Tales of a Hollywood Housewife

by Betty Marvin

  “Hello, Miss Ebeling,” she said warmly, giving me a firm handshake. I had never been formally addressed before. I suddenly felt older. She had my resume set out on her desk. “I see here you were a music major, piano and voice. I like that. All children should sing and play the piano. And you’re an athlete? Wonderful. You can teach the twins to swim. I want them water safe.”

  When I told her I had been a camp counselor, she lit up.

  “Perfect! You’ve had experience with groups of children. You can start tomorrow, so get a good night’s sleep tonight. Your salary is $200 a month, room and board. You have every Wednesday and every other Thursday off.”

  I was speechless. I had figured there would be formalities to go through, references to be checked—something. I didn’t know at the time her help came and left on a regular basis.

  “I’ll be leaving for New York the day after tomorrow. I’ll be gone for six weeks, shooting my new film,” she said casually as she continued scanning my resume.

  And I’m going to be left with four kids I don’t know from Adam, I thought. This is so weird. Crawford suddenly came to a point in my resume and her mouth twitched.

  “I see you’re still studying voice?”

  “Oh, yes, I’m training for the opera.”

  “That’s fine as long as it doesn’t interfere with your work here. You can study on your days off. One absolute rule,” she continued. “No guests. I had to let the last girl go. Too many gentlemen callers. I don’t approve of that sort of thing.”

  She turned to the butler, who had been waiting like a statue in the corner. “Henry, bring in the children.”

  He walked out, and I could feel my heart pounding. Miss Crawford turned away from me, back to her desk. I tried to appear nonchalant but attentive, a combination that wasn’t working too well as I felt my slip threatening to drop down below my skirt at any minute.

  The door opened and the children entered in formation behind Henry: Christina, a big-boned, pretty, blond ten-year-old girl; her younger brother, Christopher, seven, also large, blond, and healthy-looking; and Cindy and Cathy, very cute pre-school twins. The four children stood at attention. I tried to make eye contact, but they looked only at their mother.

  “Good morning, children.”

  “Good morning, Mommy Dearest,” they answered in unison. I had no idea at the time this title Crawford insisted on would become so famous.

  “Meet your new nanny, Miss Ebeling. We’ll call her Missy.”

  Missy! What the hell? A smile stayed plastered on my face.

  “Missy, this is Christina, Christopher, and my twins, Cathy and Cindy.” The girls curtsied and Christopher bowed, but they still didn’t look at me. Finally Miss Crawford made an almost imperceptible nod to Henry, and he stretched out an arm to indicate I should exit.

  “We’ll expect you after dinner,” she said, as I was about to leave.

  “See you then,” I replied with inane cheer. Miss Crawford responded with a reserved smile.

  “Bye, kids,” I managed. No response.

  Robert, bless him, was waiting as promised, parked under the shade of a tree reading the actor’s trade journal, Variety. He looked up as I swung the door open and sat there next to him, out of breath.

  “What happened?”

  “Please, drive.” I felt like Crawford could hear me as long as I was still in the neighborhood.

  “I’m sorry if this was a bum lead, Betty,” Robert said, glancing over at me.

  “It wasn’t. I got the job.”

  “You’re kidding! I told you. So, what’s she like?”

  My breath had returned to normal. “I’ve never met anyone like her. She’s definitely a star—very polite, very proper. Not friendly, I’ll tell you that. And those kids! They’re like little soldiers. If she told them to drop and give her twenty, I think they’d hit the floor in a heartbeat.”

  “Well, you must have done something right. She gave you the job on the spot.”

  “I think she’s desperate. She told me to move in tonight! Not only that, but she’s about to leave for New York. I just don’t know what to think.”

  “Even better. She won’t be there. Just you and four little kids in that beautiful house? Piece of cake.”

  “It’s exciting, isn’t it?” I said, finally letting myself feel the thrill.

  “It’s great. I’ll pick you up to take you back there at seven. We’ll go grab a bite first.”

  As soon as I got through the door of my Beverly Glen cottage, I began throwing clothes into my suitcase.

