Dear Cary

by Dyan Cannon

  At that moment, Helen stepped into the room with a giant silver tray in her arms. “Just relax and stretch your legs out, dear,” she instructed me, rather like she was about to perform surgery.

  I guess I was a little jumpy, because I did just the opposite—jerked my knees up just as Helen was lowering the tray onto my lap, flipping the tray into the air and watching a hail of silverware, crystal, china, and food fly everywhere. I was mortified! I scooted off the bed and started scraping food off the floor with my hands. I looked up to see Cary peeking over the edge of the bed. “You don’t want to put Helen out of a job, do you?” I slowly let go of the shard of china I was holding.

  In a flash, Helen had made the disaster disappear and was lowering a new tray onto my lap, fortunately without further incident. Now I began eating my way through the strangest dinner date of my life, and I couldn’t have told you what we ate five minutes after Helen took away the trays. The whole situation made me feel like Alice in Wonderland. No, I felt like Diane Friesen from West Seattle in Cary Grant’s bedroom, watching Dr. Kildare on Cary Grant’s TV, on Cary Grant’s bed, with nothing but a Cary Grant–imagined line separating us. What kind of looking glass had I stepped through? I felt like I was walking through a hall of funhouse mirrors, each reflecting its own scenario. Dr. Kildare burbled in the background like it was coming from an echo chamber. I didn’t hear a word of it. I was too busy daydreaming about how the name “Dyan Grant” would sound. But I stopped myself short. Don’t get carried away, Dyan!

  After everything had been cleared, Cary reached into the drawer of his nightstand. “Have you ever had a Picnic bar?” he asked.

  “A what bar?”

  “A Picnic bar. They’re what makes life worth living for every English schoolboy. They’re positively unbeatable!” It was made of milk chocolate, peanuts, raisins, and caramel. Watching Cary peel away the wrapper, I could almost see a little boy. It was touching and sweet beyond words. And astonishingly opposite to the kind of wild debauchery people imagined took place in Hollywood.

  After a while, we went to the yard and gave Gumper some doggie treats. “Cary, with all of the TV shows you see, what made you call me after that episode of Malibu Run?”

  “Something in your spirit.”

  “What was it?”

  “I sensed there was a part of you that was slightly untamed.”

  “And you wanted to tame it?”

  “Dyan, I wouldn’t ever want to see that part of you tamed.”

  “That’s a good thing,” I said. Our eyes locked. After a moment, I said, “I think I’d better be going. And besides that, you’ve got an early morning.”

  “I can’t wait ’til I retire,” he said. “I’m going to sleep until noon every day, and do nothing but watch TV and stuff myself with fish and chips and Picnic bars. Not necessarily in that order.”

  “Can I have one for the road?” I looked at him longingly.

  “One what?” he said curiously.

  “A Picnic bar.”

  Several weeks later, we were back in Palm Springs, this time without a chaperone, but that wasn’t going to change the fact that I was still completely in charge of my own maidenhood. Or what was left of it—which, save for my misstep with Eduardo, was actually quite a lot. When we walked through the front door, I came to a halt in the middle of the living room. I pointed right, to the master bedroom, his bedroom, and said, “That’s your side.” And pointing left, to one of the guest bedrooms, I said, “And that’s my side.”

  At this, Cary chuckled and said, “Touché!”

  “Tell me about the men in your life,” Cary said after we’d put away our bags and settled by the pool with lemonade.

  “What would you like to know, Mr. Grant?”

  “Whatever you care to divulge.”

  There wasn’t a lot that I cared to divulge. From the time I put on my first bra, it seemed, men had been aggressive toward me in a way that made me keep up my guard. Like Eduardo, Cary was one of the few men who didn’t press past my comfort zone. Unlike Eduardo, I hoped, Cary was honest—about himself and his intentions.

  I thought about how to reply and finally said, “I’ll tell you the most important thing. I haven’t met my soul mate yet.”

  “I like the idea of a soul mate. I wonder what one is.”

  “Everybody knows what a soul mate is, Cary. It’s the person you’re going to stay with forever.”

