Dear Cary

by Dyan Cannon

  Cary took the call and turned his back to me. His voice dropped to what for most people would be a businesslike murmur, but that wasn’t Cary’s normal business voice. “Ummmm . . . No, not really . . . Well, Sophia, I’m glad to hear it.”

  Sophia? Sophia who? I knew it couldn’t be Sophia Brown. It had to be Sophia Loren, the Italian bombshell. Me, jealous? Just because she was regarded as the sexiest, most voluptuous slice of mortadella since Aphrodite? Signorina “Everything you see, I owe to spaghetti” Loren? Just because it was well known to even midwestern grandmas that Cary Grant had had a torrid affair with her while shooting Houseboat? Me?

  Naturally, being completely free of jealousy (hmmm) and having utter faith in Cary’s loyalty to me (uhhhhhh-huh), I wasn’t going to just linger there in front of him and eavesdrop. No, I would do my eavesdropping in the hallway. That way we would both have privacy! I sat down Indian-style against the wall with my ear pressed against the door.

  I couldn’t make out the words, but they were clipped and a little defensive: English decorum versus a torrent of Italian emotion, probably. Jeez Louise, I thought. A gal doesn’t have to be a territorial maniac for her ears to prick up when an old lover calls her guy. But how many gals have to contend with *&^%!!# Sophia Loren?

  And then I heard him say, “That was a different time, Sophia.” This was getting interesting. Then Cary’s words became hushed again and I didn’t hear anything else until the door to the hallway opened. Cary squatted beside me on the floor.

  “Why’d you leave?” he asked.

  “I thought you needed privacy. Do you want to call her back?”

  Cary waved the suggestion away. “No, Dyan, that conversation is over.”

  I found myself exhaling.

  “I think our fish and chips are ice-cold by now,” I said.

  “Let’s start over with a new batch, hot out of the fryer,” Cary said.

  We smiled into each other’s eyes. That was that. I felt aglow. Without having to say much of anything, we’d communicated volumes. And that’s how it should be, I thought.

  The day before we left London for Bristol, Cary received a delivery from Norman Zeiler, the furrier in New York. It was a mink-lined coat he had made especially for his mother, Elsie, and it was spectacular. That didn’t stop him from fretting over it, though. “I wanted something to keep her warm,” he said, almost in a whisper and completely to himself. “Something very warm and very soft on the inside. Winter’s coming.”

  “No woman could not love that coat,” I said.

  “She’s very particular,” Cary said. He held the coat out for me to try on. “Tell me how this makes you feel,” he said, brightening. Whew. I slipped my arms into the coat and he buttoned it. “Well?” he asked.

  “If a coat could make you feel loved, this one would be all you need,” I said.

  I wouldn’t quite call it a sulk, but Cary’s mood during the three-hour drive to Bristol was heavily subdued. He clenched the steering wheel more tightly than usual and stomped the accelerator like he was trying to teach a lesson to the other drivers as he passed them. I finally asked him point-blank what was bothering him.

  He sighed and said, “Going back to Bristol dredges up a lot of memories.”

  “Your mother is going to be very happy to see you,” I said. “Just think about that.”

  “It’s a little more complicated than that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Elsie is a special person, Dyan.”

  “Of course she is. She’s your mother.”

  “That’s not what I meant. She’s been through a lot in her life. And there were many years when I didn’t see her. Years I’d like to make up to her. But it’s hard.”

  “What happened that you didn’t see her for so long?”

  “Oh, every family has its dramas,” he said. “It’s not really that interesting . . . here we are!”

  “Not in Bristol already?”

  “No. We’re coming to the Old Lamb Teahouse, one of my favorite places in all of Britain. They have the best shepherd’s pie in the world and I would walk on stilts again for their bangers and mash. We’re making good time, let’s stop for a bit.”

  “Is this tie too garish, do you think?” Cary took a step back so I could judge.

  “I like the contrast,” I said.

  “No, it’s too loud.”

