest -
Thank you for your sweet letter - I’m glad you liked your birthday gifts - did you receive the cable?
Aunt Bettina and I had a very bad connection so she misunderstood the school is not in Berne - you spelled it “Bern” - I’m not about to send you into the German part of anything - I’m very aware that you do not speak German and very aware too that you have studied French - remember me - I’ve been around since your birth and have taken very good care of you - watched your grades, etc.
The enclosed pamphlet and card will give you an idea that I’ve taken as great care in selecting this school as I have guarding your life - (or trying to -) The lovely child on the cover - blonde - is Bridget Hayward, Margaret Sullivan’s daughter whom I saw - and she said she had never been so happy as at “Montessano”
You will stay at Flintridge for one more year - graduate - then we will decide whether Switzerland - London - or California -
Bless you - have a good summer - think good thoughts
My love always –
“Mommie”
The topic of conversation revolved around college. I wanted to go to college and the places mother was talking about were the equivalent of finishing schools. I didn’t want to go to school in Europe because I knew I’d just be stuck again, without any money, any friends. She actually considered that putting us away in schools counted as taking care of us. The business of guarding my life seemed like a non-sequester … it didn’t connect with anything I could figure out. The “have a good summer and think good thoughts” part nearly made me throw up. It was facetious and cruel. She knew very well what my “good summer” was all about – after all, it was because of her orders I continued to be locked up without parole. Who did she think she was kidding? Who was she putting on the charade for … herself? Is that how she deceived herself so that she could go on playing martyred mother for the public? Is that how she managed her conscience, if she had one, so that she was free to behave any damn way she wanted? Why in God’s name did she adopt all of us in the first place? Sure we served a purpose when we were adorable babies. She got a hell of a lot of publicity out of us. She built a public image on us. Millions of unsuspecting fans thought: “what a wonderful woman … to take four little orphans into her home.” Hundreds of pages of movie magazine garbage were turned out on what a wonderful mother she was. We were paraded out, one by one, in our darling little starched outfits and pseudo-British manners … we were photographed from every angle and cooed over by pandering publicity hacks, we were sent presents from fans all over the world … presents we were never allowed to keep. We were the best mannered, best behaved, most perfect child-mannequins the queen bee could produce. And when we had served our purpose and gotten all the publicity that could humanly be turned loose on the adoring public … we made a fatal error: we started growing up. We started becoming people. It was no longer possible to control our every thought, our every gesture, our every move. We were no longer the perfectly manipulated, camera-ready puppets that spouted, “I love you, mommie dearest” at the slightest indication of her whimsical displeasure.
Mommie dearest got her feelings hurt. Mommie dearest became distressed. Mommie dearest became enraged when she perceived that all was not well in mannequin-land. The children, the babies were in a state of mutiny! Mommie dearest has to punish bad babies … mommie dearest beat bad babies … mommie dearest try to kill bad babies … mommie dearest doesn’t want to have anything more to do with bad babies … mommie dearest put bad babies away from her … mommie dearest found a prison for bad babies and locked them up to punish them for being such bad babies.
On July 21, when the honeymoon was over, I received this note from mother on Sutton Place South stationery. Mother called herself Joan Steele on the envelope’s return address.
Tina darling,
We received the tie and thank you so much. Your father appreciated it.
The weather in New York is fiercely hot and the humidity even worse. Will call you next week when we get home. The director and dress designer have been in New York, so I go into production immediately upon return.
All my love,
“Mommie”
The picture she was about to make was Autumn Leaves with Cliff Robertson, directed by Robert Aldrich.
Though she was making the picture in Los Angeles, I didn’t see mother during the time she was in town. I barely spoke to her because she said her schedule was so hectic that she didn’t have much free time. My “think good thoughts” summer was mercifully over and school returned to its normal routine which seemed bustling with activity compared with the last three months of my solitary confinement.
CHAPTER 18
In October the news came out of the blue that mother was taking all of us to Switzerland for Christmas! I would be coming home for Thanksgiving vacation and would be getting new clothes for the trip. I’d have to miss some school, but that could be arranged.
I stared at Sister Benigna in total disbelief. This had to be some sort of trick … some sort of game I was just too stupid to recognize.
I had not seen mother even once in more than a year. I had not been home in over one year. I had been persona non grata for a long time. What had changed? I racked my brain, but I couldn’t find any answers. I still had not met Alfred Steele, her husband of some five months. I had not seen my brother or sisters in almost a year. What had changed?
Sister did confide in me that after mother and Mr. Steele were married, all my back school bills started being paid. I took a chance and called Mrs. Chadwick. She confirmed it. The back bills at Chadwick were beginning to be paid as well. Since nothing else had apparently changed, I could only guess that Mr. Steele was also the reason we were all going on this trip together. Maybe he had begun to wonder why we were never around and maybe it didn’t look so good. I didn’t know exactly what the reason was and I didn’t care. I was actually going to get off the top of this mountain and out of these buildings. I didn’t care if they wanted me to turn upside down and walk on my hands backwards … I was getting out!
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