  “Oh, no.” Joanne was standing in my doorway, smoking a cigarette and shaking her head. “Don’t tell me.”

  “I’m moving in there tonight. Come on, Jo, how bad can it be?”

  “You know what I say,” she said wryly. “No matter how bad you think it can be, it can always be worse. Look,” she added, reaching for an ashtray, “I know you need to find work, but why there?”

  I’d almost finished packing; everything I owned could go into one big suitcase. “It’s a lot of money. It’s an amazing house. She’s gone a lot of the time. I’m just giving it a shot, that’s all.”

  Joanne let out a resigned sigh. “Well, your room will be waiting for you when you’re ready to come home.”

  “I hope I’ll come home in a few months with money in my pocket and stories to tell.”

  “I’ll miss you.”

  “You will not,” I laughed. “You’ll see me every chance I get, every day off, every minute off.”

  My corner of the shared bedroom looked suddenly bare.

  She hugged me hard when it was time for me to go. “Call me when you get one of those minutes off, okay?”

  That night in the Crawford home, Henry showed me to my room in the servant’s quarters. It wasn’t large, but it was private and I had my own bath. After living a cluttered, communal life with Joanne and Bev, I felt pampered to have a real room of my own.

  “Marie’s room is next door, and I’m down the hall,” Henry said. “Miss Crawford will see you after breakfast, which is served at seven sharp.” After a hasty “Good night,” I was left on my own.

  I didn’t see the kids that first evening. I unpacked, sat on my bed, and wondered what I should do. I went out into the long hallway but saw and heard no one. The house was silent. I tiptoed back into my little hideaway, set my alarm, and, once in bed, fell into an immediate deep sleep.

  The next morning Miss Crawford was nowhere to be seen. I was handed off to Mrs. Brown, an older woman who had been with the household for years. She would be my trainer and would cover for me on my days off. Since it was Saturday, Christina and Christopher were not in school, so they made the rounds with us. We’d spoken very little at breakfast, but Christina was sweet and well behaved, so we seemed to be getting off to a good start.

  Mrs. Brown led me first into Cindy and Cathy’s bedroom. Everything for the twins was white and perfectly matched; there were huge stuffed animals—two of each—and two little rocking chairs. “Every day you will get them up and dressed for pre-school and breakfast at seven. When they’re away you’ll change their bed sheets, dust, vacuum, and scrub their bathroom,” Mrs. Brown instructed. All that cleaning had never come up in the interview, but, okay. Mrs. Brown was already down the hall and going on to the next bedroom.

  Christina and Christopher shared a large room that had once been their nursery. Though Christina was ten and Christopher seven, no attempt had been made to create any privacy between them. Christina was pleased to show off her things: a chintz canopied bed and a closet full of beautiful clothes, hung neatly in a row. Chris hung back dolefully.

  “Christina and Christopher are to be up, dressed, and at breakfast on their own, and they take care of their room themselves, ” Mrs. Brown continued. “You are to check and be sure the clothes are always in perfect order, their things kept tidy. Nothing on the carpet, no clothes, papers—nothing whatsoever. And the bathroom should be immaculate at all times, right childr
en?” she asked the kids to make sure they were paying attention. I was itching for this part of the morning to end.

  Chris looked rather miserable as Mrs. Brown walked over to his bed. She turned down the covers to display what looked like a straightjacket, folded neatly on top of the bottom sheet. “This is Christopher’s ‘sleep-safe.’ He must be pinned into it at night when you tuck him in.” Christopher picked at his nail. “Stop that, Christopher,” said Mrs. Brown reflexively.

  “Show her Mommy’s room,” Christina whispered. I smiled at her; the Crawford bedroom was certainly on the top of my list of Things To See and Report Back On. But it had to wait.

  “Your mother is resting,” Mrs. Brown answered curtly. “I’ll take Missy in later.” She turned to me. “Follow me downstairs, please?” We all trouped after her, out the back door to the swimming pool.

  “The children swim daily. Christopher and Christina are to be timed while doing laps. The twins must practice being water safe. Miss Crawford wants you to throw them into the deep end of the pool and let them make it to the side on their own.” She paused. “Any questions so far?”

