Tales of a Hollywood Housewife

by Betty Marvin

  “Where will you go, Daddy?”

  “I’ve still got a few tricks up my sleeve, kiddo. Tell me about this soiree you’re having tomorrow. We’d love to come, right, Faye?”

  “Of course we’ll be there, honey.”

  I had purposefully arranged for a late get-together so I’d have time to feed the kids and get them into bed before anyone arrived. There wasn’t any other live-in staff, so I almost relaxed as Marie laid out exquisite appetizers and Henry made sure we had a full bar.

  My boyfriend, Bob, arrived first, and we slipped upstairs to be alone for a minute. “Miss you,” he murmured between kisses. “When are you going to be ready to move to New York?”

  “When are you going to come back home?” I teased. We’d had this conversation so many times it didn’t mean much anymore.

  The doorbell rang. I could tell as soon as I saw Daddy that he’d already had a few. “Some digs!” he exclaimed, staring up at the high ceilings and then at the long, winding staircase as soon as he and Faye had stepped inside. I winced, thinking of what the scene must be in their home, with packing boxes everywhere. But he seemed cheerful and animated. “I can’t believe my little girl is living with the great Joan Crawford. I guess by now you’re practically one of the family.”

  “Well, not really, Daddy. She doesn’t exactly mingle with the help.”

  “It takes a while. I look forward to meeting her sometime.”

  That’ll be the day, I thought. I excused myself to answer the door, glad that the company had arrived before Daddy could ask for a tour.

  “Come on, everyone, let’s have a drink,” I said, leading them to the bar.

  The buffet table was set for a feast. With Henry pouring and Marie passing trays of her hors d’ouvres, it was easy to settle in. “Great liverwurst,” Robert said as he took a huge chunk of pâté from a platter. Marie had told me the pâté cost $100 an ounce.

  The party was going so well that, many drinks later, when Faye begged to be shown the upstairs, I said, “Sure!” and led the way. Daddy and Faye brought up the rear; she actually snapped photographs as if she were on some fans’ tour. I didn’t want to risk waking the kids, so I directed everyone with a whisper down the hall into the master suite, the most intriguing room to see.

  This was my party, but we were all very aware that it was Joan Crawford’s house. Joanne was more at home than any of the rest of us, as she’d seen all this kind of thing before and wasn’t impressed. In fact, when I turned around, she was gone.

  “Joanne,” I said quietly, “whatever you’re doing, stop it.”

  “Joanne? That’s Joan to you,” said a voice from within one of the walk-in closets. Then out she came bedecked in classic Crawford: a Chanel suit with shoulder pads, a Rex hat, and ankle strap shoes. She’d even slashed some blood red lipstick over her mouth. She grabbed Crawford’s Oscar.

  “Thank you, thank you, my darlings, for this wonderful honor!” she cried.

  “Would you please—” I laughed, my sentence interrupted by Bob throwing me onto Crawford’s enormous, plush bed. That did it.

  “This party’s getting out of hand,” I said as I crawled out of the pillows. “Time to call it a night.”

  But it had been fun, if more than vaguely surreal.

  On his way out my father picked up a photograph of Crawford standing in front of a ’49 Cadillac. “Tell Joan if she needs a new Caddy to call your daddy.”

  My next day off I spent helping Faye and Daddy pack for the movers. Late in the afternoon he and I sat in the patio watching the last of the garden furniture being carted into the moving van. A hefty guy came over to where we were seated, excused himself, and carried off the umbrella and table. In a few minutes he came back, and we stood so he could take our chairs.

  “I’m sorry you have to move out of your beautiful home,” I said.

  He looked around at his surroundings and shrugged. “It’s just a house. Don’t worry about it. It’s okay. I rented a little apartment over near Vermont Avenue, so we have a roof over our heads. And before you know it I’ll move into another house. Bigger and better, you’ll see.” His spirits began to lift. “Those who play must pay, kiddo. Your daddy’s not beaten. Not by a long shot. Always remember: anyone can play a good hand. It’s how you play a bad hand that counts.” By the time I said good-bye, he sounded ready to buy Las Vegas.