  “I felt the same way once.”

  “What changed that?”

  “Three divorces,” Cary said, rattling his ice cubes. “I wasn’t joking when I said I’m not very good at relationships. I think I’ve chased every one of my wives away.”

  “On purpose?”

  He sighed, reflecting. “Consciously, no. Unconsciously, yes, I’m sure I did. But it’s different now.”

  “How?”

  “I’ve swept out a lot of my dark corners. I’ve changed. It’s like I’m starting all over.”

  “Does that mean you can have a good relationship now?” I asked.

  “Yes, I think it does.”

  Next morning at the stables, Cary hired a man to ride with me so he could gallop off on his own and get a bit of a workout. He’d come trotting back once in a while to check up on me, looking very gallant on his horse. “You’ve got your riding legs!” he said, quite pleased. “Want to kick the spurs in a little and bring her up to a canter?”

  “No, thanks,” I told him. “I’m happy just ambling along.” I was, too, and that applied to our relationship as well.

  After the ride, we brushed down the horses. The day had turned mean-hot, and my mouth felt like it had fur growing on the inside. I was parched.

  “Ice cream?” I suggested.

  “That’s sounds like a terrific idea,” Cary agreed.

  “Licorice ice cream!”

  “That sounds like a terrible idea.”

  “Wait ’til you taste it. It’s great.”

  We drove into town and found a Baskin-Robbins with a line spilling onto the street. We took our place at the end, just like regular citizens—which, of course, I was, though Cary couldn’t have blended in if he wanted to. In a flash, everyone was buzzing with excitement and he was surrounded by a cluster of autograph seekers and folks who asked to have their pictures taken with him. I knew this happened to Cary constantly, but he graciously posed and smiled for one shot after another. I found myself liking him more than ever.

  At the counter, I ordered a licorice cone while Cary opted for butter pecan. I took such a generous first bite that my whole mouth was covered with black ice cream. Cary watched me, grinning. We laughed. “Attractive, right?” I said, pointing to the napkin dispenser.

  “Very,” he said, and then he kissed me full on my icy black lips.

  It was the best kiss of my life.

  “You were right,” he said. “That licorice isn’t half-bad.”

  “Well then, how about another, uh, scoop?”

  He kissed me again.

  It took me totally by surprise. It was not what you expected from Cary Grant, who was English and therefore private, and very private even for an Englishman. Displaying physical affection was not in his repertoire. As for me, the ice cream parlor and everyone in it melted away and at that moment there were only the two of us.

  I had never been kissed like that.

  Cary Grant liked me.

  And I liked Cary Grant.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Fork in the Road

  As much time as we spent together over the next four or five months, we still made time to be with our own friends. I was still close to Michael. Objectively, Michael and I were perfect for each other in many ways. In most ways, actually, except for the one thing that matters more than anything: we didn’t have that old black magic, as they used to call it. Or I didn’t have it for Michael. There is no accounting for chemistry, but one fact of life you can’t get around is that if you ain’t got it, you ain’t got it, and nothing’s going to change
it. But I loved and admired Michael, all the more for his profound unselfishness. The fact that he wanted a romance didn’t stop him from loving me as a friend.

  Cary could be possessive, but he was cute about it. He’d offhandedly inquire what I’d been up to and harrumph good-naturedly if I’d been out with a male friend.

  “Michael again?” he remarked once. “What is it with you and Michael?”

  “Cary, he is a dear, sweet friend and a nice Jewish boy.”

  “I know nice Jewish boys,” Cary said with mock seriousness. “Nice Jewish boys like the same things other men like, and I’m not talking about chicken soup.”

  “I promise, you have nothing to worry about.”

  Early one evening, I met Michael at the furniture store he owned on Melrose Avenue. Just as we were heading out for a movie, the phone rang. He answered it and looked up. “It’s for you,” he said. He didn’t look thrilled.

  It was a little startling that Cary had tracked me down. But in those amazingly peaceful days before cell phones, Addie always knew where I was in case I got a call for an audition. When Cary told me why he called, I understood perfectly. He’d gotten a dinner invitation from Clifford Odets, the playwright. To me, he reigned supreme. I’d done his play The Country Girl in acting class, and I loved Awake and Sing! and Golden Boy.