  Yes, I thought. Throw them into the deep end? Are you kidding me?

  Cathy, myself, and Cindy Crawford, 1949

  “No,” I said, “no questions.” Mrs. Brown turned back to the house. A moment later I sensed someone coming up behind me. Christopher slipped his hand into mine, and we stood a moment, watching the turquoise water shimmering in the sunlight. The day was hot, so I suggested we go in and get something to drink. Christopher stood outside the kitchen as I looked around for a couple of glasses. I was met head-on by Marie, the redhead I’d spotted on arrival. Her eyes were flashing.

  “What are you doing in my kitchen?”

  “I was just getting Christopher a drink.”

  “Next time you need something you ring for Henry. No one else comes into my kitchen!” She handed Christopher a glass of ice water and shooed us away. I certainly wasn’t making friends with the staff.

  When Miss Crawford went out later on that day, Christina insisted I see her mother’s bedroom. Mrs. Brown gave in to the request, but her expression made clear she saw me as an intruder. “Come on,” said Christina, pulling at me. We went in. Crawford’s room could have been straight off a set—elegant and lush, all in white, down to a crystal vase of white, long-stem roses. The white satin oversized bed loaded with pillows was on the sleeping porch overlooking the garden. There were silver-framed portraits on the night table and bureau, glamour shots of Joan from various films. One could get lost in her three walk-in wardrobe closets. I counted the endless racks of shoes—five pair of each style, mostly ankle straps in different colors.

  I peeked into the marbled, mirrored bathroom. Christina pointed to lacquer trays of facial creams, bars of French soap, white monogrammed terry robes, and luxurious, white monogrammed towels neatly folded on a heated stand. Mrs. Brown reached over and quickly closed the bathroom door.

  “Of course, this area is off-limits at all times, unless Miss Crawford calls for you,” Mrs. Brown said.

  “Of course,” I said. Mrs. Brown was wearing on me. “It’s time for Christopher’s piano lesson,” I told her, heading for the stairs and taking Christina along.

  “How nice you’re musical,” she replied. It was the only personal statement she’d made to me all day.

  Christopher had his little Mozart piece down and was ready to move on to something else.

  “Ever try this?” I asked him, playing the bass beat of a boogie-woogie.

  Christopher giggled. “Where’d you learn that?”

  “We can do it together. I’ll teach you. Let me show you what the right hand does.”

  Christopher picked up on it almost immediately. I backed him up, and soon he was adding little riffs of his own. We were really swinging when suddenly he stopped playing all together.

  “Christopher? What’s the matter?”

  He looked away from me. “Missy, are you going to stay?”

  “I hadn’t planned on leaving. I just got here. Why?”

  “The nannies never stay.”

  “Well, maybe I’m different.” I put an arm around his shoulder. He hesitated, then leaned in toward me.

  Miss Crawford left for New York the next day, off to shoot The Damned Don’t Cry.

  I stood at the front door and watched the children hug her good-bye, promising to be good, while Henry hoisted a dozen Vuitton bags into the back of the studio car carrying her to the airport. “I expect you to keep everything in order,” Miss Crawford called back to me briskly as the limo pulled away.

  A sense of peace settled over the house as soon as she was gone. The kids were more relaxed, and Marie and Henry began to let their guard down around me, inviting me into the kitchen for some juicy gossip.

  But at dinner the more casual atmosphere dissolved completely. Crawford had her children so well trained that even in her absence one would have thought they were dining with the queen. We five were seated at the round dinner table—Christopher, Christina, the twins in their high chairs, and I, self-conscious at every move. Dinner was a formal affair, with Henry serving from silver platters and Lenox china. I cut up Cindy‘s and Cathy’s food to go on their suction plates, but the older children had been trained to use their cutlery European style—forks in their right hand, knives in their left. I felt embarrassed handling my knife and fork differently. They sat up straight, cut their food carefully, and chewed with their mouths closed. It was all very somber.

  I longed for a burger, a beer, and a laugh.