  Crawford called several times while she was away to speak to the kids, but other than that we had no contact. When Marie mentioned that the boss was on her way home from New York, I felt more curious than anything else. Joanne had filled me in on Crawford’s career, which apparently was taking a dive. I’d thought of her as Hollywood royalty, having read about her Oscar win for Mildred Pierce. Academy Awards were not shown on television yet, but they still received big press. Joanne said Crawford had been dropped by MGM, that Pierce was a fluke, and she had been left stuck with pulp films, B-movies. Joanne added that on the set she could be a bitch on wheels. “Stay out of her way when she gets back,” she advised me.

  Miss Crawford arrived home Saturday night, looking tired but clearly pleased to see the children well behaved and beautifully dressed. She kissed each one and within five minutes was upstairs to bed.

  Late the next morning the kids and I were working on math problems in the garden before lunch. I’d made up some game that had us multiplying elephants and kangaroos, and the kids were laughing, quite loudly. Their mother suddenly appeared on the balcony of her bedroom, bleary-eyed but unmistakably in a snit.

  “What the hell is going on down here?” she hissed at me. I felt my toes turn inward.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me!” she snapped. “Is this what I pay you for?” Before I could say anything, she was onto the kids.

  “You woke me up!”

  God forbid, I thought. It’s almost noon.

  “Go to your rooms and stay there until dinner.” She turned on her heel and slammed the door. My shoulders dropped. The kids looked miserable.

  “We better go upstairs,” I whispered to them. “Don’t worry. I’ll bring up some sandwiches.”

  As the weeks passed, it became clear that Crawford’s temper ruled Christopher and Christina. With the twins, for some reason, it was different. They seemed to escape her fury, maybe because they were so young. But the two older ones were wound into knots from living under the threat of the next angry outburst over some minor mistake. Walking on glass, they often spoke only a few quiet words, or none at all, a means of getting through a childhood that was sadly familiar to me.

  ***

  I was four. The only place I felt safe was in my mother’s bed at Grandma and Grandpa Rundquist’s house in Sedro-Woolley. I was born in that bed. My mother had left my father to come home for my birth and never went back to him.

  Baby Betty

  A couple of years later she married her high school sweetheart, Elburn, known as “Fat” because of his size—and moved out, leaving my older brother, Dickey, and me behind to live with her parents. We rarely saw her.

  My childhood home in Sedro-Woolley, Washington

  My grandpa, a cabinetmaker, had built their house by himself. My favorite room in the house was the yellow kitchen, where Grandma oiled the wooden counters to a soft sheen. She kept flour, sugar, bread, and cookies in tin-lined drawers, and there was a cool-air pantry for eggs, cheese, fruit, and vegetables. I loved the kitchen so much not only because Grandma would let me help her, in little ways, but she actually spoke to me as we prepared meals together. For the rest of the day, Dickey and I had only each other to talk to. Growing up in a house of silence, we weren’t exactly the most boisterous or playful children.

  After meals, Grandma washed the dishes while I dried. She would sweep the kitchen floor, and then we sat quietly by the window in the dining room, she in her rocking chair and I in the smaller rocker Grandpa had made for me. Grandpa and Grandma were very good to each other, but, as is customary in the Scandinavian culture, they showed little affection
and there was little conversation. In their presence my brother and I learned to be seen and not heard.

  ***

  Despite the incessant tension between Crawford, Christopher, and Christina, she was completely obsessed with her public image of the “perfect mother,” and many professional photos were taken with “Mommy.” Those famous matching outfits she and Christina would wear had their own closet, and I was responsible for making sure they were kept starched and pressed, every bow and frill in place. They looked like what they were: costumes.

  Hollywood actresses showing off their children was big press, and when the L.A. Times announced its “Mother of the Year” event, timed to coincide with Mother’s Day, Crawford hinted to me more than once that she felt she stood a good chance of winning. She was furious when she lost out to Dinah Shore.

  “She’s a singer, for God’s sake. And not a very good one at that!” Crawford fumed, throwing the paper down on the breakfast table. Later that day she came to me and told me to write a congratulatory note to Miss Shore. Then she dictated a guest list for invitations to Christina’s upcoming eleventh birthday party.