  I protested that I had plans, but Michael had picked up the bit about Clifford Odets having a dinner party and he just simply refused to let me miss it. I was torn; I really wasn’t one to switch plans on anyone unless it was a matter of life and death, but this was really a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. If we’d switched places, I probably would’ve pushed Michael out the door too.

  Cary was waiting for me outside Odets’s house. As we stepped inside, I took in a room that was positively sticky with fame. There was Frank Sinatra, Danny Kaye, and an older man I didn’t recognize whom Cary introduced as Howard Hughes, with whom he was friends.

  “I thought Howard Hughes was a hermit,” I whispered as we walked away.

  “I wouldn’t call him a hermit,” Cary said. “He just generally prefers to keep as much distance between himself and the human race as possible.”

  For reasons not apparent to me in the moment, the most memorable part of the evening, though, would be meeting the host. Odets was about Cary’s age; they’d been friends for a long time. Clifford was not someone you’d pick out of a crowd as being anything special, but once you started talking to him, his brilliance was electrifying. He had a receding but untamable thatch of wiry brown hair, sensuous lips, and a piercing gaze. He was not handsome, but as your eyes warmed to his countenance, he became beautiful.

  Cary had described Clifford as a “leftist intellectual,” and I wasn’t really sure what I’d find to talk about with him. But after Cary introduced us and then went off to greet some other friends, Clifford and I connected over something very basic: our Jewish heritage. Clifford, too, came from Russian-Jewish stock; his masterpiece Awake and Sing! followed the tribulations of a Jewish immigrant family in New York who faced grinding poverty. When I told him my mother’s family had left Russia to escape the pogroms, and that my great-grandmother had been killed in one of the waves of violence, his heavy eyebrows knitted together with interest.

  “That must have had a huge impact on your family,” he said.

  “Of course. Did your family experience any hatred to that degree . . . because of your heritage?” I asked.

  “It was rough where they came from and rough where they got to.”

  “What about for you?” I asked.

  “I try to look to the future, hoping that one day all of those divisions will no longer exist.”

  “That is beautiful,” I said.

  Clifford and I talked for a while longer, until Cary rejoined us. He pointed to his watch; it was almost midnight. We said our good nights and headed out the door, arm in arm.

  “If you’re not completely drained,” Cary asked, “why don’t you come to the house for a nightcap?”

  “Uh, okay,” I said. It came out of me before I really thought it through, though. It had been a great evening, but I was ready to call it a night.

  Since we both had our cars, I followed Cary. We drove past the Beverly Hills Hotel and headed up Benedict Canyon. As we came to his street, he turned and slowed, waiting for me to follow. I was about to, but . . .

  I changed my mind.

  For some reason, it just didn’t feel right.

  I glanced up Cary’s street and saw his brake lights flare. I figured Cary would just understand that I was tired and probably call after I got back to Addie’s.

  I had done so much talking at the party that I’d hardly eaten. Once home, I wolfed down a couple of stale Twinkies and hit the hay. I fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.

  I didn’t think about the fact that Cary didn’t call that night, but I did get a little chill when he didn’t call the next morning. I listened to the Daily Word anyway then took Bangs for a short walk and hurried back in case he did call. I was getting ready for an audition later in the day when the phone finally rang.

  It was Cary, putting on the voice of Clifford Odets.

  “Hello, this is Clifford Odets.”

  “And this is Greta Garbo!” I said, laughing, and hung up.

  The phone rang again. This time I answered, “Strategic Revolutionary Command!” and hung up again. I figured Cary would drop the game the third time around.

  “Is this Dyan?” the man asked. Whoops. Suddenly it sounded like Clifford Odets.

  “It is.”

  “We met last night at my dinner party.”

  “Is this really Clifford Odets?”

  “It is,” he said, echoing my line.

  “Oh, Clifford! I’m sorry! I thought it was Cary, pretending to be you. How did you get my number?”

