Tales of a Hollywood Housewife

by Betty Marvin

  Through the bay window, behind his back, I saw his Lincoln slip away from the curb and coast down the street. Daddy, oblivious, carried on.

  “You come down here and turn my world upside down. No daughter of mine is gonna’ ruin my good name. I’m Chief Ernie. Everybody knows me. I’ve got my reputation to think about. I don’t need this.”

  I held my breath as the car gathered speed.

  “You’ve made a fine mess of things. What more could possibly happen to ruin my day?”

  The loud crash got his attention. I froze. He turned and saw his Lincoln imbedded in the neighbor’s house on the corner.

  The Tri Delts threw me out of their house and my father threw me out of his. I decided then to get a part-time job and make it on my own. The enrollment at UCLA jumped from eight thousand to fifteen thousand at the end of the war in 1945 and there was little housing available, so Joanne and I put our names on the waiting list for a dorm room and moved into the Starlight Motel in Santa Monica. Joanne received a monthly allowance from her loving family in New York and offered to pay the rent until I started working. I wrote to Grandma Ebeling, who had promised to loan me money for school if I needed it. She wrote back telling me if I really wanted to go to college I would find a way. Thankfully, UCLA granted me a scholarship when the school learned of my situation.

  Despite the turmoil of my life outside of school, I loved my music classes, particularly my daily voice lesson with Erv, and the new friendships I made in the very first music and theare departments on campus. It was fun arranging songs for the musical comedies being produced by the students. Jerry and I continued to keep constant company, and together we had built up quite a collection of those little known torch songs that pull at the heart strings.

  The more time I spent with Jerry, the more those love songs began to eat at me. He was so handsome, so much fun, and he seemed to adore me. I certainly knew how I felt about him. Why didn’t he ever make a move? Finally, I got up my nerve. Maybe he’s just shy, I thought. We finished a duet, and I reached over and gently touched his leg. I moved in, hoping he’d respond with a kiss. Instead, he pulled away. I felt like sinking into a hole. He must have seen the look on my face, because he took my hand.

  “Betty, I love you. You know that.”

  You don’t do anything about it, I thought, but said nothing.

  “Look, I’ve got to tell you something. I like guys.”

  “What does that mean?” I said. I hadn’t a clue.

  “Do you remember the Kinsey Report?”

  I had to have it spelled out for me. When at last I understood, I said, “Well, I’m adding you to my list of things I’ve been deprived of until now—blacks, Jews, and boys who like other boys.”

  We laughed, hugged, and promised friendship forever, but it was a long time before I could look at Jerry without thinking, If only…

  4

  Innocence Lost: Learning Life's Lessons

  AS THE SEMESTER was coming to a close at UCLA and Christmas approached, I still hadn’t heard from Daddy. I knew my roommate, Joanne, hated living in our dank room at the Starlight Motel, so I tried to make the place look more cheerful. She came back from school to find me hanging Christmas ornaments in our abode to detract from the water-stained walls in the dreary room. The peeling paper on one wall was hidden behind stacked wooden boxes full of school books and a clothes rack full of her many outfits. Joanne sighed.

  “It’s not that bad,” I said.

  “Not that bad,” she moaned. “What a dump!”

  “It’s only temporary,” I said. “I’ll pay my half of the rent as soon as I get a job.”

  She looked out into the cement parking lot and went to pull down the shade. It came off the roller. “Oh, shit,” she said as she grabbed a dingy white towel from the bathroom to hang over the window.

  A couple of days before the school break, Joanne was in class and our friend Bill came over to study with me for an exam. While he was using the bathroom I heard a knock at the door. I opened it and saw Daddy standing there, beaming in a Santa Claus hat and dangling car keys from one hand. “Ho, ho, ho! Merry Christmas, kiddo.”

  “Daddy. What a surprise… You’re not mad anymore?”

  “No. You think I could stay mad at my little girl? Santa’s brought you a Christmas present.” Behind him Faye was standing next to a ’36 Hudson Terraplane with a huge red ribbon attached to the hood. She waved. Daddy’s roadster was parked next to the clunker. “You didn’t think I’d forget my little girl, did you?”