  Every birthday was an extravaganza, with celebrities and their children—and, of course, always the press—in attendance. Christina’s party was a circus, literally. There were clowns and a carousel and ponies decorated with plumes for the children to ride. Christina was photographed surrounded by dozens and dozens of gifts. I winced at the sight of them, knowing these extravagantly wrapped presents would soon be delegated to the “gift closet” to be given away to other, “more deserving,” children.

  On July 16, 1949, even I received a few recycled presents from that closet. Miss Crawford arranged a surprise twenty-first birthday party for me, with gifts of soap, cologne, and a book of her publicity shots.

  “Now, blow out the candles and make a wish,” Crawford said. There was one of Marie’s large, frosted, chocolate mousse cakes with roses on the icing and “Happy Birthday Missy” written in the center.

  “Every birthday is special,” Miss Crawford announced after I thanked her for her generosity. The kids and staff had caught this performance many times before, but I couldn’t help being taken in by all the attention, even though it felt strange. In my entire life, I had only had one other birthday party.

  Marie caught me on the way to the gift closet later in the day. She lifted a simple but chic cotton skirt from the top of the basket.

  “Isn’t this your size? It’s perfect for you.”

  “I can’t take Miss Crawford’s things!” I laughed.

  “It’s all going to charity anyway,” Marie shrugged. “She wouldn’t care. Probably not even notice.”

  A few days later, however, my boss spotted me wearing the skirt and stopped me in the hall. “Miss Ebeling,” she said. She always called me by my last name, rather than “Missy,” when she wanted to pull rank.“Where did you get that skirt?”

  I recognized that voice, having heard it directed toward her own children.

  “It was in the donation basket…” I faltered.

  “And who gave you permission to take it from the basket?”

  “I was told they were clothes to be given away. I thought it would be all right.”

  “Well, you thought wrong. I will not have anyone in my house who steals.”

  I had never stolen anything in my life. Not even candy as a kid. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “If I catch you taking anything again, you’ll be fired.”

  “I understand.” I stood there motionless as she turned and walked away.

  That night I wanted to call Joanne and turn the story into a funny anecdote—Crawford acting with me as though the cameras were rolling—but the experience still left me on edge. I put it on the list of things to tell my friends later, although I was seeing less and less of them. Joanne was moving home to New York and even though we promised to stay in touch, eventually we drifted apart.

  My boyfriend Bob was returning to New York, so we made plans for a date the night before he left. I made clear to Miss Crawford, in the firmest tone I could summon, that I would be out that night.

  Bob and I went to a romantic Hungarian restaurant. Violins serenaded us over goulash. “I’ll miss you,” I said. We’d had rather a lot to drink, and when a fortune-teller came to our table, we invited her to join us. She read my future: “You will be married before the year is over.” Bob and I gave each other a kiss. “But not to this man.” We were taken aback, but when she left the table, Bob laughed and was soon kissing my neck. “How about I come home with you this evening so we both have something to remember until I’m back?”

  “You know Crawford’s rules,” I said. We reluctantly said good-bye with a long kiss but nothing more.

  As I was undressing for bed I heard pebbles on my upstairs window. I stood on my tiny balcony to see Bob clumsily climbing up the trellis to my room. Marie peered out her window and called softly, “How romantic.”

  Bob was blowing smoke rings as we lay in each other’s arms after making love.That should have been the moment I kissed him, handed him his clothes, and hurried him out the way he’d come in. Instead, we drifted off to sleep. I was awakened by a frantic whisper and knocking on my door.

  “Missy?” It was Miss Crawford.

  “Yes?” I answered in a state of panic. Bob lay stock-still, not breathing.

  “Could you please help me? Someone has broken in. I think he’s hiding downstairs.” She couldn’t have heard Bob from her room, could she? His covert entrance must have made just enough noise to enter her dreams.

  “I’m coming,” I called out to her, nodding at the window to Bob as I put on my robe. I slipped out of the room, and Miss Crawford took my hand as I led the tour of the house, checking all seventy-two closets.

  “There’s no one here,” I reassured her. She held on to me as if someone was about to spring out at us any moment.