  “From Cary, of course.”

  “From Cary?” I said. “Oh, of course. It’s nice of you to call.” I was perplexed and trying to puzzle this out. Maybe Clifford was planning a surprise party for Cary. Or, we’d talked about him visiting Sandy Meisner’s acting workshop. Maybe he was calling for a schedule. That had to be it.

  And then he asked:

  “I was wondering if you’d have dinner with me later this week. Are you free Thursday?”

  Whoa, Silver! Was he asking me on a date? Like a boy-meets-girl date? I almost put the question to him point-blank, but then I laid my bet on it being a date-date. It was the slightly querulous tone of his voice that tipped me off. Didn’t he know I was dating Cary? No! Cary had not told him that I was dating Cary!! When Clifford figured this out, he might very well feel like an idiot. I already felt like an idiot. The jury in my head acquitted Mr. Odets on all counts of untoward behavior. The posse in my mind was rustling up a lynch mob for Mr. Grant.

  “Thank you for asking, Mr. Odets,” I managed to say more or less gracefully. “It’s so nice of you to ask. But I am seeing someone.” (Like the man who introduced us?)

  “Oh, I didn’t know that. Well, the invitation is open if anything changes.”

  “I appreciate that,” I said.

  If Clifford had asked him for my number, Cary had to have known the reason. It was obvious. Clifford was a gentleman. He would have asked if I were available. Why would Cary do a thing like that? Was that how these guys played it? They pursue you, earn your trust, and then pimp you out to one of their buddies? Not me, buster. No way. I wasn’t anybody’s flavor of the month. Not even Cary Grant’s.

  I called my mother and told her the whole story. I was hurt and angry. Mom sighed, perhaps with relief, and told me to hold my own. (Maybe a nice Jewish boy was just around the corner.) I called Addie and Darlene and told them too. The sisterhood had spoken and the vote was unanimous: ciao and arrivederci, Cary Grant.

  Several days passed, and I heard nothing from Cary. But Clifford called again, and I politely declined his invitation, resisting the urge to tell him what a jerk his friend Cary was.

 
Then Cary called. And called and called. And called again. Addie denied my presence, over and again, but she was quickly tiring of the drill. I walked in once to hear her say into the phone, “Cary, she’s probably in bed with Clifford Odets.” I nearly fainted, but it turned out she’d already hung up. Hardy har har, Addie.

  At a certain point, though, the sisterhood spoke again. I was still as riled up as a bull with a red cape being twirled before it, but the girls opined that given Cary’s unflagging attempts to talk to me—presumably to put things right—I ought to at least hear him out. “He was angry and he had a bad moment,” Addie said. “Men can be dolts. Yes, Cary acted like a dolt. But as long as he recognizes it and is willing to correct course, you ought to at least talk to him.”

  I wasn’t having any of it. I was working pretty steadily and actually making a little money, so I started looking for my own place. My close friend Corky Hale had an apartment in a doorman building on Wilshire Boulevard and was looking to sublet it for a year. Corky had a clothing boutique on Sunset Boulevard, and I’d known her since my early days in L.A., when I did a little modeling for her, so I hurried over to take a look. It was a tastefully furnished one-bedroom in a great location, and I knew right away that Bangs and I would be very happy there.

  Victor, the doorman, helped me move in. He was a short, handsome guy from Mexico and had the refined manners of a United Nations emissary. No matter how many times I told him to call me Dyan, he insisted on calling me Miss Cannon.

  Late one afternoon, I returned home from shooting an episode of Stoney Burke and got in the shower. I was hungry, and I was making a tuna sandwich the way my girlfriend Darlene made them. So I was slathering mustard on one side of the bread, and mayonnaise on the other, and the house phone rang just as I was reaching for the pine nuts. Victor was on the other end. “Miss Cannon,” he said, whispering excitedly. “You will never guess who is here to see you!”

  “Who?” I whispered back.

  “Cary Grant!”

  Victor sounded excited. I wasn’t. Okay, I was, but I felt obligated not to be. I couldn’t believe Cary had gone to the trouble of finding me.