  The toilet flushed and Daddy’s face fell as Bill appeared, stepped forward, and extended his hand. “Bill Duffy, sir. Merry Christmas.”

  Daddy ignored the greeting and glared at Bill. “What are you doing here?” He looked at me in disbelief. “You’re living with a schwartze? Well, that beats all.” He tossed me the keys and turned to leave, calling to Faye, “Get in the car.” He jumped into the driver’s seat next to her and raced away.

  Before I could close the door the short, fat, bald motel manager blocked the entrance. “Well, this is a pretty picture,” he sneered. He raised his fist to Bill. ”I could have you arrested. We run a respectable place here. Get off my property, pronto!” Then he turned to me. “And you, you little tramp, shacking up with a jiggaboo. Get your ass out of here before I call the police.”

  After Bill took off, I loaded our belongings into the Hudson and drove past the office. The manager was standing out front with his arms folded. I yelled, “You creep!” and stepped on the gas, almost hitting Joanne, who was coming up the walk. I pulled over.

  “Get in,” I said. Joanne did, and smoke poured from the exhaust as we sped up Pico Boulevard. “The nerve of that guy,” I muttered.

  Joanne calmly lit a Camel cigarette. “Will you please tell me what’s going on?”

  “The manager accused me of shacking up with Bill. Threw us out.”

  “Big deal,” she said. “I’ve been thrown out of better places than that. Where’d you get this old jalopy?”

  “Christmas present from Daddy.”

  “That was nice of him.”

  “Nice! He also thinks I’m carrying on with Bill. Men’s minds must be in the gutter… What’s a schwartze?”

  Joanne looked at me and laughed. “What an innocent!” The car started missing, then sputtered and died in the middle of heavy rush hour traffic. Horns honked as I tried frantically to start the engine. “Some present,” I moaned. Finally moving again, we rattled on in my old heap of a car, looking for a different motel to call home. We were passing one dive after another, many of them sparsely decorated with blinking holiday lights for the season, making me feel even more blue.

  Joanne glanced over at me. “Cheer up,” she said, lighting another cigarette. “We’re going to Bogie’s for Christmas dinner.” I gave her a questioning look.

  “Bogie… Humphrey Bogart. My cousin’s husband?”

  I remembered then that Lauren Bacall was Joan’s first cousin. It wasn’t the type of thing Joanne would mention often. She could have cared less about stardom and fame.

  “The pool there is great. We’ll bring our suits and live the life of luxury.” She smiled at me as we pulled into the rundown Do Drop Inn, with a “Vacancy” sign in neon orange. Our new home.

  A few days later I called my father. We hadn’t spoken since our scene at the motel.

  “Hi, Daddy,” I said nervously

  “Hey, kiddo! How’s my girl?”

  “It’s good to talk to you, Daddy. I’m glad you’re not upset.”

  “No. All’s forgiven. Daddy loves you. It’s Christmas! Why don’t you come to Tijuana with Faye and me? Daddy will show you a good time at the track.”

  “I can’t. Actually, I’m going to Humphrey Bogart’s.”

  “You’re going to Humphrey Bogart’s? And I’m going to the moon!”

  “I’m not making it up. My roommate, Joanne, is Lauren Bacall’s cousin.”

  “Huh. I didn’t know Lauren Bacall wa
s Jewish,” he said.

  “We’ll come by Christmas morning before you leave for Tijuana. I have a little present for you.”

  On Christmas day Thomas, Humphrey Bogart’s black, effeminately gay, and well-mannered chauffeur, came to fetch us. I grabbed my beach bag and jumped into the back seat of a silver Cadillac, pinching myself as we glided through Beverly Hills. Joanne directed Thomas into the hills of Silver Lake for a quick visit with Daddy.

  “Thanks for making this stop, Joanne. I know it’s out of the way.”

  “No problem. I’ve been dying to meet the chief.”

  We pulled into the drive of my father’s glamorous house.

  “Wow,” said Joanne. “I guess gambling pays off.

  Daddy, peering out the window, was equally impressed by the silver caddy out front. He and Faye greeted us eagerly as we came in the door and I introduced Joanne.