  “You had a bad dream,” I told her. She looked like a little girl at that moment, vulnerable and frightened. I walked her to her bedroom and watched as she climbed back into bed. It was good the whole incident took as much time as it did; every trace of Robert was gone by the time I got back to my room.

  The next evening I discovered I wasn’t the only one who had clandestine visitors; there was a terrible commotion outside my bedroom window, and I went to see what on earth could be going on. There I saw the butler, Henry, and the night security guard having sex in the bushes. I stared for a minute, shocked by the sight, then went back to bed. The next morning I told Marie what I had seen.

  “Oh, Henry,” she chuckled. “He can’t help himself. Probably the only fun the poor guy has.” Henry was the perfect, passive, stoic butler. Except in the bushes.

  Marie was easily the most empathetic of everyone living under Crawford’s roof. I remember once passing through the kitchen and spying a stack of garishly wrapped presents on top of a china closet.

  “Santa come early, Marie?”

  “Nope,” said Marie, chopping vegetables. “They’re from Anna, gifts for the children.” Anna was Crawford’s mother, who I’d never seen; she was essentially banned from the house. Marie reached for the gifts. “I better put them away before anyone else sees them. I try to give the kids things their grandma drops off, but if their mother finds out, she’ll just toss ’em.”

  Crawford decided on impulse to give herself one of her famous parties. She put me to work on the invitations. I couldn’t help noticing every guest happened to be male. Most of her parties were like that—filled with handsome men who doted on Crawford but flirted mostly with each other.

  The party put Marie back to work creating one of her peerless menus. She had contacts everywhere and could easily command lobsters flown in from Maine, smoked salmon from Scotland, and prime cuts of beef from a ranch in Texas. She picked herbs and vegetables from her own kitchen garden. She gathered and sugar-powdered roses to lie next to the chocolate mousse. I did my best to keep out of her kitchen, but
the night of the party I couldn’t resist watching her lay on the finishing touches.

  Long before the guests arrived, the children were to be upstairs and completely quiet. I slipped down the back stairs to take a peek and spied more than a dozen men in black tie seated in the formal dining room. Marie, in her white, starched uniform, was relaxing at the small service table, sipping coffee laced with brandy, puffing on a cigarette, and giving orders to Henry. She never rushed. In fact, she barely moved.

  Later Henry called me on the house phone. “Miss Crawford wants the children down in fifteen minutes, Missy.”

  “Fifteen minutes,” I told the kids, switching into stage manager mode. Poor babies. Every social gathering meant a demand performance from each of them. I lined them up, inspecting each child carefully to make sure their bathrobes were properly tied over their very best PJs and every hair was perfectly in place. Christina’s golden waves, especially, had to be just right. “Off we go,” I whispered, leading them to the staircase.

  Crawford saw us at the foot of the stairs and gave me the nod, and I brought them in. Christopher and Christina were old enough to say a quick hello just as the guests were finishing dessert, with Christopher giving a little bow. The twins stood shyly, one on either side of me, holding my hands. Dessert finished, it was show time. One by one, in order of age, Christina first, the children approached their mother. Placing one small palm on either side of her face, each child in turn planted a kiss with every word: “I,” kiss the left eye; “Love,” kiss the right eye; “You,” kiss right on the tip of her nose; “Mommy,” quick kiss on the chin; and finally “Dearest,” a kiss on the mouth. At the table, the men were all smiles. Wasn’t this too adorable?

  “Now off you go, my darlings,” Crawford said with a wide-eyed, gleaming smile. I never knew where to look when she put on that face. It was as if she was frozen in close-up. I just gently turned to the kids and, true to form, they followed me in procession out of the room.

  After I got the kids to bed, Christopher strapped in, uncomplaining as always, Christina asking to stay up and read, I went downstairs to see if Henry or Marie needed me. Crawford had set up a screening of Mildred Pierce in the projection room. I helped Henry bring in a tray of cognac, port, and crystal snifters just as the film began. As Henry poured with his usual heavy hand, Crawford whispered to me, “You can stay, Missy,” and even patted a chair next to her. I sat, feeling terribly self-conscious.