Tales of a Hollywood Housewife

by Betty Marvin

  I froze, my eyes glued to my dinner plate.

  “It didn’t mean anything, sweetheart. Gorilla at Large was such a boring shoot. Anne and I—”

  “Excuse me,” I mumbled, getting out of the chair. After maneuvering my way through the mob to the ladies’ room, I locked the door and leaned against it. Gorilla at Large. Anne… Anne Bancroft! Why did he have to tell me? What in hell was the deal introducing me to her a few hours ago? And why tell me now? I’m carrying his child, for God’s sake. Son of a bitch! I could have killed him.

  I felt trapped in my big, cumbersome body. I began to shake as I pictured Anne extending her hand to me. What if everyone already knew my husband had been cheating on me?

  I stared into the mirror. I hardly recognized myself. Gone was the radiant “pregnant is beautiful” look. Instead, there appeared before me a bewildered, miserable creature. I leaned my head against the tile wall and bit my lip to keep from crying.

  Half an hour must have passed before I finally returned to our table. Lee had finished his steak and was paying the bill.

  I got through the next couple of months on automatic pilot, eager to reclaim my body. The afternoon before I was scheduled to go into the hospital to deliver our fourth child by cesarean, Lee and I went to a gathering in Malibu. Feeling nauseous from the tobacco smoke in the room, I waddled out onto the balcony, high above the rocks below, for a breath of fresh sea air.

  A tall, blond, handsome man stood on the edge of the railing, smoking a cigarette and staring down as though he were about to jump.

  “Are you sure you want to do that?” I called up to him.

  He studied me carefully. “Why not? I don’t know. Are you interesting?”

  “Come down from there and find out.”

  He tossed his cigarette, jumped down, and came over to me.

  “Hello. I’m Tristram.”

  “What an unusual name.”

  “And that’s only the beginning. I’m Tristram Coffin Colket the Third.” He paused, then added, “M.D.” I laughed as he sat down next to me.

  “Are you with those people in there?” he asked.

  “I’m with one of them.”

  “Shouldn’t he or she be keeping an eye on you? From the looks of things, you’re about to have a baby any minute.”

  I smiled. “Tomorrow morning. And, considering the circumstances, Doctor, I’m better off here with you.”

  We fell into a long conversation, ignoring the sunset.

  As the sky turned dark, Lee came out. “Sorry to break this up, sweetheart, but we’re due at the hospital.”

  I introduced him to Tris, my new friend. “I’ll be there in a moment. Can you call Dr. Mishell and tell him we’re on our way?” It was hard to tear myself away from this bright, funny, engaging man, and it was almost midnight by the time Lee and I reached the hospital.

  Claudia Leslie was born the next morning, twenty-two months after Cynthia, at which time I opted for a tubal ligation. Lee was disappointed. He always was delighted with my pregnancies and very proud of each new addition. A few weeks after our last child was born, we were lying in bed after making love when he announced that sex with me would never be the same now that there was no chance of my getting pregnant. His remark made me sad.Was I just a baby machine to him?

  I threw myself into mothering our children and tried to ignore my sadness. Not only did I have a newborn, I was a Camp Fire Girls Leader, a Cub Scout Den Mother and active in the PTA. I planned each child’s birthday party as though it were a major event. No theme was ever repeated and our home was completely transformed for each holiday celebration. I had definitely bought into the family sitcoms of the fifties and was starring in Mother Knows Best. Structure was everything as I became more and more of a Dollhouse wife. If I had the perfect family home, surely nothing could be wrong with my marriage.

  The Perfect Family, Easter 1958

  I found myself remembering the first few weeks with Lee. I was so happy in our first home together, that tiny furnished apartment. Now we lived in a six-thousand-square-foot house full of beautiful antiques, which brought me no happiness. The size and opulence of our home only added to my feelings of separation from my husband. More and more I looked forward to our times at Turtle Lodge, when we came together as a real family.

