Tales of a Hollywood Housewife

by Betty Marvin

  Lee sauntered into my Malibu hideaway, too excited about his nomination to even mention my abrupt change of residence.

  “Two films in one year. You know I hate awards, but this is going to be some evening, sweetheart. I want you to have the most beautiful gown you can find. Maybe have Galanos design something special for you. You look terrific in his things. It’s going to be a great night.”

  I couldn’t believe my ears. How could he be carrying on about a gown when our marriage was ending? “I’ll think about it, Lee.” My response took the wind out of his sails and he left quietly. The kids were at school, and I didn’t tell them their father had been there. The phone rang shortly afterward.

  “Betty, hi.” After so many years, I knew Meyer Mishkin’s voice immediately. “Hello, Meyer. Did Lee give you this number?”

  “Just talked to him. As a matter of fact, that’s the reason for my call. I know you two are, well, sorting things out, but the press is terrible. I’m sure you’ve seen the papers.”

  “Actually, I’ve been trying to avoid them.”

  “Don’t blame you. But it might calm things down if you and Lee show up together at the Awards. I don’t mean to interfere, Betty, but one good photo of Mr. and Mrs. Lee Marvin would shut some people up.”

  I hated the kids being exposed to all the claptrap printed about their parents’ separation and took Meyer’s words to heart. I ordered a hand-beaded, form-fitting, full-length gown to wear to the ceremony. There was a second reason for my accepting Lee’s invitation to attend. I had been there every step of the way in his career, and I wanted to be with him on the biggest night of his professional life.

  Our plans were set. A few days before the Awards, Lee showed up at the beach, unannounced. “I have to talk to you,” he said, pacing up and down.

  “What is it?”

  “Sweetheart, you’re not going to believe this. I don’t know what to do.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Mishell’s threatening to kill herself if I don’t take her to the Awards.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “You don’t understand. I’m serious. She means it. You’ve gotta help me out here. That woman’s crazy.”

  “What do you want me to do, Lee?”

  “Would you be okay watching at home with the kids?” His words came out in a rush.

  I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Every time I thought Lee had sunk as low as he could go, he went even lower.

  “Will you be all right at home?” he asked again.

  “Do you really care?”

  I tried to make light of the turn in events to the kids, but there really wasn’t any hiding from them what Lee had done. The evening of the Awards, we all sat on my bed together watching the broadcast. Lee and Mishell made their entrance—she flaunting her Valentino gown, he in a black leather tuxedo. I couldn’t believe my eyes. He’d gone totally Hollywood.

  Lee was being pulled from all sides. At least he corrected a naïve reporter who referred to Mishell as “Mrs. Marvin.”

  “Ya got that wrong, buddy. Mrs. Marvin is under the weather and couldn’t make it. She’s at home with my four beautiful children.”

  And so I was.

  The crowd at the Awards applauded and the kids cheered when their father won. Lee stood and reached across Mishell to shake Meyer’s hand, then went on stage to thank a horse somewhere in the valley, ignoring the many people who were responsible for his success. I sat quietly and watched. I was touched by Dr. Rangell’s phone call of concern during the ceremony.

  Immediately after the Awards the phone rang again. It was Lee. “Sweetheart, I just called to tell you I love you. You’re the first one I thought of when I won. I owe this all to you.”

  I hung up. The next day my beach neighbor and new friend, Robert Brown, sent a large bunch of beautiful flowers with a handwritten note: “Here’s to the lovely woman behind the man.”

  No more, I thought.

  23

  Breaking Out of Prison

  WHEN THE KIDS and I moved back to Latimer Road, I started looking for an attorney and told Lee I was getting a divorce.

  “You’ll regret this. Don’t do it,” he warned. “Maybe you should have an affair. I think that’s what you need. I can’t believe you never had anyone else the whole time we’ve been married. It might have helped.”

  “Me or you? You think two wrongs make a right? No, Lee, I’m glad I was faithful to you. One less thing to feel bad about. But I can’t live this way anymore. Besides, I believe you were telling the truth when you said you didn’t want to be married.”

  “I’m telling you, Betty, don’t get a divorce. You may not know it now, but after me, there’s no one. You and I will always be together. We’re man and wife.”

  “The perfect dream. What about your mistress?”

  “Oh, she won’t be any trouble. I’ll keep her at the beach. As a matter of fact, you two should get to know each other. You might even become friends.”

  “That’s the sickest thing I’ve ever heard!”

  “In Europe men have always had mistresses. Their wives don’t seem to mind.”

  “Well, I’m American and I do. Call your attorney.”

  I painted every day. It was my only escape and I needed one badly. But there was really no getting away from what was raging inside me. The images on the canvas were aggressive, dark, and foreboding. Their appearance made me sick to my stomach, literally.

  The next day, while driving the white Ford station wagon, I realized I had grown to hate everything that car represented. It was the all-American housewife/young mother’s vehicle for hauling kids and groceries. It was time to change my image. I saw a sexy blonde zipping around the turns on Sunset in an eggplant-colored Buick Riviera. Now, that beauty is about as far away from the ”domesticated female on wheels” look as one could get, I thought. I went right down to the Buick dealer, dropped off the Ford, and drove out in a Riviera, identical to the one I had seen. When I got home I called our business manager, Ed Silver, and told him the news.

