Tales of a Hollywood Housewife

by Betty Marvin

  But when evening came, I became lonelier and lonelier. M Squad was an all-encompassing show. Not only were the hours long, but Lee had fallen into the habit of stopping after the day’s shooting for a few drinks with the grips before coming home. He was more and more unavailable.

  At first I protested with anger and tears, but my complaints were met with excuses and apologies. At last I realized nothing I said made any difference. Lee had become addicted to the adulation…and to the booze. It had reached the point where I never knew when or if he would come home or in what condition. I’d check in with him during the day to see how late he would be. After the children went to bed, I would fix his dinner, then listen to music, read, or watch television and wait. And wait. Many nights his dinner would go from the oven and eventually into the garbage disposal, and I would go to bed enraged.

  That’s when the real torture began. By now I knew Lee would be drunk and racing his Arnolt Bristol sports car around the sharp curves of Sunset Boulevard. I would lie there hour after hour, night after night, listening for his car to pull into the garage, hating him for coming home late but scared that one night he wouldn’t make it home at all. A couple of fatal accidents had already occurred on those curves.

  As Lee’s misery with the TV series grew deeper, my concern for his welfare was so great that I rented an apartment for him across the street from the studio, furnished it with his personal necessities, and begged him to stay there after work. The first night in his new temporary residence he called.

  “Oh, baby, please let me come home,” he begged. “I need you. Please let me come home. I don’t want to sleep in this dump. Why are you punishing me? I love you.”

  “I love you too. That’s why I don’t want you driving. You’re in no shape to drive.”

  “Then come get me. Don’t leave me here alone. I need you.”

  And so I got out of bed, asked Anna to keep an ear out for the children, and went to his rescue. “How crazy can I get?” I asked myself on the forty-minute drive to Studio City. But from an early age, I had been taught that being needed was the same as being loved.

  One evening Lee was missing again, and dear friend Tris came around to keep me company. I poured myself a glass of wine and gin on the rocks for Tris. “God, it’s good to see you,” I said, “I love my kids to pieces, but at night I’m dying for some adult company.”

  “And I, on the other hand, have been with boring adults all day and want to play with the kids,” Tris said. “Where are they?”

  “Asleep, long ago.”

  “Damn, I missed them.” He picked up his drink. “Let’s go out into the courtyard. I want to show you something.”

  “Okay,” I said, “but first let me show you something.” We walked into my art studio, a line Lee never crossed. My husband was completely oblivious to my painting. Tris, on the other hand, was always eager to see my work. I handed him my latest pen-and-ink drawing. He studied it for some time.

  “This is so much like Munch, with that long, lonely line. What were you looking at when you drew this?”

  “I did it with my eyes closed. I see better that way.”

  We left the studio and walked out into the cool night air.

  “Ready?” Tris said, turning to me. He rolled up his sleeve and reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a syringe kit, prepared a needle, put a tourniquet on his arm, and quickly gave himself an injection. Then he sat down on a garden chair and rolled up his pants. “Now watch the drug travel down the veins of my leg,” he said matter-of-factly as he traced the pathway with a marker.

  “Oh, what a feeling,” he murmured as the drug took effect. I’d seen Tris shoot up before. He always explained his addiction to prescription drugs as medical research, continually performing experiments upon his own body and freely prescribing drugs for his own consumption. “All for the sake of science,” he smiled up at me faintly. I had no idea what drugs he was using.

  Tris and I had a deep connection. We fueled each other’s curiosity and found release in conversation. We were also bonded by the arts. He was a great jazz pianist and I loved to sing. As with Jerry Rogers in the past, I had a friend teaching me songs I’d never heard before. So, that night we spent the next few hours at the piano. Sitting next to him, I felt a strong attraction. But even if I were to consider an affair, which I didn’t, there was no possibility of it ever happening. Nothing would come between him and his drugs. He had his mistress.

