Tales of a Hollywood Housewife

by Betty Marvin

  We passed a row of eclectic houses, no two alike. When we walked by a log cabin next to an old California cottage, Theresa told me the story of Uplifter’s Ranch. “In 1913 mostly artists and writers lived here. In 1921 it was taken over by the jolly band of the Uplifters, a group of wealthy L.A. business men, including Hollywood producers. They built a clubhouse, vacation cottages, a private polo field. But over ten years ago, the state turned it into a public park.

  “Actually,” she smiled, “that’s a bit of a secret. We don’t tell anyone it’s a public park. We still own the roads and keep potholes in them so traffic has to slow down for the kids.”

  Theresa stopped in front of an old house overrun with weeds and vines crawling up the sides of the fenced property.

  “This is it.”

  We peered through the back gate of the Weismuller home, at 2 Latimer Road.

  “If Johnny Weissmuller lived here, wouldn’t you think there’d be a pool?” I asked. Theresa laughed.

  Beryl Ginter, the former Mrs. Weismuller, caught us peeking and invited us in.The interior of the spacious house, though in complete disrepair, was full of charm. I fell in love with the place.

  I called Lee in Kentucky.

  “I’ve found our perfect home, a big, old, two-story bastard Victorian. And guess where? In the old Uplifter’s Ranch! We’ll never have to move again, no matter how many more kids we have!” I was talking a mile a minute.

  “Fine, honey, show it to Ed.”

  I asked Ed Silver, our conservative business manager, to take a look at my new love. He was not impressed. He called Lee and told him the house was a mess, definitely a bad investment.

  “Does Betty want it?” Lee asked him.

  “Yes.”

  “Then buy it.”

  We had found our fourth and final home.

  The Latimer Road house needed a lot of work, but it had good bones. While Lee was still away on Raintree County, I took the children with me every day to work on the place, patching holes in the walls before they could be painted, scrubbing the filthy bathrooms, and hauling endless bags of trash off the premises. When Lee returned two weeks later, it was nowhere nearly finished, but I had made a lot of progress. He took one look around, called the place a dump, and I burst into tears.

  But I persevered. With a limited budget and tremendous effort, I turned the house into an ideal home for our family. The kids had their own specially built and decorated bedrooms and baths, a huge playroom across our courtyard, and a large playhouse built in the garden. When it came to the master bedroom, Lee told me to be creative. I got carried away, and the room ended up with pink silk walls and a hand-carved M on the headboard. Some men might have found pink silk a little feminine, but Lee thought it sexy. “It’s a boudoir, for Christ’s sake. It should be feminine.” I loved his sense of style.

  We had a big housewarming and filled the house with new neighbors and friends, including Keenan’s father, Ed Wynn. Ed was unique. He gave me a gift of a rug featuring the Texaco sign from his TV series. Like a fool I threw it out, not realizing that one day it would be a collector’s item.

  Not long after Lee came home, I became pregnant again. When Dr. Mishell gave me the news, I cried. I was already in way over my head, taking care of three children under the age of six and seeing to the needs of a demanding husband. But I knew how much Lee loved my being pregnant and our having children. I would have been happier about having another baby if only Lee had taken some responsibility for the kids. But that was a losing battle.

  One Sunday afternoon he and Keenan were in the bar doing what they liked to do best. I had to run to the market.

  “Darling, would you watch the babies? They’re playing in the courtyard. I’ll be back in twenty minutes.

  “Absolutely.”

  When I returned, Courtenay and Christopher were nowhere in sight. Finding them wasn’t hard. I just followed a trail of flour, chocolate syrup, and sugar into the kitchen.

  “Mommy!” Courtenay called. “Don’t come in! We’re fixing you a surprise!” They were trying to make a cake. The floor was littered with eggshells and puddles of batter, and there were chocolate handprints all over the counter and the cabinets. Both Courtenay and Christopher were covered in goop. “Oh, no!” I yelled. Lee must have heard me, because he came ambling in. I blew up.

  “The kids have made a terrible mess! I thought you were watching them!”

  “I was.”

  “Look at the kitchen!”

  “Well, I thought they were fine.”