  One evening Lee and I met Sharley and Keenan Wynn for dinner at La Scala, a fashionable Italian restaurant in Beverly Hills where the stars loved to hang out and hop from one leather booth to the next. Lee was deep in conversation with Keenan, but I was having a difficult time concentrating on what Sharley was saying, since, recently, when Lee and I were in New York, I had seen Keenan with some babe on his arm. At the time I had told Lee I didn’t know if I could face Sharley after that.

  “Why, Betty? It doesn’t mean anything.”

  “Does Sharley know?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Then it’s a clear case of deception.”

  “Come on, sweetheart. It’s just a little lie.”

  “There’s no such thing.”

  “Why do you have to make such an issue over this? It has nothing to do with you.”

  “Okay, let’s forget it.” But I couldn’t, and here I was feeling guilty, for God’s sake—as if I had committed a crime.

  Jack Cassidy showed up at our table, obviously feeling no pain. “Lee, I want to tell you what a great actor you are. I love your work.”

  “Thanks, Jack.” Lee went back to the point he was making to Keenan.

  “I’m serious,” Jack continued, oblivious. “You are the best. I love you.”

  “Well, thank you very much,” Lee said, losing patience. He looked at us and rolled his eyes.

  “I mean it,” Jack persisted. “I love you.”

  Lee looked up, studied Jack, then rose from the table and gave him a full, wet kiss on the mouth. “Will that hold you for a while?”

  Jack practically fell over from shock, but quickly regained his balance and silently staggered away.

  After dinner Sharley and Keenan left, but Lee wanted to stay for a night cap. Over a brandy he cozied up to me.

  “You know what I told you in Jay’s?” he murmured.

  I tensed. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  He stroked my neck. “Sweetheart, I need to tell you something. I don’t know what came over me, confessing to such a thing. It never happened. I made it up. I didn’t have an affair.”

  I looked at him in disbelief. Did he or didn’t he? Which was worse—having an affair or lying about it?

  15

  All for a Good Cause

  I WAS TRYING to hold it together, but our household was becoming increasingly tense. Lee’s initial enthusiasm for M Squad was waning fast. He felt trapped in a role that was taking him nowhere, and his unhappiness began to take its toll. His behavior grew less rational. He’d come home drunk, or not come home at all. He was withdrawing more and more into himself, literally hiding from everyone.

  Once, after he’d been missing for hours, I found him in his scuba gear, sitting at the bottom of the swimming pool.

  “Talk to me, Lee,” I asked him one night when I woke up and found him staring at the ceiling. “We need to fix this.” He didn’t respond. On the intercom I heard Claudia start to cry, and I got up and went down to her room.

  When the Christmas season arrived, Anna, a beautiful, black, heavy-set woman, the widow of a Baptist minister, came to help me through the holidays and ended up staying. She made it possible for me to keep up the insane, backbreaking schedule I had created for my kids and myself with music lessons, dance, sports, charity, political and PTA meetings planned for every moment of the day. And with the tension in the house, it was a tremendous relief to have another adult there to help me. At first it felt strange having a woman older than myself with grown children of her own working for me. But her unwavering patience and kindness filled the house, and when I implored her to stay, she was happy to oblige. It was the first time she had worked sinc
e her husband’s death.

  One afternoon I came in after a PTA meeting and found Anna rocking five-year-old, thumb-sucking Courtenay instead of Claudia, who was napping. Anna was never too busy with her housework to stop everything and care for the children when I had to be away. Courtenay loved this special attention. Christopher and Cynthia came in from playing in the garden. Cynthia ran into my arms, but Christopher wanted some of Anna’s special attention for himself. By the time he got to her, she already had an arm out for him; and as she held Courtenay with one arm, she gave Christopher a hug with the other.

  “Some days I’d love to crawl onto your lap myself,” I said, falling into a chair nearby.

  “No, Mommy,” Courtenay said. “Anna’s mine.”

  “Mine,” said Christopher.

  Anna laughed. “Anna’s here for anyone who needs her. I feel so blessed to have found you all.”

