Tales of a Hollywood Housewife

by Betty Marvin

  But the film pulled me in and I forgot my surroundings until Miss Crawford, on her third cognac, signaled the projectionist to rerun the previous scene. “Do you realize I did that whole scene in one take? I set a record.” She paused. Someone was softly snoring. Miss Crawford got up and walked over to an older gentleman, fast asleep in a large wing chair, and kicked him in the shin, hard. He woke with a start. “Walter, if you need your rest, I’ll excuse you.” The fellow made an embarrassed apology and headed for the door. I wished I could follow him but the film resumed immediately, and with the star by my side, it was clear I wasn’t going anywhere.

  A few more scenes in, Miss Crawford herself got up and slipped out, going up to her bedroom. From there she telephoned me on the staff phone. “Get rid of them,” she ordered quietly. Awkwardly, I told the guests their hostess was terribly sorry, but she had a headache and the party was over, even though the film hadn’t ended. They smirked and nodded knowingly.

  Later that night I had trouble sleeping. I went downstairs in my pajamas to get a cup of tea, but before I stepped into the kitchen, I could hear someone was already there. I looked in, unseen, to find Miss Crawford, still in her Christian Dior gown, on her hands and knees scrubbing the floor. By now she was very drunk, mumbling, “Look at me… I don’t need this shit. I spend a fucking fortune and for what? This place is a mess. I’m firing Marie. I’m firing Henry. I’m firing everybody, including that new nanny, whatever the fuck her name is.”

  The next morning she called me into her dressing room to find her hangover prescription, obviously having no recollection of her threats from the night before.

  Protecting the children from this crazy lady became my mission in life. As time went on, they began to rebel and things went from bad to worse. One evening at the dinner table when Christina refused to eat okra, her mother turned on her with a look of pure hatred and said in a slow, icy, voice, “If you dare disobey me, I will take you back where I found you and show you where you really belong.”

  In spite of the children’s protests I resigned twice, only to be cajoled into returning when Miss Crawford went on location. When I finally left for good, she was furious. “I’ll never forgive you for this, you selfish, ungrateful bitch,” were her parting words. Perfectly delivered.

  Right out of a movie.

  Shortly after I left the Crawford home, Bette Davis called me.

  “I’ve heard wonderful things about you,” she began, telling me she was looking for a nanny for her children.

  “No, thank you,” I replied. Never again.

  7

  Hold Onto Your Seats for a Whirlwind Romance

  MY HOME AFTER leaving Crawford’s was a far cry from her Brentwood estate. Joanne and Bev were both living in New York, so I rented a small studio apartment above a garage, off an alley in Beverly Hills, and took a secretarial job at a store called Rattancraft. It paid the bills, with enough money left over to continue my vocal training with Erv from UCLA and free time to work with Roger. That’s what mattered.

  Robert Walker and I stayed in touch after I left Crawford’s, and it was inadvertently again because of him that my life took another unexpected turn.

  One rainy Saturday he called to take me to a party on the Sunset Strip being given by some new starlet his agency had taken on. Beverly, working in the theater, was visiting from New York, and Robert said he would take us both. The party was packed, full of young actors and other film industry hopefuls. I went into the kitchen to get something to drink and noticed a tall, lean, rather intense man in his midtwenties doing tricks with a yo-yo. We did not speak.

  As the evening progressed, I found myself trapped between two boring actors, both vying for attention. Bev was across the room flirting with an attractive young man. I wanted to leave, but Robert was nowhere to be seen. He probably had met a new cute actor in town and took him out for drinks, ostensibly for business purposes. The rain was coming down in buckets, and I had no money for a cab. The man with the yo-yo passed by, and I turned to him.

  Betty falls for Lee, 1952

  Lee falls for Betty, 1952

  “Excuse me, but do you have a car?”

  “I do,” he said. I liked the sound of his deep, resonant voice.

  “I live only ten minutes away, and my escort seems to have left me. Could you drive me home?”