  “You’re impossible!” I yelled, rushing the kids into the bathroom to clean them off.

  “What’s the matter, sweetheart?” he called after me.

  Lee just didn’t get it. Or he didn’t want to get it. Either way I figured I could manage without his support. But things were about to change more than either of us could imagine.

  “So how did it go?” I asked Lee as he came into the playroom, tugging at his tie. He threw it over the armchair, unbuttoned his shirt at the neck, and sat down, running his hands through his salt-and-pepper hair.

  “It’s a lot of money.”

  “As in… ?” I tried to keep my voice casual. But his meeting with MCA, at the time the world’s largest and most successful entertainment agency, was a big deal. The agency had a television series in mind for Lee, but we really didn’t know much else about it. Lee had tried to play it cool when he left in the morning, but we both knew the stakes could turn out to be high.

  “As in, well, a million dollars, sweetheart. They offered me a million dollars.”

  We stared at each other for a moment. Nobody had ever been offered a million-dollar television contract.

  “Well, what did you say?”

  “What do you think I said?” Suddenly both of us were laughing.

  “Jesus, sweetheart, get me a drink!” Lee said. “Isn’t this the craziest thing? It’s a cop show. A million bucks for a friggin cop show—M Squad.”

  “What does the M stand for?”

  “Murder. As in, ‘The schedule for this series will be ‘Murder.’”

  I sat on the arm of Lee’s chair, rubbing his neck. “What about Meyer?”

  Lee’s face turned somber. Meyer Mishkin had discovered him, backed him, and been not only his agent but his staunch supporter from the beginning. “The guys at the meeting, Lew Wasserman, the head honcho, said something I’ve been thinking myself. Meyer’s great. We’ve had a fast ride together, but he only sees me as playing the heavy. MCA sees me as a leading man.”

  Neither of us said anything for a moment.

  “It’s time for a change,” Lee said finally. “I’ll get Meyer to understand… Where’s that drink?”

  I knew Lee doing a series meant he would be gone long hours, but at least he would not be on location, and we would have our weekends. We were looking for a way to spend more time together as a family and had learned that, except for running down the hill to our favorite neighborhood joint for a steak or hamburger, it was increasingly difficult to go out in public together. A few months before we had taken the children to Disneyland, which turned into a fiasco. Fans literally pulled Lee away from the kids, who ended up in tears. We were out of there in less than an hour. We needed a private place to play.

  Keenan and his wife, Sharley, had bought a mountain cabin in Wrightwood, a three-hour drive from Los Angeles, and convinced us it was the perfect place to get away to on weekends and holidays. We were charmed by the community and ended up buying Turtle Lodge, a big, rustic log structure on an acre of land covered with giant pine trees. It had a beamed living room with stone fireplace, a country kitchen, and three bedrooms, two of which were loaded with bunk beds. This was a perfect family retreat with no telephone, TV, or radio. I was confident getting away as a family would help keep our marriage on track.

  Turtle Lodge

  On Fridays after school, in a station wagon loaded down with provisions, including our Hungarian Puli puppy, I picked up the childre
n—and many times their friends—and drove to the lodge. Lee would drive directly from the studio and join us later in the evening. Except for the rare times he strayed to the bar, he would be with us for a late supper.

  We loved being out of touch with the rest of the world, listening to records, and reading and telling stories by the fire. We practiced a pioneer life: Lee cut firewood, and I baked bread and knitted sweaters. When the first snowfall covered the mountain, we all learned to ski and became friends with the local instructors. Turtle Lodge quickly turned into the favorite gathering spot for skiers, many of whom filled the bunk beds. There was plenty of food, wine, and song. The Twist was the rage, so we skied all day and twisted the night away.

  The first season I found myself spending endless hours in the kitchen, cooking and cleaning up after the others had left for the slopes. I got smart and made a rule that no one skied before the hostess. Help was immediately available.