  “How much did it cost?” he asked, our money being his main concern.

  “Would you believe I only had to give them the Ford and $23?”

  “No, I wouldn’t,” he said. “I’ll call them and take care of it.”

  I’d signed papers to finance the car without a clue as to what I was doing. It was the first time in years I had made a move on my own financially, and I definitely had a lot to learn.

  My attempts to change my image did not stop with the car. One day I caught a glimpse of myself getting out of the shower. I studied my small breasts and decided implants would make me look and feel sexier. After one operation I went from a 36A to a 36C. The next time Lee dropped by he couldn’t take his eyes off my cleavage.

  “Are those your breasts?” he said.

  “Absolutely. Bought and paid for.”

  He shook his head and smiled.

  It was time for my mother to make her annual visit, a gift I had given her from 1957, when Lee and I could afford it. I knew this visit was going to be particularly difficult because she, unaware of our problems, thought Lee was the perfect son-in-law.

  On my way to the airport I was so full of anxiety that I was pulled over and ticketed by a traffic cop for going too slow on the freeway.

  “Will Lee be coming home for dinner?” my mom asked on our way back.

  “I told you on the phone, Mother. Lee is living at the beach. I’m divorcing him.” She sat quietly for a while, looking straight ahead. I hoped that would be the end of it. No such luck.

  “Betty, don’t rush into anything.”

  Her words made me dizzy, and I had such trouble breathing I feared I might crash.

  “I don’t think we should discuss this now,” I whispered. I made it home and pulled into the garage as the kids were coming in from school. They were the perfect distraction while I regained composure.

  Mother and I walked into the courtyard. I was tryin
g to think of how to steer the conversation away from Lee when we turned toward the playroom and saw someone inside fixing himself a drink. It was Daddy. My mother looked first bewildered, then shocked. She hadn’t seen him since before I was born.

  “Betty! What is he doing here? How could you?”

  I couldn’t believe this was happening.

  “Mother, I swear, I didn’t invite him. I’m as surprised as you are. Daddy—my father—comes around sometimes. He doesn’t call first. I’m so sorry.” I looked at my mother, trying to imagine what she might be feeling. “Do you want to say hello?” I asked gently.

  “I have nothing to say to that man,” she said and escaped to the guestroom.

  I went inside to my father. “Daddy.”

  “Hey, kiddo!” He reached to embrace me.

  “No time for that now, and put down that drink. You have to leave. My mother is here. She doesn’t want to see you.”

  “Why can’t she let bygones be bygones? Besides, I’m not here to see her. I want to talk about Lee,” Daddy said plaintively. “Where is he?”

  “He’s not coming by any time soon.” I took the glass out of my father’s hand and guided him to the door. “I will talk to you about this another time. But not while Mother’s visiting. Good-bye, Daddy.”

  Almost as soon as Daddy had driven off, my mother reappeared.

  “What time did you say Lee would be home? Will he be here in time for dinner?”

  “Mother, I told you. He’s not coming here. He doesn’t live here anymore.” It was all too much. Both my parents seemed more interested in Lee than in me. I burst into tears. “I’m sorry,” I said, grabbing a tissue off the coffee table.

  “Oh, Betty,” she pleaded, “please don’t cry. I’ve never seen you cry.”

  The divorce was a long, humiliating process. I wandered around in a daze most of the time. When Lee realized I was serious about divorcing him and that we would never be together again, his tone changed from assertive to sad. He no longer made idle threats, but seemed resigned to the situation.

  “If you insist on going through with this, I promise you and the kids will never want for anything.”

  Word got out, and attorneys famous for getting big settlements for Hollywood wives phoned to see if they could represent me. I always refused, certain that Lee would keep his word. I liked the attorney I chose and believed that was important. He was sweet, bright, and experienced, but it was quickly evident that he was no match for Lee’s legal team. They were determined to protect his future earnings, in spite of Lee wanting to do right by the children and me. After all, they were protecting their own interests.

  I knew I was in trouble when the judge called us all into chambers to discuss our differences. He completely ignored me as we entered with our respective legal counsels. His eyes were only on Lee. “Hello, Mr. Marvin!” he said. “Before we get started, I just want to tell you how much I’ve enjoyed all your movies. I’m a big fan.

  Oh, brother. Not a good sign, I thought.

  My attorney did his best to argue on my behalf, but the die was already cast. Not only was I being faced with the possibility of serious financial trouble, but any privacy the kids and I had had was shot to hell. The press was having a field day. Reporters had no hesitation about calling the house at any hour of the day or night, audacious in asking personal questions. I always answered, “No comment.” On days that some trade paper or magazine had a particularly cruel piece of gossip about Lee and his live-in mistress. I kept the kids home from school. They were suffering enough without being teased.

  When Lee left home, Christopher was fourteen, an adolescent left behind in an all-female household, with a mother, three younger sisters, and our housekeeper, Anna. Concerned about the lack of an adult male presence at home, I considered sending Christopher to a boarding school. He and I were driving back to our house after an appointment with a school counselor to discuss our options.