  After Tris left, Lee called and engaged in his “guess where I am” routine, a game he loved to play with me when he was drunk. I was furious. After he hung up I called the bars and asked for him but got the usual reply: “He’s not here” or, “He just left.” Bartenders are such liars.

  Finally, I’d had it. Spinning out of control, I got the children out of bed and piled them into the back seat of the station wagon. (It was Anna’s day off.) I raced from bar to bar trying to find Lee. Seeing his car in the parking lot of a bar near the studio, I went inside. He wasn’t there. I looked inside his car and found a woman’s rhinestone hair combs on the seat. This was more information than I needed. I drove home, hiding tears from the kids and realizing then I didn’t want to know what he did on his nights out.

  I never went looking for Lee again. But bad news came looking for me. One night of waiting I received a phone call from a drunk Rosemary Clooney, asking for our address so she could have Lee delivered to our home. Another time the Los Angeles health department came to the front door with a notice that a prostitute had named Lee as a possible venereal disease recipient. I was relieved when his test for the disease was negative.

  Slowly things were going from bad to worse.

  17

  Hitting the Bottom Blues

  MY THIRTIETH BIRTHDAY was approaching, and Robert Walker wanted to give me a party. He sent out invitations to forty of my close friends for a black-tie, sit-down dinner in his beautiful courtyard. I knew he was going to great pains to make everything just right. He had asked to have my recipe for veal scaloppine and had hired Greta, a talented German chanteuse, to sing my favorite songs.

  That morning of July 16, 1958, Lee gave me a bicycle with a diamond watch in the basket. I should have been happy to have such a generous husband and excited to be going to a special, elegant party given just for me, but I was so depressed I could hardly make it through the day. To make matters worse, I had no one to confide in. That afternoon I went into the garden and walked and walked through the acre of flower beds I had planted that spring. Even the beauty of the endless blooms did not cheer me. Tris arrived unexpectedly, throwing me a lifeline.

  “What are you doing here?” I said, grateful he’d come.

  I hung on to his embrace. He finally pulled back and looked at me with concern. “What’s the matter, baby? What’s going on?” He took my hand and we continued to walk.

  “I don’t know. I dread this party tonight. I’m afraid to leave my house. I don’t want to see anyone. I feel guilty, but I wish I could get out of it.”

  “Well, you can’t.”

  “What’s happening to me, Doctor?”

  “I’d say you’re having a bit of an anxiety attack coupled with deep-seated depression. Both conditions are my constant companions. I know them well.”

  “How can you stand it?”

  “I can’t. Thank God for chemical assistance—though I know you don’t approve.”

  “Tris, I have a husband, four young children, and a house to run. I can’t get into drugs.”

  “I know, but let me give you a valium. Just one. Take a long, hot shower, then lie down until the party. What time will Lee be home?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  “It’s your birthday. I’m sure he’ll be here to take you to the party.”

  “Don’t count on it.”

  “Call me if you need an escort.”

  Tris waited while I showered, gave me a pill, and tucked me in for a much-needed nap. Lee came home sober and on time. He wa
s loving and attentive the whole evening, and I made it through the party with the added love of friends.

  My thirtieth birthday, July 16, 1958

  From that day on I felt myself slowly slipping into a black hole. As fall moved toward the holidays, I threw myself into the usual traditional activities, but it took all my energy to make it from one Hollywood party to the next, including a black-tie Christmas soiree thrown by Anne and Kirk Douglas.

  “Could this be an early evening?” I asked Lee as we were getting ready to go.

  “Where’s your party spirit, sweetheart? A glass of champagne will pick you up.”

  “I don’t feel like driving home tonight. Try not to drink so much.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll be fine.”

  “Merry Christmas, Betty,” said my charming hostess, Anne. “You look fabulous.”

  “I feel fabulous,” I lied, forcing a laugh, as I, covered in mink, made my way into the barroom. Little did she know I was hanging on to the barstool to keep from keeling over. I dreaded the dinner hour because I could barely open my mouth to eat in front of anyone.