  At the lodge the children, who adored their father, never felt neglected. When he was away from the pressures of the business, he could be fantastic fun. Some Sunday mornings he’d get up early, turn on the hi-fi full blast, and march through the lodge, waking us all to join his “Scottish Marching Band.” Lee loved music, particularly early blues. When the mood struck, he would fill the place with Leadbelly, Bunk Johnson or Wee Bee Booze. Coming up behind me in the kitchen, he’d grab my butt while the children giggled, then he’d shuffle me from one end of the room to the other, whispering into my ear, “If you don’t love this music, you’re undersexed.”

  Our time at the lodge was paradise, and I tried to carry that spirit of fun off the mountain and transplant it into our Latimer Road home.

  One Sunday afternoon in early December I sat on the stairs watching a bunch of Lee’s biker buddies, dressed in black leathers, sprawled out on the white carpet in our formal living room, guzzling beer out of cans, trying to outmatch each other with stories.

  “You know, you’ll just be looking at smoke if you try to race me.”

  “My hog takes your old Harley any day.”

  This was a special clan, a closed club. They even exchanged photos of themselves in their gear with their bikes.

  I decided they needed a new member. A big guy. By now I was six months into my fourth pregnancy and in perfect shape to disguise myself as one of them. Jerry helped me haul Lee’s dirt bike across the road, where I posed for his camera, slouched on the bike in Lee’s leathers and helmet, with a beer can in one hand, my head down to partially hide my face. On Christmas Day each of Lee’s “gang” got an unsigned, framed photograph.

  Lee opened his anonymous gift and passed it to me.

  “Who is this guy?”

  I looked over. “Don’t know him,” I said, going back to the children and their presents.

  “Well, he doesn’t look like any of the guys I ride with.”

  That afternoon, Keenan came over, and Lee popped a bottle of Dom Perignon from the case he had bought to get him through the holidays. Keenan passed on the champagne and went behind the bar for a glass of his usual Stoli. He spotted the photo of me on the bike.

  “Who in the hell is this character? I got one of these too,” Keenan asked.

  “Beats the hell out of me,” Lee said.

  As I passed through the room, picking up the Christmas wrappings from that morning, Lee looked up and suddenly grabbed me.

  “Stay right there, Betty.”

  “Can’t. I have to check on the turkey,” I said, trying to get away and avoid his eyes so I wouldn’t burst out laughing. Lee studied the picture and then looked intently at me. He turned to Keenan.

  “See any similarity?” Keenan was still looking puzzled as Lee smiled, shook his head, put his arms around me, and gave me a big kiss. “You’re too much, sweetheart.”

  14

  There's No Such Thing as a Little Lie

  WE WERE BEING transported in a black stretch limousine up Hollywood Boulevard to Grauman’s Chinese Theatre for the premiere of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. I studied Lee’s profile: the nearly silver hair, rather short and wide upturned nose, and strong jaw full of recently capped teeth. He was a handsome sight in a black tux—his monkey suit, as he called it. I was wearing a black Peau de Soie maternity gown, created for me by my then favorite designer, Jimmy Galanos. A white fox stole was draped over my bare shoulders.

  Lee reached over to the bar to replenish his drink. This would make his third, since he’d already had a drink before we left the house. When did I start counting? I closed the partition between us and the driver.

  “Lee.”

  “Come on, sweetheart. Nights like this are torture.” Lee was at a point in his career where hitting these opening night spectacles was just about mandatory. Premieres were big game for the entertainment press, and Lee’s name showing up in the next day’s Variety kept him in the spotlight. But he hated the charade, and we were always the first to bolt when the lights came up at the end. We were pulling up to the theater, and I looked out of the darkened limo window.

  “Uh-oh, Lee, Army’s waiting.” Army Archerd, top celebrity gossip columnist, rarely missed an opening night.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be on my best behavior,” Lee said, knocking back his martini. Then he smiled at me. “Fun comes later,” he murmured and gave me a soft kiss on the cheek.

  Hoards of fans on the sidelines were shouting to celebrities gathered in front. Lee grabbed my hand before the limo door was opened.

  “Okay, baby, let’s get this over with,” he said into my ear, and we entered the crowd.

  Army pounced on us immediately. Lee went through his routine: yes, he was thrilled to be there; yes, we were having another baby; (when weren’t we, this one made four) yes, he loved Elizabeth Taylor. My job during these moments was to stand there stock still and beam like a Stepford Wife. After years of practice, I had the frozen smile down.