  I smiled. “Why did you ask me then?”

  “Maybe the maroon one?”

  “Cary, it’s not the Oscars. It’s your mother.”

  “Grrrrrr.”

  I’d never seen him so insecure about his appearance, but I was certainly flattered that the teacher was asking the student’s opinion. Upon checking into the hotel in Bristol, Cary decided he’d make a preliminary visit to Elsie before he introduced me. That in itself was a little odd, I thought, but now he’d been at my door three times, first demanding, and then dismissing, my opinion of how he looked.

  Directly across the hall, the phone in Cary’s room jingled. “That’ll be Maggie and Eric,” he said.

  Eric Leach was Cary’s favorite cousin, and he and his wife, Maggie, were really the only family Cary had besides Elsie. I fell immediately in love with them. They were short, round, and soft, like two human-sized dumplings who seemed genetically engineered for hugging. They were a little younger than Cary, and when he was around, he was their only priority. Cary had said more than once that they were his favorite people in the world, and when he hugged Maggie and held her for several moments, cheek to cheek, I realized it was the first time I’d seen Cary display that kind of plain old familial affection.

  “What are you running off for, love?” Maggie asked. In a rare instance of crossing his own wires, Cary had called his cousins and then had decided abruptly to visit Elsie when they were already on their way over.

  “Just thought I’d pop in for a bit to break the ice,” he said. He was carrying a canvas sack with the mink-lined coat and some other gifts he’d bought for her.

  “Oh, Archie, it’s not like she’s going anywhere,” Maggie said softly.

  “Let him go, love,” Eric said. “He’s come a long way to see her and he’s eager.”

  “All right, then,” Maggie said.

  “Why don’t you take Dyan out for a little spin?” Cary said. “She’s never been to Bristol before. Show her a bit of the real England.”

  “Have you been to England before?” Maggie asked.

  “No,” I replied. “London was the first time I’d set foot here.”

  “London isn’t England, love! It’s London.”

  “Different breed of cat, those Londoners!” Eric said.

  “Indeed, love!” Maggie proclaimed.

  I wanted Maggie and Eric to adopt me. Everyone and everything was “love,” and they gave you the feeling they really saw the world that way. If everyone had a marriage like Maggie and Eric’s, all would be well in the world. They were one person in two bodies, forever sharing the same thoughts and completing each other’s sentences. Maggie patted Cary’s arm and said, “Go on and drop in on Elsie, love, and we’ll give Dyan a bit of a look-see.”

  That they did. They showed me the house where Cary grew up. It was an unremarkable row house in a working-class neighborhood. I imagined Cary as a boy, romping down the steps, bundled up against the cold, on his way to school.

  “I hope he finds Elsie well,” Maggie said to Eric.

  “Ah, yes. The poor dear.”

  “Isn’t she well?” I asked.

  “You can never tell with Elsie, can you, love?” Eric said.

  “No, never,” Maggie confirmed. “With Elsie, you can never tell.”

  I was in the front seat with Eric driving and Maggie in the back. I turned around to look at her.

  “Maggie,” I said, “Cary mentioned that he went for a really long time without seeing Elsie. Did something happen between them?”

  At this, Maggie and Eric stiffened ever so slightly.

  “Has Car
y told you much about his parents?” Maggie asked cautiously.

  “Nothing very substantial,” I said.

  “That’s quite like Cary, isn’t it, love?” Eric said.

  “Oh yes,” Maggie replied. “He’s quite private about such things.”

  “He always was,” Eric said. “Cary was always special. Even as a wee thing. He had such a tender heart, I think we all wondered how he would make his way through the world. Isn’t that right, Maggie?”

  “Oh, yes, but talented . . .”

  I didn’t come to understand it until later, but English indirectness is like a verbal form of kung fu. Subjects and situations an American would charge straight into like a buffalo are, in English culture, insinuated, suggested, or hinted at, but rarely stated in the open. I was aware that the pair had spun me around to a different subject, but they’d done it so deftly I gave up and went on to something else: Cary’s exes. I asked if they’d met any of them.

