Tales of a Hollywood Housewife

by Betty Marvin

  Over the next few weeks, I removed Willy’s personal belongings, cleaned, painted, and replanted the garden. Finally, the place looked habitable; better than that, it looked like a home. The house was ready for lease. When it rented it would be time for me to move on, but where?

  People started coming to see the house. I heard from Stephanie only a few days later.

  “Betty, honestly, what you did with Dad’s house is a miracle. I can’t thank you enough.”

  “Thank you. It’s been wonderful to be here.”

  “The…”She paused. “The tenants I’ve accepted are pretty much ready to move in as soon as I give them the word.”

  Right, I thought. It’s time to go.

  “Betty?” Stephanie’s voice broke through, “is that okay? Like, if we say, next weekend?”

  “Next weekend is fine. I promise I’ll be long gone and the house will be ready and waiting.”

  I left the house as promised. Sadie and I drove down the road to Ventura in search of a job and a place to sleep. The day was bright and might have felt full of possibility when I was younger. But driving with no destination at sixty-six years old, I was trying not to panic, hoping to wrest out what opportunities I could summon for myself. Before leaving my house, I’d sent out dozens of resumes, answering any classified ad I thought might be even a slight possibility. Three college degrees should have made me eligible for something. But my age was against me. Not one business called.

  I stopped to rest in Arroyo Verde Park, letting Sadie have a run while I tried to figure out my next move. Two barking, white, miniature poodles raced across the park to stage an attack. A short, fat, brunette in her forties followed behind yelling, “Goddamn it! Shut up and get back here, you little bastards.” The dogs ignored her and Sadie ignored them. The woman plopped down next to me, lit a cigarette, and gave me the once-over. “You look like you just lost your best friend,” she said, taking a swig from a brown paper bag. “Carrot juice,” she explained.

  I smiled and wished she’d go away.

  “Park’s great for dogs. You bring yours here a lot?”

  “No, just today.”

  “You visiting?”

  Please, please, I thought, I’m in no mood for a conversation.

  “I’m Millicent. I live a few blocks from here.” She pointed vaguely. “How ’bout you?”

  I don’t know what made me tell her what I’d kept secret from friends. “Actually, Millicent, I have nowhere to go. I need a place to stay and a job, and I need them today.” Just saying it out loud made me feel queasy.

  “Huh,” said Millicent, lighting a fresh cigarette from the butt of the other. “You just might be in luck. My roomie moved out Tuesday.”

  I couldn’t imagine myself as Millicent’s “roomie,” but I followed her car to a modest stucco house nearby, beige and brown, inside and out. She talked nonstop as she showed me through. “You have your own bath and private entrance. Use the kitchen anytime. I never use it. Hardly ever home. I’m a vegetarian. Strict. Mostly carrot juice and wheatgrass.” She took a deep drag on her cigarette. “Four hundred bucks a month. Now that’s a good deal, huh? What do you say?”

  “I’ll take it,” I said impulsively. I had no idea how I’d pay the rent, but I had to live somewhere, and if this was not a perfect arrangement, at least there was a kitchen. Catering? I’d figure out something to provide enough cash income to survive.

  “So go get your stuff,” Millicent said in a bossy tone.

  “It’s all in the trunk of my car,” I told her. I went out to retrieve a bag of clothes and my typewriter. I had sold my computer. When I came into the chaotic kitchen, Millicent was cleaning out a couple of cupboards. A flat of wheatgrass was growing on the counter. The sink was full of yellow-stained glasses and coffee mugs, brown with soggy cigarette butts. “There you are,” she said. I scrubbed these out just for you.” She opened the refrigerator and moved a mound of aged organic carrots. “You can have this shelf.” She took out a carton of milk, read the date, smelled it, made a face, and poured it into the sink as I stood there mute, trying not to laugh. Boy, I knew how to pick ’em.

  “I got yoga—damn, I’m late—so I’ll see ya later, ’kay?” Before I could say anything, Millicent was running out the door.

  Sadie padded up and nuzzled me.