  Lee had abandoned me at the front door and was already entertaining the guests, so I was on my own. Just get through this. Don’t tell anyone anything. Just perform, I pleaded with myself all through the party. That morning I had been shocked to realize, when pulling the carpool station wagon into our garage, that I had forgotten my daughter Claudia at Hughes market.

  Oh, my God, what kind of a mother am I? I can’t be trusted with my own kid. My husband never comes home at night, and why should he? I’m a mess, a failure as a wife and as a mother. What’s happening to me?

  Is this what it’s like to go crazy? I wondered. Ever since working at the Washington State Mental Hospital as a teenager, I’d had a tremendous fear of going crazy. Was it happening? I had begun to lock myself in the bathroom at night in case I got out of control. I was desperate. All I wanted was to give up the charade, check into Cedars, and get on with a nice, civilized breakdown.

  Instead, I went into analysis.

  Five mornings a week, at precisely 11:00 AM, I crawled to my analyst feeling very shabby in my mink. I drove the most elegant, white Continental convertible up “Libido Lane” to that well-known Analysts’ Building on Bedford in Beverly Hills, loaded with famous, successful shrinks. I recognized other patients in the elevator, but I never saw their eyes behind their dark glasses. We never spoke.

  What I really thought about when wearing my first mink coat was that my devoutly unfaithful husband must have really screwed up to feel guilty enough to buy it in the first place. His crime had to be greater than the one that produced the three-carat diamond ring, the fourth of five wedding rings presented to me in eight years. Why the sham of constantly asking me to be his wife when we were already married and he obviously had no respect for the institution?

  But this one purchase, after he had been particularly neglectful, included the ritual of selecting the pelts, choosing the style, and enduring endless fittings. Everything was custom. Some custom. Secretly, I found the wearing of dead animals offensive, but then I, too, was dead in a way and felt nothing, except undeserving. Lee, however, felt good every time I wore the fur. And making him feel good was part of my job. After all, I was responsible for his happiness, wasn’t I?

  “How does your husband feel about your coming here for treatment?” Dr. Rangell’s gentle voice and quiet manner were encouraging. He studied me with his kind eyes, waiting for my response. I still felt shy and self-conscious though I’d been in analysis for several weeks.

  “I haven’t seen him lately to ask.”

  “Oh, is he away?”

  “No. He comes home after I’ve gone to bed. Sometimes he just doesn’t come home.”

  “Without telling you?”

  “Well, he’s very busy when he’s working, and sometimes he can’t get home.”

  “Where does he stay?”

  “I don’t know.” This exchange was making me very uncomfortable.

  “Is he this wonderful husband you’ve been telling me about?” he asked.

  I began to cry. “When I first told him I wanted to go into analysis, he said if I did it would be the end of our marriage.”

  “Why do you think he’s against it?”

  “I guess he doesn’t want things to change. I don’t know what to do. I know I need help, but I’m afraid I’ll lose my marriage. I can’t afford that. He needs me to take care of him. He would never even make it to work if I didn’t get him up.”

  “Is that your job? Don’t you have enough to do taking care of the children? Don’t you have an alarm clock?”

  “Yes, but if he’s stays out drinking he’ll never set it. Even if I set it, he’ll never hear it. If I don’t get him up, he’ll miss his call at the studio, and—”

  “Is that your problem?” Dr. Rangell would not let me off the hook. My time was up. He smiled reassuringly as he closed the door behind me.

  As usual, Lee was out late that night. I set his alarm and was asleep when he came home. The next morning when it was time for his alarm to go off, I was fixing breakfast for the children. I could not hear the alarm, but I began to tremble. It took all my strength to resist going upstairs to awaken him. An hour later the phone rang.

  “For God’s sake, Betty, where is he?” It was Joe in the makeup department at the studio.

  “He’s asleep.”

  “Oh, no!” Joe said and hung up.

  Then someone from MCA called.

  “We just heard from the studio. Where is he?”

  “He’s asleep.”

