Tales of a Hollywood Housewife

by Betty Marvin

  Tales of a

  Hollywood

  Housewife

  A Memoir By The First Mrs. Lee Marvin

  Betty Marvin

  With Gila Sand

  iUniverse, Inc.

  New York Bloomington

  Tales of a Hollywood Housewife

  A Memoir by The First Mrs. Lee Marvin

  Copyright © 2009 by Betty Marvin

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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  Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any Web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

  ISBN: 978-1-4401-9827-4 (pbk)

  ISBN: 978-1-4401-9828-1 (ebk)

  ISBN: 978-1-4401-9829-8 (hbk)

  iUniverse rev. date: 2/23/10

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  PREFACE

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  With love to my four children, Christopher, Courtenay, Cynthia, and Claudia.

  And thanks to their father, Lee, for the adventure.

  This is not just another “Hollywood story.” Betty’s marriage to Lee Marvin will take you on a sweeping journey, from rags to riches and back to rags. To be able to emerge as a survivor from those tumultuous Hollywood days is remarkable. It takes guts to keep marching forward. Betty does just that in her entertaining, humorous, and poignant memoir.

  —Tab Hunter

  Acknowledgments

  To my poet friend Shirley Windward, for encouraging me to write and showing me how; Kathryn Harrison, for her support; and Gila Sand, for her invaluable assistance.

  PREFACE

  Except for seeing very few movies when I was growing up in the small river town of Sedro-Woolley, Washington, and imitating the Judy Garland songs and dances seen in those movies, I had no knowledge of or interest in Hollywood. I was taught to play the piano and given an appreciation of all the arts by my Grandma Ebeling, In 1945, after graduating from high school at sixteen, I ran away to find my father in Los Angeles, with the dream of majoring in music at UCLA.

  Getting to know Daddy was an education in itself. But it was pure serendipity that my room mate Joanne took me to her cousin Lauren Bacall’s home to have Christmas dinner with the family, including her husband Humphrey Bogart. It was also a stroke of fate that my school friend and singing partner, Jerry, should introduce me to Roger Edens, head music producer at MGM, who became my coach. I was set for a career as a singer, but I needed to make money. I got even closer to the Hollywood life by becoming the nanny to Joan Crawford’s four children. That crazy experience lasted for two years.

  I was certainly not prepared at twenty-four for a whirlwind courtship and marriage to Lee Marvin, who was just getting started as an actor in Hollywood. I put aside seven years of voice training because my husband declared there would be only one career in the family. I had been taught as a young girl that marriage and family were the only important goals in life. Lee and I were madly in love, and that was enough. We were completely optimistic about the future, sharing a little apartment sparsely filled with secondhand furniture. I had never been happier. By the time the marriage ended, four children and fifteen years later, we were living in a large beautiful home full of priceless antiques and I was miserable.

  For much of my married life I appeared as a tall blonde in a mink coat, attending premieres on the arm of a move star, famous for my fabulous Hollywood dinner parties, acting the life of the Hollywood wife to the fullest. Few knew about the roller-coaster ride of my marriage to Lee, a Jekyll-and-Hyde husband who ricocheted between a life of devotion to me and the children and periods of binge drinking and womanizing.

  As miserable as I was, I was afraid to cut the cord. What would become of me and our kids? Leaving was so frightening, leaving and not knowing what I was walking into, particularly with Lee’s threats to destroy me if I dared to walk away. But I had to get out. I put that tumultuous life behind me. My days became a juggling act, as a single mother back in school, pursuing a career as a painter.

  After earning a BFA and MFA in visual art at the Otis Art Institute in 1976, I was enjoying an exciting life in my studio in Venice, with a career full of travel and exhibits. In 1990, I innocently signed away my Venice building and my home, in a bad investment. Suddenly I was homeless, once again forced to employ all my skills to survive. At the low point, my only possessions were my old Chrysler, my dog, and my typewriter. I drove up and down the California coast finding food and shelter by working odd jobs. It was very cathartic, banging it all out on the typewriter keys, trying to understand how I got myself into such a mess.

  I have gone from early nothing, to being rich, then being homeless, and on to the real wealth that comes after being cured of the money disease and discovering the true value of a joyful life.

  My guide for making art has always been having enough courage to run the high risk of grand fun. Now, at eighty one, I apply that to life, having as much fun as possible.

  I love words and enjoy telling stories. Having a trained eye and ear has been invaluable in envisioning scenes and characters and hearing what they have to say.

  As I learned from those experiences and was able to distance myself from my past I became interested in putting my stories in to a book. It has been a rewarding endeavor.

  1

  Finding Daddy in the Land of Milk and Honey

  THE GREYHOUND BUS pulled into the Hollywood station. I was a rumpled mess, exhausted from thirty-six hours of trying to shut out the noise of two drunken sailors and curl my long, young body into a comfortable position. I carried my Samsonite suitcase into the waiting room, hoping to recognize the man in the photo, now older and out of uniform. Before running away from my grandparents’ house in the small river town of Sedro-Woolley, Washington, in June 1945, I had phoned him at his office, collect, to say I was coming. He was out, so I had left a message. But no one was there to meet me.