  Behind us, Charles and Lydia Heston were waiting to talk to Army. Lee found them boring at best, so he nodded silently and gave them the limelight. He took my elbow, nodding at Archerd, and got us out of there.

  Floodlights scanned the crowd of film star royalty. Glancing around, I saw several trophy wives grabbing their moment to sparkle next to their celebrity husbands. They all had a studied look of Hollywood opulence—nervous money, a friend called it.

  Lee and I mingled with the crowd, exchanging a number of greetings mixed with handshakes and fake kisses. Lee spotted Anne Bancroft coming toward us. He gave her a quick embrace, then put his arm around me. “Honey, meet Anne. She single-handedly got me through that wreck of a film in Mexico.” Anne and I smiled at each other. God, what great cheekbones, I thought, and intelligent eyes. She didn’t look at all like the many Bright Young Things who were all hair and no brains. I was disappointed that before we could talk she was swept back into the throng.

  When the line formed to enter the theater, I realized we were standing behind Joan Crawford, of all people, who was chatting with her date for the evening, an attractive young man whose eyes were glued to her. The perfect escort. I turned to Miss Crawford to speak, but she ignored me and looked directly at Lee, eyes sparkling.

  “Well, Mr. Marvin, I’ve been wanting to meet you for a long time. I’m a big fan.”

  “Why, thank you, Miss Crawford. I believe you know Mrs. Marvin.”

  She still didn’t acknowledge me. It was as though she’d never met her children’s ex-nanny!” She was all eyes on Lee. “I have a project you might be interested in,” she said. “There’s a role that has your name all over it.” She turned on her smile, all painted lips and white teeth. Of course she knew I was aware of her routine affairs with all her leading men.

  Bitch.

  “I’ll be in touch,” she said, and not a moment too soon we were ushered inside.

  Cat on a Hot Tin Roof was, of course, terrific. It was hard to go wrong with Paul Newman and Elizabeth Taylor. I couldn’t help wondering how Lee felt watching Newman’s character, an alcoholic w
ho was drunk for a lot of the movie.

  As soon as the film was over Lee was ready to run over to Chez Jay, a favorite late-night spot of ours. The joint was packed, and a crowd was standing three deep waiting to get drunk, fed, or both. We were regulars, so Jay quickly found us a small table by the bar.

  “Enjoy,” he said as he left me to maneuver my pregnant belly into the small space between the table and chair. Lee greeted a few of his drinking buddies at the bar before joining me. The bartender sent over the usual double-dry Tanqueray martini for Lee and my usual Dubonnet and soda.

  “Hey, Lee!” One of Lee’s stuntman pals strolled over to our table with more drinks, making a comment about “the little lady” with “a duck in the oven.” I winced and looked away. There seemed to be some commotion at the bar, but I wasn’t really paying attention. I just wanted this jerk to move on and leave us alone. Then, suddenly, like a bolt out of the blue, there was a shout and a man from the end of the bar came flying through the air and crashed right into our table, taking our drinks with him. The onlookers at the bar were hooting, ready to enjoy what appeared to be the beginning of a brawl, but in no time Jay and his bouncers escorted the troublemakers out onto the street.

  “I don’t know why we come here on a Saturday night,” I said.

  “Because Jay has the best steaks in town,” Lee said.

  Jay sent over a bottle of his best champagne as an apology, and an hour later Lee had finished the champagne and was working on a bottle of Cabernet. God, I was tired. I was seven months pregnant, had three kids at home, and it was going on midnight. There weren’t a lot of nights Lee and I got to go out, and I missed our time alone together, but right then all I wanted to do was put my head down. In the middle of dinner, Lee abruptly put down his steak knife and looked at me long and hard.

  “What’s up, honey?” I asked. He suddenly seemed troubled.

  “I have a confession to make.” His eyes avoided mine. “I know I’m probably crazy for telling you this, but I don’t want us to have any secrets.” Then he downed his drink and dropped the bomb. “When I was in Mexico, I had an affair.”