  6

  Behind the Scenes: The Real Joan Crawford

  ONE AFTERNOON I was keeping Marie company in the kitchen as she prepared one of her beautiful dinners for the children and me.

  “Everything you make is a feast for the eyes,” I told her, watching her carefully layer lemon slices over chicken that had been marinated in white wine and thyme. “And so delicious.” I nibbled on one of the miniature chocolate pecan cookies she’d baked that morning. “My friends are jealous when I tell them I’m on a gourmet diet.”

  “Invite them over,” Marie said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Have a party. Who’s going to know? Miss C. isn’t back for another two weeks. You could ask anyone you like. Ask that boyfriend you supposedly don’t have anymore.”

  “As a matter of fact, he’s back in town.”

  “Good. We’ll have a real shindig. I’ll make whatever you want. I’d like cooking for your friends.”

  “Oh, Marie!” Impulsively I reached down and hugged her. She didn’t exactly hug me back; it was more like a tentative series of pats on my shoulder.

  “For God’s sake,” she said, going back to her cutting board. “It’s only food!”

  But with Marie it was never only food. She took so much pride in everything that came out of her kitchen that I knew when she said “a real shindig,” she meant to break out the best.

  “Stuffed mushrooms?” Marie asked me suddenly the next day. “No. Boring. Wild mushroom tarts and stuffed shrimp.” She had started writing a detailed menu for my party. “I need a guest list by tomorrow,” she added, chewing on a pencil.

  The guest list was a challenge. Joanne and Bev were the obvious first guests, and then my friend Robert Walker and my on-and-off again boyfriend, Bob, who was visiting from New York. I decided to invite Roger Edens and Jerry. Roger had known Crawford at MGM, before she was let go. I was sure his presence would bring amusing stories.

  More troubling was whether or not I would invite my father and Faye. I could picture Daddy walking up the long path to the mansion’s front door. Faye would be there, in the highest of high heels, tottering beside him, her lip-sticked mouth open in awe at where I had landed. Daddy would be giving her a nudge in the ribs, as if to say, “Look at this, huh? My little girl living with a movie star!” There was no doubt about it. I’d finally impress him. It would be so much fun to see them sitting in the Crawford living room,
Daddy sipping a martini, Faye with her usual Coke. I could imagine telling them stories about Crawford that would actually make my job seem funny. They’d be excited by how far I’d come.

  “Great to hear from you!” Daddy boomed when I rang him the next day. “When do I get to see my little girl? Still so busy?”

  “No, no, everything’s great. I’ll tell you all about it when I come to visit you tomorrow. It’s my day off.”

  The next afternoon I called upstairs, “I’m home,” as I came in the front door. There was no answer. “Daddy?”

  Nothing. Maybe he and Faye had stepped out for a minute. I went into the kitchen to get a snack, saw the stale cold cuts in the refrigerator, and changed my mind. Suddenly I heard a scratching sound coming from inside the pantry door, followed by what sounded like a high whine. What on earth? I opened the pantry door and jumped back as Daddy’s little Chow, Oscar, scrambled out and ran past me up the stairs. I followed him but stopped in my tracks when I got to the door of the master bedroom. Daddy, in his underwear, and Faye, in panties and bra, were tied to the bedposts. There was masking tape over their mouths. Oscar licked Daddy’s red face as I untied them. Faye immediately dashed into the bathroom. Mumbling, my father ripped off the tape.

  “Fuckin’ gorillas,” he sneered. He got up and raced to the open wall safe. It was empty. “Shit!” he yelled. “They didn’t have to take my lucky dice!” He rushed to the phone and dialed. His voice was full of contempt. “What was the hurry? You couldn’t wait one more day? You know my word’s good… You cleaned me out… Yeah, yeah, I know. Better tell your fuckin’ henchmen they don’t know who they’re messin’ with.” After a long pause my father hung up. “We have to be out of here in a week,” he announced solemnly. He had bet the house in a poker game and had lost.

  He was in better spirits a few hours later—cleaned up and drinking a scotch as Faye was starting to wrap their china in newspaper.