  “Oh yes!” Eric said.

  “All of them!” Maggie said, then changed the subject. “Dear me, I hope things are going all right with Elsie.”

  Back at the hotel, the desk clerk rang Cary in his room and he told us to come up.

  “How was your grand tour of Bristol?” he asked with a kind of exaggerated cheerfulness. He set down a small whiskey and water on the dresser. “Did you show Dyan all the local color?”

  “I got to see the house you grew up in,” I said.

  “Now your life is complete,” he laughed. I could tell he was exhausted, running on fumes, but putting on his best game face. Then I glanced at the bed and noticed the coat he bought for Elsie lay there in its garment bag. Maggie noticed this too and read the signs.

  “Was she in a bad way, love?” Maggie asked.

  “You know Elsie,” he said. “You never know what branch she’s going to fly off of. Dyan, I’m afraid you won’t be meeting Elsie this trip,” he said.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “Let’s just say she’s not at her best.”

  “Let’s be off, Maggie,” Eric said. “Cary, Dyan . . . we’ll catch up with you tomorrow.”

  “Don’t rush off,” Cary said weakly.

  “No rush, love,” Maggie said. “But it’ll be nice for you and Dyan to have some quiet time together. I know Eric and I could do with some, can’t we, Eric?”

  “Of course, love.”

  When they’d pulled the door shut behind them, I picked up Elsie’s coat and slipped it onto a hanger.

  “She said, ‘What would I do with that silly old thing?’ ” Cary said. He walked to the window and looked out on the street for a few moments, then, with his back still turned to me, said, “You know, when I was just a boy, my mother took me shopping one afternoon. Somehow we got separated, and I got lost, and I was really very scared, but I was determined not to cry. I’m sure I wasn’t lost for more than three or four minutes, but I was really terrified, and suddenly I felt someone grab my hand from behind and spin me around. It was my mother, and she was very, very angry. ‘You see how it is, Archie?’ she said. ‘Who looks out for you? Who came to save you? Me, that’s who! I’m the only one in the whole world who cares about you, and you better not forget it!’ ”

  He let out a long sigh.

  “It’s so beautiful outside,” I said. “Why don’t we take a walk?”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Oneness

  We’d walked in silence hand in hand for a good half hour as dusk settled over the tree-lined streets of Bristol and the streetlamps blinked on all at once as if to light our way. A cold breeze rattled the brittle autumn leaves, warning of heavy weather. After a while, Cary led us to a park overlooking the river Avon, where we settled onto a bench overlooking the water.

  “I guess you know I went twenty years without seeing Elsie,” Cary finally said.

  “I had no idea it was such a long time.”

  He slumped forward, clasped his hands together, and sighed. Then he suddenly corrected his posture and sat up straight on the bench. He was looking at the river as he spoke.

  “We weren’t the happiest family, you know,” he said. “Elias, my dad—he liked drink and he liked women besides my mother. He’d disappear for days at a time. I didn’t mind so much, really, because there was a lot less tension in the house when he was away. And I loved having Elsie to myself. I always felt guilty about that. Still do.”

  “You were her only child,” I said. “It seems kind of normal to feel that way.”

  “You’re probably right, but still . . . When he’d come back after one of his tears, there was always a terrible row. They’d holler at each other for hours on end. I hated hearing them yell at each other. He was a piece of work, my dad. Worked as a pants presser. Didn’t aspire to anything grander, but that didn’t keep him from feeling like he’d gotten shortchanged.”

  A foghorn boomed and the sound reverberated along the river. I shivered. Cary jammed his hands into the pockets of his overcoat and cocked his ear toward the sound. He seemed to be in his own world now, revisiting the haunts of his youth for the first time in many years and revisiting the history he’d spent those years trying to shut out. As he’d gone along, I got the feeling he wasn’t telling the story to me anymore as much as he was telling it to himself.