  “Mom, am I bad?” he said.

  “Why no, honey, quite the opposite. You’re the best boy I know.”

  “Then why are you sending me away?” He was fighting to hold back the tears.

  “Oh, Christopher, I just want to take some of the pressure off you. I thought you would like to get away from your sisters and me.”

  “Please don’t send me away.”

  I stopped the car. “That’s it. You’re not going anywhere.”

  “Thanks, Mom.” We dried our eyes. I put some music on the radio as we drove home, a newfound peace settling between my son and me. Instead of sending Christopher away to school, I hired Mr. Brody, a caring teacher, to come to the house and tutor him several times a week. He became the perfect temporary surrogate father to my son.

  While my world was falling apart, the attorneys were matter-of-factly counting the assets and negotiating how to best cut up the pie. I foolishly had thought Lee’s legal team were my friends all the years they had represented us. Now they hardly acknowledged me. I learned quickly that our divorce would be all about money. Lee’s promise that I would want for nothing was pushed aside as they fought to keep as much of his present and future earnings as possible. I made no demands, and my nice attorney was no shark. As a result, the children’s needs were not protected, and I had no claim to any of Lee’s future earnings. I received the house and lifetime alimony, but little child support, as it was not tax-deductible. I did not fight the settlement. I had no fight left.

  Without emotion, I resolutely signed the final divorce papers in 1965 and called it a day. My attorney drove me home, and I sat alone in the playroom waiting for a wave of despair to settle over me, but it didn’t come.

  An hour or more later, I was still sitting there when Lee walked in, came over, and put his arms around me. An air of guilt hung over him, knowing he had allowed his attorneys to protect his future from his past. I felt nothing.

  “Sweetheart, this was a horrible day for both of us.”

  I did not respond as he continued. “Those attorneys have to do their job, but no matter what the divorce papers say, I’ll always take care of you and the kids.”

  My silence sent him on his way.

  24

  Packing Up and Moving On

  IT HAD STARTED out to be fun—an Easter vacation in 1967 with the kids spent skiing with friends at Mammoth Mountain. The snow was getting soft, but we skied through the week, junk and all. On Good Friday, the last run of the season, I was foolishly still in my racing bindings, coming down a gentle slope on the back of run three.

  “Mom, watch me parallel ski,” called Cynthia from up above. I turned around, slipped back into some junk, lost my balance, and sat down unexpectedly, watching my left leg twist around in slow motion. There was not enough impact for the ski to come off, and I knew when I saw blood the leg had been fractured.

  An ambulance took me to the local hospital for surgery. I was pretty much out of it the following day until I found myself being transported by hospital plane to Santa Monica. Lee had been contacted and had decided it was better for me to be home, near the children. I wasn’t consulted, but then I was in no shape to discuss much. Lee was waiting with an ambulance to take me back to the house. After tucking me into bed, he went back to the beach, leaving me with the children, a broken leg, and no assistance.

  As soon as the medication wore off, I was in agony. By the middle of the night I could stand it no longer and called my doctor. Within an hour the same two young men who had brought me home a few hours before arrived and reversed the plan, carrying me back down the stairs and delivering me to St. John’s Hospital.

  I spent the next two months there, undergoing two more operations. A few days after the last surgery, the pain caused from the leg swelling inside the cast became excruciating. Demerol had become dangerously habit forming, and I’d sworn off any pain medication, but this was unbearable. From my hospital bed, I begged the nurse to call the surgeon or at least the doctor on call, but there was no response. When my friend Carol showed up
to visit, I told her, “I’m in terrible pain. I need you to do me a favor.”

  “What is it?”

  “Do you have your station wagon with you?” She nodded. “Pull it up outside the emergency exit. Then find a wheelchair in the hall, get me into your car, and drive me over to the doctor’s office. Please.”

  No one asked where I was going as I left the hospital in a wheelchair. With Carol’s help I made it to the doctor’s office and hobbled into a crowded room on my crutches.

  “Since the doctor is too busy to see me, I’ve come to see him,” I called to the receptionist. Sensing my determination, she immediately showed me into a private room. “Get this damn thing off my leg!” I shouted at the doctor when he put his head in the door. Without a word he got his saw, removed the cast, and put on a looser one, and I returned to the hospital. I hadn’t even been missed.

  Two weeks later I was released and went home with a full leg cast, confined to a hospital bed that had been set up in the playroom. The kids were relieved to have me home, and I was looking forward to getting the cast off and starting physical therapy. But in the meantime I needed help, and that evening friends came over to barbecue for the kids and me. After dinner, when the guests had left and the kids were in bed, I was aware of discomfort in my chest. I took something for indigestion and fell asleep.

  In the middle of the night I awakened, unable to breathe. I couldn’t figure out what was happening to me and didn’t want to disturb the doctor at that hour, so I sat on the edge of the bed gasping until dawn. When I finally did phone him, apologizing for the disturbance, he called an ambulance immediately and they rushed me, once again, back to St. John’s Hospital, this time into intensive care. I had a pulmonary embolism from a clot that had broken free from my last surgery and had traveled to my lungs.