  Faye took us immediately to view her masterpiece—an artificial Christmas tree covered with blue lights and plastic angels. “How do you like it?”

  Joanne was speechless. I mumbled, “Wonderful.”

  “This is the best invention ever,” said Faye. “You never have to buy another.”

  Daddy cornered Joanne. “I hear you’re Lauren Bacall’s cousin.

  Joanne smiled. “Yes.”

  “How did that happen?” Daddy said.

  “My mother and her mother, Nat, are sisters.”

  “How old is she? She can’t be much older than you. Did you two grow up together?”

  “Yes. In New York.” I could see Joanne wanted to escape, but no such luck.

  Daddy was unstoppable. “Is she as sexy in person as she is on the screen? I’ll never forget her, ‘You know how to whistle, don’t you? Just pucker up and blow.’” He let out a laugh.

  Joanne looked desperate, so I went to her rescue.

  “Sorry, we have to run. Merry Christmas to you both. Have a good time in Tijuana.”

  After hugs and kisses, Joanne and I went on our way up Benedict Canyon to the Cape Cod home nestled in the hills. An authentic Christmas tree stood inside the entrance, decorated with real candles. Boughs of greens were draped on the beams, and carols played throughout the house. I thought this home would be more like those in the movies, but it was no bigger than my father’s place in Silver Lake. It was comfortably furnished in traditional Early American design, although the occupants were certainly not your traditional couple. Bogie was fifty-six when he married Betty, Lauren Bacall, who was only nineteen. No wonder Bogie called her “Baby.”

  No one was there to greet us, but Joanne paid no notice. She knew her way around. We went out to the cabana, put on our swimsuits, jumped into the pool, and grabbed a couple of rubber rafts. Shy and insecure, I was relieved in a way not to meet my hosts on arriving.

  “How’s your love life?” I asked Joanne as we floated. “Are you seeing that disc jockey?”

  “Great lover,” she said.

  “Joanne, he’s married.”

  “Not really,” she said. “His wife’s frigid. They haven’t had sex in years.”

  “His kids are older than you.”

  “Can I help it if there’s a thirty-year-old woman stuck in this seventeen-year-old body?”

  She drifted to the other end of the pool.

  I squinted my eyes against the sun and glanced over at Joanne. We were devoted friends and yet so different. She was the kind of girl I never would have associated with in high school. She smoked, drank, and had sex with anyone who turned her on. I now had met my own handsome heartthrob, Bob Horton, who was studying acting in the theater department. But I had to first feel “engaged” to even consider having sex with him, though I wanted him desperately. Also I knew Bob had other girlfriends and I was afraid if I did not eventually “go all the way” he would stop seeing me. The situation had me under a lot of stress.

  I was fascinated by Joanne. She was bright, sophisticated, and an excellent student. Above and beyond her promiscuity, she was also very moral and had a strong conviction of her beliefs. She had been raised by her loving family in New York to be honest and forthright. Her father, an attorney, was a liberal politician and Joan followed in his footsteps to the extent of passing out political fliers at the University bus stop. Just being in her company was an eye-opener for me. And I couldn’t quite take in her cousin, marrying a movie star thirty-seven years her senior.

  “Virgin Marys,” Thomas said, lowering the silver tray onto a poolside table.

  Joanne and I got out of the pool. She took one of the drinks to the bar and added a shot of vodka. She held out her glass and made a toast to me. “Here’s to losing your virginity. Want a shot?”

  Dinner was announced, and in we went. I finally met our host and hostess when they came to the table for the traditional turkey feast, joined by Lauren’s mother, Nat. Bogie was pleasant, but Lauren and her mother, Joanne’s aunt, were cold and unfriendly. They practically ignored my presence. I was uncomfortable, but I had been well trained as a child and spoke only when spoken to. Perhaps my silence and not feeling particularly welcome was a hangover from childhood. Joanne was very much at ease and behaved as if Lauren and she were more than cousins. They were friends. After all, Lauren was only four years older.

  As it happened, Christmas day was also Bogie’s birthday. He celebrated with many drinks and went on to dominate most of the dinner conversation, finally stopping to ask, “Where’s Thomas?”

  “He went down the hill for a bottle of milk.” Bacall responded.