  “Well, we’ll stall them. Just tell him to get his ass to work.” The man hung up, and reluctantly I went upstairs.

  “Lee.” I shook the stretched-out, snoring body, mostly hidden by covers. “Lee, wake up.” I patted his cheek.

  “Uhmmm,” he moaned.

  “Better get up. Both the studio and MCA have called. You’ve overslept.” I stepped back.

  “What?” He shot out of bed. “What happened? Why the fuck didn’t you call me?”

  I took a deep breath. “I was downstairs feeding the kids.” I gulped, took another breath, and added, “Your alarm went off.” Then summoning all my courage, I added, “It’s not my job to get you up. I’m not your mother.” I thought I was going to faint as I made my way back to the kitchen. When the fear finally subsided, I felt good.

  A few minutes later Lee came storming through the kitchen where the kids were eating.

  “What’s gotten into you? Is this your analysis talking?” I had no time to answer as he ranted on. “Well, I’ll tell you one thing. If you keep this up you can kiss your marriage good-bye.” I remained calm in the eye of the storm as he slammed the door and was gone.

  I turned to the kids, pretending to be all right. “More pancakes, anyone?”

  18

  Paris V Brings High Fashion at a Low Time

  DURING THIS PAINFUL time, something completely unexpected happened. I was at a cocktail party given by a good friend, fashion designer Rudi Gernreich. He was introducing his line of rather shocking black knit bathing suits, and early in the evening he asked me to model one for the guests. I ducked into his bedroom and put the thing on, but I couldn’t imagine what he was thinking.

  “Come on, Rudi, I look like my grandfather in this,” I said, posing in the skimpy, tight suit with holes the size of silver dollars. The reflection in the mirror of my small breasts, narrow hips, and long, thin legs was confirmation.

  “Wrong,” said Rudi definitively. “You have the body this suit was made for.”

  “You’ve got to be joking!” But he wasn’t.

  “Maybe I should give you the topless one to wear!”

  “Not on your life,” I told him. “But, okay, just for this evening I’ll model.”

  Rudi loved me in his clothes, and I was with him in New York when he showed his collection at the Algonquin Hotel, a place that was home to Lee and myself when we w
ere in New York.

  Lee also loved the way I looked in Rudi’s clothes. He thought I had great style.

  One evening he told me he’d seen me on Wilshire Boulevard. “You looked so damned good. I thought, What a beautiful woman. I’ve got to check her out. I drove up along side the car and there you were—my own wife!”

  Spending time with Rudi was fun and brought interesting people into my life, including Avis Caminez, an international fashion consultant. When he suggested I accompany him on his next trip to Paris, I surprised myself by saying yes. A few months earlier I never would have considered it. I knew the kids would be fine if I left them with Anna for a couple of weeks, and I needed a holiday from Lee.

  Rudi was eager to market his collection in Paris and convinced me I could act as his representative while there. He set up meetings with the five top designers, including Dior and Lanvin.

  Before I mentioned my travel plans to my husband, I consulted Dr. Rangell. His response was so positive he almost pushed me out the door and onto a plane. Lee was agreeable, so a few weeks later I set off for two weeks on my first trip to Europe. I had always hoped it would be with Lee, but I had grown tired of waiting for him to take a real holiday.

  From the time I checked into the fashionable Hôtel de Crillon and walked up Rue de Rivoli in my ocelot coat and Russian sable hat toward the Arc de Triomphe, I felt as if I’d come home.

  My life as a full-time mother and wife seemed, for those short weeks, far away as I entered the world of Paris fashion. The designers Rudi had arranged for me to meet not only loved his work but also had ambitions of their own: they wanted their high-end designs on the backs of fashionable, well-to-do women in the United States. By my fourth day in Paris, I was already starting to discuss how I might represent them in Los Angeles. By the time I was flying home, with Avis’s guidance, I’d made agreements to represent many of the best names in the fashion industry. It had happened so quickly I could scarcely believe it.