  “It’s getting colder,” he said. “Do you fancy a drink? As I recall, there’s a cozy little pub a few blocks ahead.”

  We started walking again, arm in arm. “I completely adored her,” he said. “Maybe because she adored me. I mean, she was tough. She’d fine me tuppence for spilling my milk on the table. But I would’ve jumped through flaming hoops for those occasions when for no particular reason, she’d smile at me and take me in her arms. To me, it was like watching the sun rise.”

  I wanted to press him for more of the story, but my instincts were to hold back. He would begin again when he felt like it. Every strand of the story he shared seemed to come at the expense of a pint of his own blood.

  The pub was where Cary remembered it. There was a nook in the rear, out of view from the main bar area, and we managed to slip into it without being noticed. I went to the bar and got a pint of ale for Cary and a cup of tea for myself. When I sat back down with him, I didn’t say anything, hoping he’d resume.

  “Anyway, I came home one day and Elsie was gone. We had some of her cousins living with us by then—my father was working in Southampton—and they told me she’d gone to the sea for a rest. That seemed very strange to me. I couldn’t understand why she wouldn’t have taken me with her. I lay awake at night wondering if I’d done something wrong.” Cary squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed them.

  “Dear God,” I said.

  “I was only ten years old. I thought she went away because she didn’t love me anymore.”

  I took Cary’s hand and our eyes locked. Then he took my hand in both of his and went on. “The story about the seaside was too flimsy to hold up for very long. Finally, many weeks later, one of my cousins took me aside and said, ‘Archie, I have to give you some unhappy news. Your mother is dead.’ ”

  He lowered his head again, closed his eyes, and masked them with his fingers. “That’s what I thought for twenty years. That my mother was dead.”

  “Why would they tell you she was dead?”

  Cary leaned back just as a shadow fell over our table. A ruddy-faced man stood grinning at us, holding two pints of ale. He set them down on the table.

  “Just wanted to be able to tell me mates I’d bought Cary Grant a pint! You are a local boy, after all!”

  “Very gracious, sir,” Cary said. Cary was always polite with well-meaning fans, and he was always fairly ruthless about protecting his privacy. But I think he was relieved by the interruption. He chatted for a couple of minutes, and after ascertaining that the man’s third cousin once removed had indeed attended grade school with him, shook hands with the man and steered me out of the pub. Just as we were at the doorway, Cary turned and stepped back to the bar. He
pressed a bill into the barkeep’s hand and I heard him say, “Buy the house a couple of rounds on me.”

  Walking back to the hotel, I had a feeling that had been all I would hear for the night.

  We stood in the hotel hallway, each with our keys in hand, looking at each other.

  My heart was heavy. My heart was full. Cary had opened up to me . . . the two of us were melding into one.

  I felt it happening.

  I didn’t say a word.

  He didn’t say a word.

  We just looked very deeply into each other’s eyes.

  I took his hand, the one that held the door key. I took the key, unlocked his door, and walked through ahead of him. He hesitated in the hallway a moment, then followed me in.

  The clock on the nightstand read quarter past three. I was snuggled up against Cary, my arm draped across his chest. I felt him exhale and could tell he wasn’t sleeping either. “You awake?” I whispered.

  “Yes. Awake but happy.”

  “Me too.”

  “I’m glad, dear girl.”

  “Cary?”

  “Yes?”

  “How did you find out Elsie was alive?”

  He sighed and curled his arm around my back.

  “I was thirty years old. I was in Los Angeles, and I got a call from my father. He’d managed to track me down through the studio. We thought it was probably a crank call, but for some reason I followed up on it.”

  “And it was him?”

  “Yes. I knew his voice immediately, even though I hadn’t heard it in many years. Anyway, he said he needed to talk to me about something vitally important, and that he couldn’t tell me on a transatlantic call . . .” He paused. “Dyan, do you really want to hear all this? Wouldn’t you rather just enjoy the rest of the night?”