Tales of a Hollywood Housewife

by Betty Marvin

  My last visit with Daddy and Faye, 1986

  I waited until I had recovered from that experience and then drove to Oregon to visit my eighty-year-old mother. I left at dawn and arrived in time for dinner. The next morning she was sitting at the Formica table in the kitchen, sipping her second cup of coffee. She looked particularly frail in her blue flannel robe, compared with my last sight of her a year before.

  I sat facing her in my jeans and sweatshirt, finishing my tea and toast. “Mother, I’m trying to put together some pieces of my life. I need your help.”

  “Oh, Betty, let’s not get into that.” She looked trapped, twisting the tissue in her hand.

  I was not about to back down. “Okay. I can come here every year and we can talk about the weather, your garden, and any topic that’s safe. Or we can get to know each other. I have so many questions. Please help me.”

  She pulled herself up straight, avoiding my eyes. “What do you want to know?”

  I wanted to avoid causing her more pain but pushed on. “Is it true my father wanted a divorce and, instead of discussing it with you, he asked his mother to break the news?”

  My mother stared at the table as if she had not heard me, then sighed. “Who told you that?” She paused. “It was either Grandma Ebeling or Aunt Rella.” She paused again. “Yes, Grandma Ebeling was the one who told me,” she sighed.

  “Didn’t that upset you?” I asked tenderly.

  “I don’t know. I don’t remember. Anna Ebeling felt I wasn’t good enough for her son. I guess I was relieved when it was over. Ernie wasn’t exactly a devoted husband, you know. He drank and played around.”

  “That must have been hurtful,” I said, remembering the anguish caused by my own deceitful husband. “It sounds like he was not good enough for you.”

  My mother looked at me, tears in her eyes. That was the first time she had ever spoken to me of my father.

  “Mother, I don’t want to make you sad, but I need to know what happened. Is it true Aunt Rella wanted to adopt me?”

  “Yes,” my mother whispered, avoiding my eyes. “But I didn’t want her to have you. You were my baby.”

  That sounded strange. I had never felt like her baby. I let it go. “I know in my heart you love me,” I said.

  “I’ve always loved you.”

  “Then how could you leave Dick and me?”

  Her sudden look of anguish made me want to take back my words, but it was too late. I was on a mission.

  “I’m sorry,” she moaned. “I know I did a terrible thing, but I didn’t know what else to do. I needed to get married and have someone take care of me.”

  I wanted to tell her my brother and I had needed a mother to take care of us, but I did not want to hurt her more. We all had suffered enough. At that moment I forgave her for abandoning me when I was a child. She had done the best she could.

  Our talks during that visit brought about a wonderful change. She seemed, for the first time, to be completely comfortable with me, and I with her.

  My visit with Mother, 1986

  Leaving Los Angeles after an eighty-degree Christmas break in 1986, I dreaded returning to the damp cold of Paris. Nobody would ever move there for the climate. To be practical, I took my shabby mink coat out of its hiding place in the back of my storage closet and brought it along for warmth. After the pure torture of a crowded, non-stop, ten-hour coach flight, I arrived home to a freezing flat. I dragged my computer and luggage up the bare oak circular staircase, reached the door, and was trying to get the key into the lock with my gloved hand when the computer slipped back down the waxed stairs all the way to the third floor. I was tempted to leave it there, but went back down, brought it up, finally opened the door, and went in.

  The heat had been off for a month. When the cold air hit me, I was happy to keep on the old mink while I opened the closet door to light the pilot in the antiquated heater. Once the chill was off, I hung the coat on a hook in the entry and stumbled through the salon into the back studio, closing the French doors behind me. I dropped my clothes on the floor, slipped into a nightgown, and soon fell into the deep sleep of exhaustion.

  Some time later I awakened slightly, rose as if in a dream, and mechanically made my way to the studio door. I tried to open it, but it was stuck. What was wrong? It couldn’t be locked. Alert now, I used all my strength and finally was able to pull the door toward me. I was overwhelmed by the heat and flames coming from the hall. I stood there, hypnotized.