  His eyes twinkled and his full lips parted in a half-smile. “Poor baby. It would be a privilege,” he said. Quite the charmer, I thought.

  I grabbed Beverly. “Robert left us. We have a ride. Let’s go.”

  “What’s your name?” our driver asked as we got into his 1948 black Ford convertible.

  “Betty Ebeling. And yours?” I was trying to be friendly.

  “Lee Marvin.”

  “I suppose you’re an actor too,” I said sarcastically.

  “Isn’t everyone?” he chuckled.

  When we pulled up in the alley, I just wanted to jump out, say my thanks, and get out of the rain. I was waiting for a phone call from my boyfriend Bob in New York. I’d been thinking of him all night.

  There was no phone call that night, but the next morning, finally, the phone rang. It had to be my Bob.

  “Good morning, darling,” I said, trying to sound cheerful.

  “Same to you, sweetheart.”

  I recognized Lee’s deep voice. “Oh, sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I’m not.” What a flirt.

  “How’d you get my number?”

  “I have my ways. I just came in from fly fishing in the park and thought I’d take you to lunch.”

  “Fly-fishing in the park?”

  “Yeah. On the lawn.”

  “Catch anything?”

  He laughed. “I miss Montauk Point.”

  “Sorry about lunch. I’m going with a friend to hear jazz at the Lighthouse in Manhattan Beach.”

  “What about dinner?”

  “I have a dinner date.”

  “How about after dinner?” he persisted. I started to laugh.

  “Look, I’m practically engaged. My boyfriend is in New York, and I don’t think he would appreciate my going out with you.”

  He was undaunted. “So? I have a girlfriend in Manhattan. What’s wrong with our keeping each other company? I don’t know many people out here… I’m lonely. I like you.”

  “Sorry, I have to go. I’m expecting an important call. Besides, I think you could be trouble.” He laughed. I hung up.

  The phone rang. It was Lee.

  “Just want you to know I don’t give up easily.”

  Bob never called.

  When I came home from dinner that night, I was surprised to see Lee’s car parked in the alley. He was sitting on the steps leading up to my studio.

  “I don’t believe this,” I said.

  “Hi,” he said casually. “Coffee?”

  “Okay. Coffee. But that’s all.”

  He took my hand as we sped toward the beach with the top down. “You know, I could fall madly in love with you.”

  “You don’t even know me.”

  “My agent wants me to stay in Hollywood and work as a character actor in films. Let’s live together at the beach.”

  “We’re not living together anywhere. We’re just going out for a cup of coffee. I’m engaged, remember?”

  “You don’t want to marry that guy.”

  “Yes I do.”

  Lee pulled over to the curb. He took my hand and looked at the ring on my wedding finger. Though it was more of a promise of an engagement ring, it seemed wise not to mention that at the moment. Then, before I could so much as blink, Lee’s long fingers were twisted around mine.

  “Let’s get rid of that thing.” He quickly slipped off the ring, put it into his pocket, and continued driving up the coast.

  “You’ve got one hell of a nerve. Who do you think you are?”

  “The man who adores you.”

  “Oh, please. You’re nuts. Pull over. Give me back my ring and let me out of this
car.”

  Lee stopped the car and took me in his arms. I tried to push him away. “What are you doing? Stop this,” I pleaded halfheartedly.

  He kissed me gently, then cupped my face in his hands and kissed me again. “You’ll grow to love me,” he whispered.

  The next morning, Sunday, Lee called—and called and called. I tried to plead off, but he was adamant. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to see him, but his intensity made me wary. Isn’t a guy supposed to wait a day or two? After the first two calls, I stopped answering the phone. I went out for a walk and even thought of stopping by work, although I wasn’t expected until Monday.

  When I came back into the apartment, the phone was ringing. I gave in.

  “Hello?”

  “Let’s have brunch. There’s a place I want to take you to.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “I’ll be over in an hour. We’re gonna have a wild day.”