  My heart sank. Had my father pulled another disappearing act? I searched in my pocket, found his home phone number, resurrected my courage, and called.

  “Hello,” a sweet-voiced woman answered.

  “Is this Hollywood 9141?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is Mr. Ebeling there?”

  “Who’s calling?”

  “Betty… his daughter.” Who is she? I wondered. I tried to pick up pieces of the long, muffled discussion i
n the background. Finally she returned to the phone and I told her where I was.

  “Wait there, honey. I’ll be right down.”

  An hour later a big, buxom, bleached blond in a red-and yellow-flowered jersey dress with plunging neckline, her heavy makeup obvious in the noonday sun, walked in, spotted me, and came right over. We looked at each other in disbelief. I was shocked by her appearance, and she probably had never confronted a skinny, six-foot teenager in saddle shoes and letter sweater. Finally she broke the ice. “Hi, honey, I’m Faye.”

  Following “Good trip?” and “Fine,” we lapsed into an awkward silence. She picked up my suitcase and led me out of the building to a sleek, black Lincoln Continental, double-parked.

  My shyness was quickly superseded by fear when Faye, without warning, pulled into heavy traffic. Horns honked and drivers shouted. The car lurched up Sunset as her right foot spasmodically jumped from accelerator to brake, barely avoiding rear-ending the car ahead. Amazingly, we made it to the turnoff for Hollywood Hills without a scratch. The Lincoln swerved up a winding road and pulled into the driveway of a stately Mediterranean mansion.

  Daddy’s Mediterranean Mansion

  Climbing the tile steps to my father’s beautiful home, I was sure my Cinderella dreams had come true until a black Chow dog confronted me at the front door. He snarled and I jumped back.

  “Down, Oscar!” Faye commanded. She took him upstairs, and I was left alone to fend for myself.

  I timidly wandered from the garishly furnished sunken living room into the formal dining room. From there I discovered a room with a bar, jukebox, slot machine, pool table, and the first TV I had ever seen. I went into the kitchen and peered into the refrigerator. It was empty except for a carton of milk and an uncovered plate of dried-out cold cuts and Swiss cheese, dominated by the smell of a dill pickle.

  After what seemed an eternity, Faye came into the living room, where I was sitting on the edge of a gold velvet sofa. As though announcing an audience with the Wizard of Oz, she said, “He will see you now.” I stood; panic grabbed my stomach and I thought I was going to throw up right there on the Oriental rug.

  “Go on up,” she said, pointing the way. “I have to get his medicine.”

  I went up the stairs and down a long hallway leading to the master suite. I peered through the bedroom door. There he was, my savior, bigger and more handsome than I had imagined, stretched out on ivory satin pillows, sporting blue silk monogrammed pajamas and a giant hangover. He rolled over and looked me up and down.

  “How ya doin’, kiddo?” he said with a wink.

  “Fine, thank you.” I was too tongue-tied to say more. Faye hurried in with a bottle of Pepto-Bismol. He turned to her as she ladled a tablespoon of the pink, pasty liquid into his mouth.

  “She’s got my nose, don’t you think?” he asked Faye. Then he turned back to me. “Well, you’re here. How long you planning to stay?”

  “Daddy,” I stammered, the word feeling strange in my mouth. We’d never spoken in person before. “Don’t you remember?” I extended my sweaty palm and showed him my treasured photo of him, creased from two years of being tucked nightly under my pillow back home in Washington.

  He studied it quickly. “I looked pretty good in a uniform.” He smiled.

  “Read the back,” I implored him. “You said I could come live with you. You said I could go to UCLA.”

  He turned it over and read the words he had inscribed to me. To my horror, he seemed amused.

  “You’re a funny kid. How old are you?“

  “Sixteen.“

  How did you ever get all the way to California? Your Grandma and Grandpa know you’re here?”

  “I left them a note.”

  “Oh, boy. I’m not their favorite person, you know.”

  “It will be okay. I swear.”

  He looked up at me, and this time I managed to hold his gaze. You can’t send me all the way back there. Please.

  “So, okay.” My father took a breath and let it out in a whistle. “UCLA. It’s as good as it gets—your Daddy ought to know.”

  “You’re right,” I said. “They’re starting a new music department.”

  “Music? First things first, kiddo. Let’s think about your sorority. It’s Delta Delta Delta for you, Aunt Rella’s sorority, probably the best sorority on campus. That way you’ll meet all the right people. If we’re lucky you’ll get pinned to a young man from the best fraternity, get married, and we’ll all live happily ever after.” He laughed, wheezed, then sank back into his pillows with a moan.

  “Well, that’s it, kiddo. Faye, show her the guest room.” Oscar followed me back down the hall, growling.

  After spending a few hours behind closed doors of the master suite, my father appeared in a tan suit, white silk tie, and brown and white spectator shoes. It was three in the afternoon and he was ready to start his day. He told Faye to take care of me and get me ready for my coming out. Then he jumped into a sports car that resembled a space ship and sped off. I couldn’t imagine what my father did to be so rich and powerful.