  “Well, baby,” I told her, “it’s just for a while.”

  What little money I had left from my Social Security check went into the first month’s rent, leaving just enough for me to buy supplies and make use of the kitchen. That afternoon I went to Kinko’s and printed up flyers announcing “Sadie’s Basket: A Gourmet Luncheon Delivery Service.”

  The next morning I was up at 5:30 making sandwiches, packaging salads, desserts and cold drinks, and organizing napkins, plastic cups, spoons, and forks. I loaded the car and at 10:30, dressed in white jeans, shirt, and red-striped apron, made the first stop on my mapped-out route, a building of law offices. I could barely bring myself to go in. It’s just acting, I told myself in the elevator. Say your lines and you’ll do fine.

  “Good morning! Sadie’s Basket is here, full of tasty treats—organic, homemade, and delicious.” I was standing in front of a receptionist, all of nineteen, giving me a puzzled look as I handed her a flyer.

  She gave it a quick glance and buzzed the offices. “Anyone need lunch? There’s some woman out here selling food.” Doors opened, and it was like a storm hit. Within ten minutes the reception area was full of hungry attorneys, paralegals, and secretaries who bought everything in sight and sent me back to the car for more. After gathering up the cash and assuring the office I would return every day at the same time, I was off to the next address, an office building of doctors and dentists, followed by a hairdressing salon and spa. I refilled the baskets, gave myself a pep talk, and each time sold out.

  I lay on my bed that evening counting the money I had left after hitting the market for the next day’s supplies. The door suddenly swung open with a bang.

  “Where the hell’s my juicer?” Millicent lurched into my bedroom wearing nothing but panties that had seen better days and holding a bottle of Bud.

  “I can’t find a fuckin’ thing in my own kitchen!” She turned and staggered out, shouting over her shoulder. “My phone’s been ringin’ off the hook! Someone named Cynthia! Call her back and tell her to knock it off!”

  I got up and locked my door, then called my daughter. “Cynthia, this lady’s not wrapped too tight. Better not phone here. I’ll call you.”

  “Mom, you’d better move.”

  “Not right now. Soon, I promise.”

  Cynthia came the next afternoon to check out my new residence.

  “Some spread,” she teased me lightly.

  Millicent burst through the door, her hands full of parking citations. “Look at these fuckin’ tickets, will ya?” She threw them on the table. “Where do they expect you to park in this damned city? I get back to my car and that fuckin’ meter maid is writing up another one. Two in one day! I almost belted that bitch. I’ve gotta have some wheatgrass.” She went to the refrigerator, pulled out a jug of vile green liquid, and took a gulp. Cynthia kissed me softly on the cheek and slipped out. Millicent didn’t seem to notice she’d ever been there.

  My lunchtime business was at least helping me hang on. Over the next three months my door-to-door deliveries tripled while I lost fifteen pounds. But God, the cost to my spirit! Not since my waitressing days in college had I found a job so demeaning.

  One day a secretary lingered over the basket. “How come you never have the veggie gourmet left?”

  “You’re always the last person to come out,” I told her. We’d had this dialogue almost every day for a week. She turned her back and engaged in conversation with a coworker. After a minute I interrupted, “Would you like something else?”

  She glared at me. “Just wait. Can’t you see I’m busy?”

  “Well, I have other appointments. I have to go.”

  �
��So, go then!”

  I started to leave then turned back. “Please tell your coworkers I won’t be servicing this office anymore.”

  She stared at me open-mouthed as I walked out.

  I finally let my curiosity get the best of me and peeked into Millicent’s room while she was out. It was like stepping into a frat boy’s pad. Worse. The stench of empty beer bottles and cigarette butts almost knocked me over. Filthy clothes were crumpled on the floor, newspapers were spread out on the unmade bed, and half-empty cartons of Chinese food were everywhere.

  I closed her door and took a really long, hot shower, knowing I had to get out of there.