  “Anna, we’re the ones who are blessed. I don’t know how I ever managed without you. By the way, can you watch the kids tomorrow afternoon? I’ve made an appointment to have my hair done.”

  “Be happy to.”

  I had an appointment with Richard Alcala, the celebrity hairstylist of Beverly Hills. His salon was the hangout for Hollywood wives until he was busted for hiding pot in his vacuum cleaner. As Richard painted the perfect color into my hair, I heard the woman next to me say my name. “Betty Marvin?”

  I turned and found an old friend who had just come in.

  “Lois Clarke?”

  She laughed. “Lois Garner, thank you.”

  “I know you and Jim are married now, but to me you’re still Lois Clarke.” When Lee and I were first married and he was away on location, Lois lived with me briefly before she became Mrs. James Garner. After her marriage our paths hadn’t crossed until now.

  “It’s good to see you, Betty. I hear you have something like fifteen children.”

  “Not quite. But four can feel like fifteen sometimes.”

  “If you have time, call me. We must have dinner.”

  We exchanged numbers before I left the salon. During our conversation Lois mentioned she was a member of an organization called SHARE, a charity group made up of Hollywood wives. She thought I should join and gave me the group’s phone number. I knew I needed to get out more, so I called SHARE and got the address of the next meeting.

  “Never heard of them,” Lee said when I told him about it. “But sure, go to the tea party or whatever.”

  “Damn it, Lee. I’m not interested in going to a tea party. I want to get involved with something meaningful.”

  “Don’t you think being a wife and mother is meaningful?”

  “I mean something out of the house.”

  “Honey, if it makes you happy, do it.”

  The meeting was being held in the Bel Air home of the wife of a well-known actor. I was duly impressed by the exterior, but the interior blew me away. It was all white on white. Before I got too far into the room, the hostess came up and greeted me by name; we’d met at industry functions before but didn’t really know each other.

  After a peck on each cheek, she smiled perkily and said, “Betty, dear, would you remove your shoes, please? The maid will take them for you.” I was surprised, as this was long before Asian tradition had permeated our culture. Asking someone to take off his shoes when entering was about as common as asking someone to remove his shirt. But I did as I was told and sat on one of the white linen sofas, surrounded by a number of fashionable women. We were served a full tea, complete with cucumber sandwiches and cookies on a beautiful silver tray.

  A tea party. Score one for Lee.

  “Love your necklace,” one woman said to another. “Did I see that at Winston’s?”

  “Oh, no. My husband had the stones cut and the piece designed for me.”

  Right. Surely we’d be getting to the charity work soon. I felt uncomfortable and reached for a cookie.

  “God, did you see the dress she was wearing? She cannot wear Pucci, not with those hips.” Bits of conversation wafting across the room reminded me of the sorority rush tea from college days, only now the girls were all grown women with even more money.

  Finally the hostess took a central chair and began to talk about SHARE’s next event.

  “We’ve agreed that our next donation will go to the Children’s Sponsorship Fund of Los Angeles.” At last, the real reason we were there.

  “I’ve written a check to Sy, and we’ll have the Beverly Hills Playhouse in six weeks.”

  “Six weeks? How are we going to put on a show that quickly?” one woman asked. Everyone started talking at once.

  “The costumes have to be custom.”

  “How will we have time to hire an orchestra?”

  “I thought we agreed to do songs from South Pacific and Oklahoma! this year. The playhouse is all wrong for that show! We need a much bigger space!”

  What the hell were they talking about? I reached for another cookie, dropping a few crumbs on the carpet as I picked it up. Without missing a beat, the hostess stood, went to the living room corner, and, smiling all the while, took hold of a brand-new, all-white, compact vacuum cleaner and propelled it toward me. “Excuse me!” she said quite perkily and vacuumed up the crumbs around my ankles.

  “What’s our show budget?”

  Our hostess had returned to her throne and niftily returned the white vacuum cleaner to its ivory corner. “Well, we have nine thousand in the kitty for this show, but I know we can do better than that!”