  Then it hit me—fire! I was five floors up with no outside stairs—no escape! The only way out was through that burning hallway. I began to cough from the smoke, realized I had no way to reach the kitchen for water, opened the windows to get some air, saw at once I was probably feeding the fire with added oxygen, and closed the windows. I ran back through the studio into the bathroom, wet a towel to cover my face, and returned to the fire. I fought the dreaded feeling of helplessness, trying to figure a way to make it through the hall to the only exit.

  At that moment the mink miraculously fell off the hook onto the floor, making a narrow path. I seized the opportunity and ran over the fur, dragging it out behind me. I found myself on the landing, a trembling, smoke-covered figure in my formerly shell pink turned smudged-gray nightgown. I covered the gown with my coat.

  I tried hopelessly to remember the French word for fire, but my adopted language had left me completely. I finally yelled, “Help!” and my neighbors came from the floor below. I sat in a trance on the stairs, wrapped in the stench of a burned animal while the neighbors called the fire department and brought in an extinguisher to contain the blaze.

  Finally the nightmare was over, except for the smoke and my shattered nerves.

  The next day I discovered the cause of the fire. The landlady, doing some touchup while I was away, had left a can of paint thinner in the closet next to the heater. The coat, unwearable in its altered state, had saved my life and finally had become a prized possession.

  The months passed. I rarely heard from the producer and I came to realize that he, who I thought was my friend, had no intention of honoring our contract. He was using my ideas and freezing me out in the process. I had been betrayed, with no connections to force the issue and no green card, a necessity for earning a legal income in Paris. I confronted him.

  “Why did you insist you needed me for this project? I came over here, researched locations, designed the restaurant, introduced you to perspective investors, and you shut me out.”

  “It just turned out differently than I planned.”

  “Why did you string me along? You didn’t even have the decency to tell me my services were not needed. After all, I gave you the idea.”

  “Yes, Betty, I know it was your idea. But it was just an idea.”

  “You producers always seem to forget that without other people’s ideas you would be without a job.” I got up and stormed out.

  I packed up and moved back to Los Angeles.

  After returning to L.A., I went back to my first love—painting. But after ten years in intermedia, my paintings were conceptual in content, rather than simply for decoration or entertainment.

  A couple of years later I was deeply saddened by the news that Jerry Rogers was dying from AIDS. It was heartbreaking to see him waste away from the handsome, talented man I had loved to a walking ghost. I was with him at the end when he was taken away with morphine. During that time I participated in sad farewells to several other talented gay artist friends. Each death seemed so terribly unfair and left permanent gaps in my life.

  In August, 1987, after attending the Joseph Beuys retrospective in Germany, I returned to the flat I had rented in Paris for August. I was barely in the door when the phone rang. It was my neighbor. “Betty?”

  “Yes. How are you, Maggie?” I asked. “Just got in. The train was late.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Tired, but it was a good trip. The retrospective in Cologne was wonderful and Berlin is fascinating. Won
derful art scene. Much more sophisticated than the rest of the country.”

  She did not respond. Finally she said, “Don’t you know?” She sounded strange.

  “What do you mean? Know what?” I sat down.

  “Oh. I thought you would have heard. I saw the news on TV. I’m sorry to tell you, but Lee died.”

  “Oh, my God,” I said. A pain shot through my heart. I didn’t know I still cared, but he was the love of my life, for better or worse, and the father of my children. “Thanks for telling me. I’m all right. I’ve got to hang up and call the kids. I’ll get the next flight home.”

  When I arrived in Los Angeles all four kids were there to meet me. We hugged and cried. Adding to their sadness, the children were not invited to their father’s home for the private funeral service. To make up for that final rejection, we had a special memorial for Lee at Nancy and Carroll O’Connor’s home on the beach and invited all the friends from our marriage days. The children and I each chose a special poem, which we read in Lee’s honor. Then all of us sang his favorite hymn, “Amazing Grace,” as we walked to the water’s edge with hearts full of love and arms full of roses. We threw the flowers into the sea.