  Bogie was amused. “Well, we won’t see him for a few days.” He leaned in toward me with a sly grin. “When he’s feeling horny, he always says he’s going out for milk. He gets drunk, goes cruising, and ends up with some fag. I don’t give a damn except when he takes the Caddie.” He laughed and downed his drink. I smiled, thinking of Jerry’s possible plights.

  After dinner Bogie locked himself into his green and red plaid “mad room” to take a nap. Lauren had cleverly mounted a large, sexy portrait of herself on the ceiling over his sofa, so he never stayed mad long. Shortly afterward he ambled out and disappeared to his boat, the Santana, anchored in San Pedro. He called Lauren continuously from there and she didn’t seem to mind. Obviously, it was some game they played.

  Thomas surprised us by returning sober and drove us back to our rundown motel room late in the evening, our arms loaded down with delectable leftovers. We lived off of Bogie’s Christmas dinner for the rest of the week. I didn’t call Daddy after the holidays, and he didn’t call me.

  Months later, Joanne and I moved into a UCLA dormitory for a semester and then into the Beverly Glen cottage we would share with my friend Beverly. The three of us had a wonderful time living in the Glen for the next couple of years. I’d become seriously involved with my boyfriend, Bob. He had given me his friendship ring to wear as a symbol of our supposed upcoming engagement. The ring, for both of us, basically acted as a sanction for being lovers. But Bob, being an actor, decided to give New York a shot. So we parted in 1948, with his promise of sending for me as soon as he was settled.

  5

  The Strange New World of a Hollywood Nanny

  I WAS TWENTY, just out of college, and training for the opera with my voice teacher Erv. My four years at UCLA as a music major studying voice had flown by. I had wonderful friends, including Robert Walker. While I was working part-time at the Bureau of Occupations on campus, an ad came in seeking an assistant to Lew Wasserman, head of MCA, the biggest talent agency in the business. I thought of Robert and tucked the notice away until I could tell him about it. He got the job.

  My good friend Robert Walker

  Several months later I was job hunting and he returned the favor. Joan Crawford, one of MCA’s clients, needed a nanny. Robert heard about it and called me. He even offered to drive me to the interview on his lunch hour. My nerves were rattling.

  “Joanne knows all the Hollywood gossip and said this woman is a lunatic,” I said. “Did you know she bought
these kids? She couldn’t adopt them because she wasn’t maried.“

  “Juicy Hollywood gossip. Check it out for yourself and tell me all about it,” Robert offered calmly.

  “I don’t think I’m qualified.”

  “Tell her you’ve worked as a camp counselor,” he said, laughing. “That should be more than enough for her. She’s got four kids. Wouldn’t that make any woman desperate for help?”

  When we arrived in Brentwood I was so caught up with planning what to say in the interview that I didn’t notice when Robert slowed down to come to a stop. She won’t hire me, I thought. This is just ridiculous.

  “We’re here,” said Robert.

  I looked up. We were parked in front of an enormous, walled-in, white colonial mansion, larger than any home I’d ever seen. It sat well behind a large, well-tended front garden. Robert looked at his watch. I didn’t move.

  “I’ll be waiting for you around the corner when you’re finished,” Robert said as I got out of the car.

  I opened the gate and walked up the long, brick path to the front door. A tall, mature, slightly fey butler stood waiting for me.

  “Yes?”

  “Betty Ebeling to see Miss Crawford.”

  “She’s expecting you. This way.”

  I followed as he led me past circular stairs down a long hallway. En route I spied a white, formal drawing room on my right and an elegant, glassed-in dining area on the left. A hall door swung open and a short, rotund, orange-haired woman in a white uniform poked her head through and gave me the once-over, then disappeared.

  “She’ll see you now,” the butler said, opening the door at the end of the hall to a large, sunlit, book-lined study. Seated at an oval desk was Joan Crawford. Behind her was a curved bay window through which I could see a large, manicured garden with a rectangular pool. I flinched as she stood and came to greet me. There was little resemblance to her image on screen because she was in shorts and wore no makeup. Even so, she looked glamorous—a woman in her forties, of average height, with short, brown hair, large, green eyes, and great legs.