  Millicent got worse. I found hand-cut holes in my sheets just after she’d asked me if I knew what had happened to her scissors. Some afternoons I knew she’d been in my room—I could smell the stale smoke, her body odor. I was looking at roommate ads and counting the days until I could move out. When my phone rang, I hoped it was someone calling about a room.

  “Hello?”

  “Yeah, is this the Basket?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Basket! Basket! Comida!”

  “Oh, yes.” I reached for a pen. “Would you like to place an order?”

  “You got nerve, bitch,” the woman’s voice said to me. I had no idea who she was. I started to hang up but she was fast. “I got a catering truck, been here five years. You’re in my territory. You don’t have a license, and I’m gonna report you. Comprendez, bitch?” She slammed down the phone.

  The next day I discovered the cord on my phone had been cut. That did it. It was time to shut down the business and get out of Dodge. I left Millicent half a month’s rent on top of the juicer.

  With a little discipline and a lot of faith, I made it through that first year without sleeping in my car, going on welfare, borrowing money, or taking charity. I catered dinner parties in return for a night’s stay here and there with friends. I pulled out all the domestic skills that mothers never get paid for—cooking, gardening, cleaning, recovering pieces of furniture—anything I could think of in exchange for a few nights’ stay or a chunk of change. When I was lucky, I got house-sitting gigs. Sadie and I drove throughout California, going wherever work took me, to receive room and board, often from friends and acquaintances, in exchange for services rendered.

  One job found me serving canapés at a tea party not far from where Lee and I had once lived. As I bent to offer the tray to a guest, I heard someone behind me whisper,

  “My God, doesn’t that maid look an awful lot like Betty Marvin?” I hid my face and raced out of the room.

  There were days I felt I couldn’t keep up the constant travel in search of food and shelter. After having had the fortune, years ago, of an enormous home—an oasis—for me and my family, I couldn’t believe I was down to this. I longed to have even a room to go back to every night, much less an entire house.

  I’d call friends, trying not to make too much of my situation, but also to get messages left for me; it was the only way people could stay in touch. Finally, I caught an extremely lucky break, and once again it came from my old friend Robert Walker. He had left word to call him, and when I did, he told me he’d lost his caretaker at his second home in Cambria. Did I want the job? “The place needs a lot of maintenance, Betty,” he told me, “but it’s pretty up there.” I felt a rush of relief. Robert and I made arrangements, and I drove up to Cambria, thanking whatever stars had been looking out for me.

  The house was in a beautiful spot but indeed in need of work. The windows were covered in grime. I wondered if indeed there ever had been, as Robert put it, a “caretaker.” No matter, the house would have one now.

  It felt strange working at a place where I had spent many fun weekends playing. The acre of terraced garden had no automatic watering system and needed a lot of maintenance because the property was up for sale. This meant hauling miles of hose up and down hills. The three-story house with many windows was situated on a dirt road up on a hill; and every time a car would drive by, the windows I’d washed would get once again covered with dust. It was hard work, but my physical exhaustion was the perfect prescription for a good night’s sleep.

  My old Chrysler, after miles of going from job to job, was showing signs of its age. The thought of being stuck up in the country without a car seemed like the last straw.

  Driving home on the freeway one evening after catering a birthday party near San Luis Obispo, I saw a patrol car pass me going in the opposite direction. The next thing I knew the car was behind me, red lights blinking, summoning me to pull over. Oh, God, what now? Cops scared me.

  “Stay calm,” I told Sadie as the patrolman approached.

  “What’s the problem, officer?” I said.

  “You’re driving with your brights on. Show me your driver’s license and step out of the car.”

  Now I was really scared. I’d had a couple of glasses of wine while cleaning up after the party. What’s the limit? No matter, I’m not drunk, just exhausted. It’s only nine o’clock. The next thing I knew I was walking a line and touching my nose. The cop’s partner was checking my car for drugs. Can he do that? I don’t even know my rights. I hope Sadie doesn’t attack him. In a way I wish she would.

  “You have to take a breathalyzer test,” the cop said.

  “But I walked the line and touched my nose.”

  “This is standard procedure.”