  A few months later we learned, except for a $10,000 insurance policy, our kids had been cut out of their father’s will. His widow would not even allow them to retrieve the gifts they had given him over the years. It broke my heart to learn that Lee had been able to forget his own children and leave everything to his second wife and her kids. This was not the man I had known and loved.

  31

  Homeless

  WHILE I WAS figuring out my next move, a hotshot real estate developer seduced me into selling my only asset, the Venice Beach building, for what seemed like a fortune. I had rented my studio in 1980 and, because of the homeless and drug scene, had not lived there for some time. I spent months with brokers and attorneys who talked way over my head about making a tax-deferred exchange by putting me into another real estate investment. They promised me the purchase of the three-million-dollar building full of wealthy tenants in San Luis Obispo would make me really rich.

  Greed got the best of me. I saw myself as a land baroness, living without a financial care in the world, spending the rest of my life making art and traveling first-class to exotic places. I would finally be on easy street. Also I would be able to give the children $50,000 each as down payment on a home of their own. I thought this would help to make up for their father’s negligence.

  I was celebrating the close of escrow at Two Bunch Palms in Desert Hot Springs, having a much-needed rest. It was easy to imagine my life of luxury had already begun as I floated contentedly in the warm mineral pool, one life preserver around my neck to support my head and another around my ankles. My biggest challenge that day was keeping my paperback above water while trying to stay awake until my massage appointment. An attendant appeared and signaled that I had a phone call. What a drag, I thought, but I thanked him, reluctantly crawled out of my luxurious haven, and grabbed a towel. The desert air suddenly felt cold on my skin as I put on my terry cloth robe and slippers, making my way down the path to my room. I picked up the phone.

  “Is this Betty Marvin?” I did not recognize the warm, friendly voice.

  “Yes. Who is this?”

  “This is Clifford Branch. We don’t know each other. Sorry to disturb you, but I felt I had to call you.

  “I don’t understand. How did you get this number?”

  “I called your house in Ventura and spoke with your daughter.”

  For God’s sake, I thought. Who is this guy, a complete stranger, calling me? He seemed to be talking too fast, and his voice kept fading in and out. I heard him mention the name of the man I’d bought the new building from, but I was so disoriented his words made no sense. I didn’t come to until I heard the words fraud and con artist.

  “What are you talking about, Mr.… ? Sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

  “Clifford Branch.”

  “Well, Mr. Branch, I pray this is some kind of a joke.”

  “No, Mrs. Marvin. Honestly, I wish it were. I live in San Luis Obispo, and I’ve had my own dealings with Richard Witherspoon, the previous owner of the building you purchased. He approached me over a year ago to buy the same building. I had a private detective check him out and found his financial statement showing three million dollars in assets was false.”

  I closed my eyes as Mr. Branch went on. This isn’t happening, I thought. It’s like I’m in some old crime movie.

  “When I heard you had bought the place, I felt I had to call you. Witherspoon was already close to bankruptcy last year. I reported him to the police, but I heard he’s already left the state.”

  I was in shock. “There must be some mistake. I had a real estate attorney, a tax accountant, and two commercial brokers working on this deal for one year. They put the contract together. I didn’t simply buy a building. I bought it with all the leases and Mr. Witherspoon himself staying on as the anchor tenant.” I paused as the truth sank in. “Why didn’t you contact me before I signed the escrow papers?”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know you’d bought the building until yesterday. I tracked you down as fast as I could. I wish…” He fumbled for the right words. “I wish I’d been there in time. I’m sure you’re a nice woman.”

  Nice, I thought, nice and naïve. I had played with the big boys, the sharks, and got screwed.

  “Thank you. I don’t know what to say. I have to get my bearings. I don’t know what to do.”

  “I’ll help you any way I can,” he said. “Take my phone number. If you come up, I’ll show you my files. My friend is a top litigation attorney here in town. If you want, I’ll arrange for him to meet with you.”