  Nine thousand dollars? This had nothing to do with the Children’s Sponsorship Fund. This was a charity for fading showgirls who had married out of their careers and were willing to drop a ton of cash—their husbands’ cash—to put on a vanity production.

  Nobody noticed when I left. I had the maid retrieve my shoes and ran down the steps to my car.

  “God! That was… horrible!” I exploded when I got home.

  “All right, all right!” Lee was obviously tickled at my reaction. “So what does SHARE stand for, anyway?”

  “I never found out. What about “Silly Hollywood Asses blah, blah…”

  “You’re too smart to hang out with those dames.”

  “Okay, but, Lee, I want to do something. I’m sick of being surrounded by people who have their heads in the sand.”

  Lee was in full agreement. Even though he was not political and only supported causes at my insistence, he respected my liberal beliefs. “What about Steve Allen and Robert Ryan’s new organization?”

  These Hollywood celebrities were just beginning to put together “Hollywood for SANE,” born out of a New York group called Sane Nuclear Policy, headed by Norman Cousins. Our country was in the middle of the Cold War, and people were caught up in the idea of building bomb shelters on their property to protect themselves against a nuclear attack.

  I joined Hollywood for SANE shortly after my one and only foray into SHARE, and before long I was hosting meetings in our home. They were a far cry from the charity event I’d attended in Bel Air. There was laughing, there was yelling, there was a lot of passion, and there were real plans hatched and executed. There was no compact vacuum.

  After joining Hollywood for SANE, I became more and more active in politics. It was satisfying to be able to put time and money into causes I believed in and express my concerns with others who shared my beliefs. However, there were those good people who did not agree with my politics. I managed to remain friends with them in spite of our differences, although it wasn’t easy in a time when fear penetrated our society.

  “I want you all to know the race track is a thing of my past,” Walter Matthau announced over dinner one night.

  “Oh, come on, Walter,” said Lee as he poured wine for ourguests. “Playing the horses is your one great passion.”

  “Yeah, it was, but it cost me a fortune. Expensive habit. Hypnosis did it. I’m finished with the track.”

  “A toast to the end of vice,” came a droll voice from the end
of the table. Oscar Levant raised his glass with shaking hands—the result of too much drinking for too long—and we all toasted Walter’s being cured of gambling.

  “I understand President Eisenhower had to go into the hospital for exploratory surgery,” said our neighbor friend Dr. Robert Sinskey, the only Republican at the table.

  “That’s no surprise. They were probably looking for his spine,” said Oscar, lighting a cigarette from the one flickering to an end in his stained fingers.

  Everyone laughed but Robert, who most certainly hated Oscar’s politics. Lee added fuel to the fire.

  “Robert, tell us how your bomb shelter’s coming along.”

  “Very well, thank you. As a doctor I have a responsibility to the community. I intend to use it to store medical supplies. I’m setting up a sort of first aid station in case of an attack.”

  “Isn’t that kind of like putting a BAND-AID on a hemorrhage? If there is an attack, wouldn’t you be more concerned with getting your family into the shelter?”

  “I’m sure I would.”

  Lee turned sinister. “Well, what if I told you I would take one of my guns, blow your head off, throw your family out, and take my family in?”

  The table fell silent. Lee smiled and went over and patted Robert on the arm. “Just making a point, good neighbor.”

  Robert did not speak as the rest of the dinner guests eagerly returned to lighter conversation.

  Rod Serling, the quiet listener at most parties, went home and wrote the bomb shelter conversation into an episode of The Twilight Zone.

  Walter Matthau was spotted a few days later at the track.

  16

  Where Are You? Don't Tell Me

  WORKING FOR POLITICAL causes was satisfying, but I also needed to get my creative juices flowing again, and in that pursuit I discovered painting. I converted part of our four-car garage into a studio and began to study seriously with Keith Finch, one of Los Angeles’s most successful abstract painters of the sixties. It was a perfect outlet because the kids could be in my studio and we would spend the afternoons making art together.