  “But I’m not drunk.” Lee had told me I should never take a breathalyzer test if I’d been drinking. Funny I should remember that all of a sudden. In fact, Lee was stopped numerous times while driving drunk, but he was never asked to take any test whatsoever—just given a friendly warning to drive carefully and usually asked for an autograph. Amazing how people with money and power get away with it. I was obviously in a different class, where there was no bending of the rules. When I refused the test, I was put into the backseat of the patrol car and hauled off to jail.

  I began to cry. “What about my dog?”

  “She’ll go to the shelter. Come on, honey,” the cop said. “Be a big girl.”

  “I’m not your honey,” I flashed back, infuriated by his rudeness. I told myself to be quiet, then ignored my own advice. “I’m a respectable woman and I’m not drunk.”

  “Save your breath, ma’am, it’s all been said before. Here we go, out of the car.” He opened the back door. We had arrived at the jail. After being humiliated with a mug shot and fingerprints, I was put into a cell while they figured out what to do with me. I lay down on the wooden bench, covered my body with the thin blanket, and prayed for a miracle. For my refusal to take the breathalyzer test I was charged with a DUI. I was to spend the night in jail.

  But two hours later, thoroughly shaken, I was released. At the car pound I wrote a bad check on a closed account and drove home at dawn, worried about finding Sadie. I lay awake until my attorney’s office opened, then called for help. The office loaned me money to cover my fines and get Sadie out of the pound. The DUI, however, stuck. I was to spend the next three months creeping once a week in my ailing Chrysler to traffic school. Except for one other student—an unfortunate, dignified elderly woman who had been pulled over while driving home after a couple of glasses of champagne at her son’s wedding—I stuck out like a sore thumb among hardened alcoholics who were taking the course for the third or fourth time. The instructor warned me, like the others, that once I was in the system, I’d most likely be back. Never, I thought.

  The rest of the time I was isolated in the pines surrounding Robert’s house. The quiet, repetitive action of picking up pine needles from the dusty earth as the wind blew and hushed around me eventually drew me into a meditative state, and little by little I began to climb out of the pit. I began to write, and every day the words came more easily. I returned to making art, this time from objects I found around Robert’s home and the surrounding grounds.

  During the three years I spent with no roof of my own over my head, the building was
lost in foreclosure and I never knew whether I would recover financially or lose to a team of clever insurance lawyers defending the real estate brokers, real estate attorneys, and accountants who had put me into this deal. Their lawyers were out to hold on to every last penny. The unscrupulous seller of the building, after declaring backruptcy, was still out of the state. Even if I won in court, I knew I could be facing appeal after appeal. In the end, my attorneys put it on the table: I was broke and would have to make a deal. They were caring, supportive, and smart, settling on the courtroom steps, as they say, making the best deal possible.

  My long period of hanging on by my teeth was over. Not that I was financially whole again; I wasn’t back where I had started before selling the building in Venice. But by now I was philosophical about the experience. Initially, I hadn’t envisioned settling the lawsuit, knowing that what had happened to me was unjust. However, in that time I learned an invaluable lesson. With the loss of all the “stuff” of my life came a freedom I would never have known otherwise. Living day by day, fending for myself, and taking on the world alone—without Lee, without another man, without the cushion of capital and belongings—put me in touch with the importance of those things money can’t buy.

  Because of that experience, the growing homeless population in California began to dominate my thoughts. I spent the next several months creating “cardboard condos”—interpretations of the homeless shelters that filled southeast Los Angeles—and finally put them on exhibition in 1993.

  But I was still hungry to document the homeless of different cultures, so with that in mind, I charted a one-year journey around the world, traveling solo with one piece of carry-on luggage. I photographed and interviewed the homeless in their natural habitats. It was fascinating finding homeless people in Tokyo, hidden away in the subway tunnels behind bonsai hedges. Their shoes were kept outside their cardboard condos and tiny shrines with Buddhas were inside. In spite of poverty, neatness was still their order of the day. I discovered in Indonesia the concept of homelessness did not exist. The home one is born into is “home” until death.