  I needed to get off the phone to think. I took Mr. Branch’s number, thanked him again, hung up the phone, and just stood there, replaying the conversation in my head. If he was telling me the truth, I’d lost everything with the stroke of a pen. I lay down on the bed and watched the ceiling circle above me.

  The next day I drove to San Luis Obispo, met with Mr. Branch, and then with the attorney who took my case on contingency.

  In the meantime things were quickly falling apart around me. I had to sell my house to get my hands on some money. But it was 1991, the real estate market was in the toilet, and I was batting zero with buyers, even at a low asking price. I finally struck a deal with a young couple who were short on cash themselves: they’d buy half the house and pay for the other half in three years. My Social Security would just cover the rest of the mortgage, but I’d have to move out.

  I arranged a quick art sale for some fast cash. I would sell all my equipment, my jazz records, and books. It was hard to let them go. Surrounded by packing boxes, I opened a bottle of wine to keep myself going. When in doubt, throw it out, I told myself, taking things down from the shelves to put into storage, take to the kids for safekeeping, or give to Goodwill. I kept the phone on as long as I could to stay in touch with friends and family, but just before I moved out it was cut off, so I kept the TV on for company.

  While packing up the kitchen, my attention was caught by a TV documentary on three middle-aged homeless women. I stopped what I was doing and stood among my packing boxes watching. One woman had been married to an attorney and had resided in Bel Air. She lost everything in a divorce settlement and was sleeping in her car parked near her old address. During the day she hung around her favorite department store, Neiman Marcus, checking out free makeup and sneaking into the bathroom to use the facilities. Oh, my God, I could never live that way, I thought. The fates had been even more unkind to the other two women profiled, one of whom had become a street person. When I heard the narrator say that most Americans were two paychecks away from being homeless, I looked around me, thought back to my homeless neighbor in Venice, and shuddered.

  “I’ll be fine,” I told my daughter Cynthia as I was leaving, trying to sound upbeat. “I’ll be at Willy’s. D
on’t worry about me.”

  Willy had been a long-loved friend from my Malibu days who drowned while diving in the Caribbean the year before. His California ranch house stood empty. Knowing my circumstances and how close Willy and I had been, his daughter, Stephanie, contacted me about the possibility of my staying there temporarily. “He’d want you in his house,” she told me. We worked out an agreement in which I’d fix up the place so she could eventually rent it. I was lucky. I had somewhere to go while I got my bearings.

  I called Christopher. “What shall I do with Sadie?” I had adopted my German Shepherd after returning from Paris and moving into the Ventura home.

  “Keep her with you. Wherever you are, she will be your support and protector.”

  So I drove down Highway 101 to Willy’s house in Malibu with my German Shepherd by my side and my few belongings packed into the trunk of my old Chrysler convertible.

  I unlocked the front door and, with some trepidation, went in. Things were as he had left them—in a mess. Willy never really cared about the place and hadn’t bothered to make it a real home. It was sort of a rest stop between traveling adventures, a bachelor’s hideout with a bed, bureau, stove, refrigerator, dining table and chairs, reading chair and lamp, globe, and atlas. The living room was cluttered with stacks of travel brochures, copies of National Geographic, old pipes, and broken sunglasses. The Hermes cologne I had given him for his trip was left sitting on the lamp table. He used the dining table to hold his toy train with surrounding village and landscape. Looking at the toy train brought tears to my eyes. I hadn’t been in Willy’s house since his death.

  I went into the kitchen, opened a bottle of cheap Chardonnay, and went out on the terrace. The house was on the wrong side of the highway, overlooking the multimillion-dollar mansions side by side on the beach. A long time ago one of those houses had been mine, a l0,000-square-foot Mediterranean. It felt surreal to be standing there, a temporary tenant of Willy’s ramshackle house, remembering my past in Malibu. Somewhere I still had the key to the private beach club. Watching the waves roll in, I knew I’d never use the key. My old friends wouldn’t want to see me down and out. Their idea of hard times was to drive the Mercedes rather than call for the limo.