  “Okay, okay!” At that point we were both laughing.

  “See you,” Lee said and hung up before I could change my mind.

  We drove through bright morning sunlight, the radio turned up, playing vintage blues.

  “The only music worth listening to,” said Lee, lending his deep bass to Leadbelly’s twelve-string guitar.

  “So where is this place?”

  “Almost there,” he said, making a sharp turn. I looked, and next thing I knew we were headed toward the Santa Monica Pier Amusement Park.

  “I thought we were going out to brunch.”

  “We are. Just wanted to show you something first.”

  Opening the door for me, Lee took my hand and guided me immediately toward the nearest shooting gallery. He put down his money, picked up the gallery’s rifle, and hit every sitting duck—bing, bing, bing. The young kid behind the stand stood there open-mouthed.

  “Guess you can choose whatever you want, Mister,” he said, pointing to the shelves of prizes behind him.

  Lee chose a huge monkey. “Give it to the lady.”

  I felt a little silly walking into the café on the Santa Monica pier holding the oversized stuffed animal, but Lee insisted he be our escort and sat him in a chair at our table.

  After that Lee and I rarely spent a day apart. Ours was a whirlwind courtship with intimate dinners in the best restaurants, long drives up and down the coast, and romantic nights at beach hideaways. I began having trouble remembering what had been so important in my life before we met, and my dreams of a career seemed to be fading.

  One evening, a few weeks into the love affair, I was rehearsing with Roger in his music studio. I looked up and saw Lee sitting in the open French window watching me perform. I stopped in the middle of my song. He applauded. Roger looked up in surprise.

  “What are you doing here?” I said.

  “Watching you,” Lee said. He jumped down, came over and introduced himself to Roger.

  Later that evening we were together in my little apartment. “I hope you don’t take your singing and dancing with Mr. MGM seriously,”Lee said. “There’ll be only one career in this family.”

  I tried not to hear that. My singing lessons were my life’s blood. Could I so easily give up all plans for a career after years of training?

  8

  Love and Marriage Is Every Girl's Goal

  THREE MONTHS LATER I was madly in love and pregnant. It’s not what I had in mind for myself at the time, but we all know life is what happens while we’re making other plans—and life had definitely happened inside me. The thought of an abortion never entered my mind, even though I was frightened and overwhelmed by the thought of having to grow up in nine months and be responsible for a baby. I certainly couldn’t turn to my mother for guidance.

  I knew I had to tell Lee but had no idea how he’d react. We were deeply in love, but he was a free spirit with big plans for a career. When I summoned up my courage and told him I was pregnant, he said little, but once in bed, it didn’t seem to matter. Still, the next day I found myself wondering where this was going and how I would manage if I had to raise a child on my own.

  Two nights later we celebrated April Fool’s Day at one of our favorite restaurants, the famous Cock N Bull on Sunset Strip. After his two martinis and my Dubonnet and soda—the only drink I could tolerate during pregnancy—I ordered Welsh rarebit and he asked for the beefsteak and kidney pie with a bottle of their best Cabernet. After dinner Lee pulled me to him.

  “Betty, you are the only woman I’ve ever loved.”

  “Oh, sure, April Fool, right?”

  “I’m serious. I can’t do better. I want to marry you.”

  I fell silent, wondering if he was proposing because he felt he had to. He must have read my mind.

  “This isn’t a shotgun proposal,” he said. “I love you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. What do you say?”

  I happily said yes.