  Daddy

  Faye made a grocery run to the local deli. After a dinner of a bologna sandwich, potato ships, and a Coke, I went to my chintz bedroom, crawled between the pink sheets, and longed for Grandma’s cooking.

  The next day Faye and I drove down Sunset Boulevard to attend the Sunday church service at Aimee Semple McPherson’s Evangelical Temple. As soon as we walked into the round, white building, Faye went into the first pew, fell on her knees, and began to pray. She looked up after a few minutes. “I’m very religious,” she whispered shyly.

  Aimee made her entrance onto the stage wearing a long, flowing, white robe. She bore a striking resemblance to Faye, with long blonde curls and heavy makeup. After a lively hymn from the large choir, accompanied by a brass band and clapping, Aimee talked about having been carried away by the Devil. “My Lord Jesus brought me back to you… you, my loyal, God-fearing followers.” The congregation added amens and applause.

  Faye gave me a sideway glance. “You been baptized?” I nodded. “Good. Otherwise you’re going to hell.”

  When the service was over, our next stop downtown was Clifton’s Cafeteria. We entered through double swinging doors and walked past a scenic landscape with a mountaintop chapel nestled in the redwoods and a few deer peering shyly from behind the trees. I got into the buffet line.

  “You gotta try the jello,” Faye advised. “My favorite is the yellow because sometimes it has a piece of pear inside!”

  On our way to a table Faye pointed to the wall. “A deer used to hang right up there. I guess they moved him. Now they’ve got a chicken and a crow. Let’s sit here by the moose head.”

  When we arrived at my father’s car lot, the first thing I saw was a billboard of Daddy himself, in Indian headdress, looming over a sign that said, CHIEF ERNIE’S: A SOLID BLOCK OF SOLID CARS.

  Faye looked up with pride at that sign. “Do you know your father is the biggest used car dealer in L.A.?”

  “Really?”

  Pre-war, used cars lined the block as far as the eye could see.

  “All these are his,” she said as we pulled into the lot.

  I looked through a window of the office and saw an older black man shaking his fist. The man stormed out yelling, “You cheatin’ son of a bitch!” He got into a beat-up blue Chevrolet coupe and the car sputtered off, steam pouring out from under the hood.

  Daddy came out of his office and turned to a salesman. “That guy thinks he should get his money back. Fat chance. Keep him off my lot.”

  “Right, Chief,” the salesman responded.

  Daddy turned to Faye and me, all smiles. “Why don’t you girls go across the street to the bar? I’ll be over in a few minutes.”

  I had never been to a bar. As we left the bright sunshine and entered The Hot Spot, a dark, neighborhood watering hole, I could barely see the few shady-looking men giving us the once-over. Nat King Cole’s “Route 66” blared f
rom the jukebox as we sat on a couple of bar stools. Faye ordered a Coke for herself and a Shirley Temple for me.

  A few minutes later Daddy arrived and seemed to know everyone in the place. He sidled up to the bar, ordered a double martini, straight up, with two olives, put his arm around me, and called out, “Hey, everybody. I want you to meet my niece.” They smiled and waved. I played dumb. When his drinking buddies went back to their Liar’s dice, my father looked at me, winked, and whispered, “You don’t mind, do you, kiddo? I’m too young to have a daughter your age.”

  Daddy called the bartender over and ordered drinks for everyone. “By the way, Johnny,” he added, “I want to place a bet. A hundred bucks on Baby Girl to win in the fourth.”

  “Ernie, you’re already over your limit. Freddy says you owe him. Time to settle up.”

  “Come on. I’m good for it. This is a hot tip.”

  We spent the rest of the afternoon waiting for my father to finish his cocktails. Each time we were ready to leave, another pal arrived and bought a round. I had three Shirley Temples lined up in front of me when we finally made our exit. He left his sports car on the lot and insisted on driving the Lincoln Continental down Sunset Boulevard to Earl Carroll’s nightclub. On the way, he turned on the radio and switched the dial.

  “Listen to this, kiddo. This is my show.”

  “You have a show?” Wild ecstatic voices, praising God in harmony, filled the car.

  “Yours truly, Chief Ernie, is the big sponsor of the Gospel Hour. I’m no dummy! Every nigger in town gets his car from me.”

  We pulled up in front of a neon sign proclaiming, “Through these portals pass the most beautiful girls in the world.” The valet raced to open the car doors, greeting my father by name.

  Everyone from the manager to the hatcheck girl knew my father. He slipped the maître d’ a wad of bills for a ringside table. The pretty, barely clad cigarette girl seemed happy to see Daddy, and the waiter brought him a drink as soon as we were seated at our table. He ordered porterhouse steaks, baked potatoes, and salads for the three of us but never ate a bite the whole evening, preferring to drink his dinner. I was already feasting on the thrill of being in a real nightclub, like the ones I had seen in the movies. Jimmy Durante was on stage with the showgirls delivering very suggestive adlibs. My father was the perfect audience, laughing loudly and clapping nonstop. “Jimmy’s a friend of mine. This is as good as it gets, right, kiddo?” I agreed. Durante spotted my father and came over to our table after the first show. Once again Daddy introduced me as his niece.