  We rented a small, one-bedroom, furnished apartment in Beverly Hills and brought our few personal possessions there to set up housekeeping. We decided to marry as soon as possible and not tell our family or friends about the pregnancy. As if they couldn’t count. Because we were both working, we planned to drive to Las Vegas early Saturday morning, be married that evening, and return on Sunday. I bought a pink, silk, sleeveless shell, street-length dress with a brocade bodice. I didn’t think white would be appropriate in my condition. I also bought a sexy, ice-blue, satin nightgown that I could ill afford and never wore. Lee packed a white shirt and tie and threw a sports jacket in the trunk, and we were off. We drove most of the day through the hot desert with the top down. My face and arms were sunburned and my long, blond hair was like straw by the time we saw the lights of Las Vegas. We stopped at a Chevron station on the outskirts of town and went into separate restrooms to change. I splashed water on my face, put on a little makeup, and, in that tiny gas station bathroom, struggled into my wedding dress. When I inched outside, clutching my bag of cast-off clothes, Lee was leaning against the wall, waiting for me.

  “You look beautiful,” he said.

  Setting off to find a chapel—no problem in a place where all gambling is fast and easy—we soon came upon a Queen Anne Victorian house on the strip with a neon sign brightly announcing “Wee Kirk of the Heather. Weddings performed here. No reservations required.” It seemed the perfect choice.

  Arriving at the top of the stairs we hesitated, then turned to each other. Lee put his arms around me. “This feels right,” he said and gave me a quick kiss. When we rang the doorbell, wedding chimes sounded, the door opened, and we were greeted by a short, round, middle-aged man with a jolly face who, if one added a beard, could have substituted for Santa.

  “Come on in, lovebirds. I’m Reverend Loveable,” he said. With a flip of a switch, organ music played in the background and electric candles glowed on an altar that was adorned with artificial white roses. I was about to laugh, but Lee restrained me by squeezing my right hand.

  “Have you got a witness?” the Reverend Loveable asked cheerfully. We shook our heads. “That’s okay. I’ll get my wife.” He left the room and returned shortly with a plain-looking woman in an Indian flannel bathrobe and beaded moccasins. She remained silent and detached, partially hidden behind a screen in the corner of the room.

  “One more thing,” Loveable said. He left the room again, returning with a bunch of artificial lilies of the valley for me to hold.

  “Thank you,” I said, biting my lip.

  “Now, do you want the long or short version?” asked Loveable.

  “What’s the difference?” Lee asked.

  “Well, the cheap one just covers the basics, takes five minutes, and costs twenty-five dollars. I recommend the one with some words from the Bible, fifteen minutes for forty bucks.”

  “What the hell,” Lee said. “Give us the full treatment.” We took our places and the Reverend Loveable began to ramble on about marriage being like a rose garden and the importance of pulling out the weeds as we walked along the pa
th. He then recited the Lord’s Prayer. I thought this a strange choice for a wedding, particularly the “forgive us our trespasses” part. After we promised to love and obey, Lee put a gold band on my finger, Loveable pronounced us man and wife, and we kissed. Our time was up.

  When Lee took out his wallet to pay for the service, the Reverend Loveable offered to sell us a record of the ceremony for a small additional fee. We declined, a decision I always regretted.

  We had no reservation and there were no rooms available in the Sahara or either of the other two hotels, so we spent our wedding night with Lee drinking a bottle of champagne while he rolled craps in the Sahara casino. Then we began the long drive back to Los Angeles. “This place is in the middle of nowhere,” I said, snuggling next to my husband and leaving the lights behind.

  “And not enough beds,” Lee said. “A guy gets married and can’t even get laid.”

  On our way out of town we passed a Marine hitchhiking. Lee slammed on the brakes. “Can’t leave a fellow Marine in the desert.” The young man was drunk and soon passed out on my shoulder. Lee glanced over as I was drifting off. “I don’t believe it!” he said. “My bride ends up sleeping with a drunk Marine on our wedding night, and it wasn’t even me!”

  We spent our Sunday honeymoon in bed. That afternoon, on his second bottle of champagne, Lee spontaneously picked up the phone and called his family.

  “Congratulate me! I just called to tell you I’m a married man and you’re going to be grandparents!”

  It was a short conversation. No one asked to speak to me. Lee hung up, made light of it, and filled his glass.

  “Now it’s your turn. Better call your mom.”