by Dyan Cannon
“It’s up to you,” I said. Cary stretched and swung his feet on the floor, then got up. He got himself a glass of water and took a sip.
“I couldn’t imagine what could be so important, but he persuaded me to fly to England. He actually asked me to meet him in a pub in Bristol. I almost didn’t recognize him. He’d pretty well ruined himself with drinking. Jowls hanging, bloodshot eyes. He just looked like an old, broken-down alcoholic. Nothing like what I’d remembered.
“So we shook hands and exchanged some vague pleasantries. He rubbed the material of my jacket between his hands and said, ‘Learned a thing or two from the old man, didn’t you?’ The fact that this wreck of a human being had been the Elias Leach I remembered as my father—it was unimaginable.”
Cary paused. I could hear the clock ticking and a car rumble through the street below. Then there was a long silence. He was sitting sidesaddle in a chair across from the bed, facing the window. I thought for a moment he’d drifted off.
He finally continued. “I asked what he wanted to see me about. He looked down into his drink and said, ‘It’s about your mother. She’s not dead.’
“It didn’t register for a solid minute. I was sure I hadn’t heard him right. I thought maybe by now he’d gotten wet brain from drinking so much. So I asked him what in the hell that was supposed to mean.
“He said it again: ‘She’s not dead.’ He wouldn’t look at me. Just kept staring into his pint like God was talking to him from the bottom of the glass. His mouth tightened and his shoulders were all tense and bunched up. He was acting like this was something he had to get off his chest but resented me bitterly for being the one he had to tell.
“So then he said, ‘I was trying to protect you! I had to put her in a mental institution.’ I still couldn’t figure out what the hell he was talking about. A mental institution? I wanted to pick him up and throw him through the plate glass window, but I needed to understand what he was saying. I finally regained my senses. I grabbed him by the collar. ‘Are you telling me that my mother is alive?’
“He seemed almost to be crying, but they were angry tears: ‘I was trying to protect you!’ He kept on bellowing that, like it would save him. It was as if, in his mind, he was on trial before a judge.
“He told me she was in Fishponds,” Cary said. “And that horrified me more than anything.”
“Fishponds?” I repeated.
“It’s a state-run lunatic asylum outside of Bristol. Terrible place. So the bastard had put her in Fishponds.”
“Why would he do that? Did she have some kind of a breakdown?”
“Elsie never had a breakdown. She was probably depressed, but who could blame her, being married to him? No, he wanted to get her out of the way so he could do whatever he wanted and go on with his life without having to support her . . . or me.
“That was all I needed to hear from Elias. I stood up and walked out of the pub. It was pathetic, the way he hollered after me. ‘You should thank me! I did it for you!’ But this was something he’d kept bottled up for twenty years now, and it turned out he was dying and probably knew it. He died within a year after that.”
I couldn’t speak. I wanted to say something, but I could not find my voice.
Cary climbed out of his chair, paced a bit, and then sat on the edge of the bed. I sat up and moved over next to him. After a long minute or two, he went on.
“The next day, I rented a car and drove to Fishponds. I went through the iron gates and pulled up in front of this dark, grim stone building. It reminded me of some awful debtors’ prison from a Dickens novel. I was very nervous. And you know, the strange thing was—maybe because I was still in shock over the whole thing—in my mind, I was still seeing her as she was when I was a child. So I looked for a woman with thick black hair and sharp brown eyes . . . smooth olive skin . . .
“When the nurse led me to her room, I went numb. I couldn’t imagine the white-haired old woman with that sunken face and dead, hollowed-out eyes was my mother. I almost asked her if she knew where Elsie Leach was. But she was having the same kind of reaction. She squinted at me like she thought she’d seen me before, and she said, ‘Who are you?’
“I said, ‘I’m your son.’ I could barely speak. She stared for the longest time, saying nothing, and then at last she said, ‘Archie. It’s been a long time.’ I told her I was sorry, that I had no idea she was here. She just kept staring.
“ ‘So how’re you getting on, Archie?’ she asked. I said, ‘I’m not Archie anymore. I’m an actor. People know me as Cary Grant.’ I’m not sure that meant anything to her. In fact, all of a sudden, I wasn’t sure it meant anything to me. It was surreal. Here was my mother packed away in a mental home all these years, while I went off and had a complete change of identity. I’d become wealthy and famous, living this very grand life, and all along, my poor mother had been rotting away in this hellhole . . . I’ll never forgive myself.”
“But you had nothing to do with it, Cary.”
“That’s not the way it feels.”
My heart was breaking, not just for Cary, but for Elsie too. There had to be a way to heal this, I thought. I would find a way.
The next day, Cary took me over to the Hippodrome, the theater in Bristol where he had gotten his start. His friend Noël Coward was there with the actress Elaine Stritch, rehearsing a production of Sail Away, and I was happy to see Cary’s mood lighten upon encountering Noël. Cary had spoken fondly of him, saying he had been one of his early mentors in dress and comportment, and though Noël was only about five years older than Cary, the rapport between them reminded me of a particularly close uncle and nephew. They had a lot in common. Each had pulled himself up from a hardscrabble background by sheer force of personality and talent; each had acquired the sheen of refinement and wit. Noël, of course, was openly gay, and that effeteness was a huge part of his persona. He had never finished high school but had proved his creative mettle across many mediums—plays, songs, acting, screenplays, books—and thus earned the moniker “the Master.”
When the rehearsal broke for lunch, we joined Noël and Elaine at a nearby restaurant. After we sat down, Cary excused himself to go to the men’s room, and Noël reached across the table, put his hand over mine, looked at me intently, and said, “You know, my dear, I am wildly in love with that man.”
“That makes two of us,” I said, laughing.
“Touché!” he replied. “Alas, there are so many who ardently hoped he’d come over to play on our team . . . but I think it’s safe to say, he’s solidly set in his ways.” Noël gave me a reassuring wink. Of course, his statement was freighted with meaning. With that subtle message, Noël was—for my benefit—dismissing the rumors that had circulated about Cary for years.
But it certainly wasn’t as if I needed reassuring—especially after the previous night we had together.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Game Time
When I was a freshman at the University of Washington, one night my roommate and I got the brilliant idea of testing our drinking capacity. Being thrifty types, we walked to the drugstore and paid bottom dollar—99 cents—for a bottle of Nawico “port wine.” We figured we’d beaten the system. Nawico, with 19 percent alcohol, was much stronger than regular wine, which cost more and had a measly 12 percent alcohol. Then we snuck back into our room and drank the whole thing. Glug, glug, glug! Yippee ti yi yay! Oh, Nawico, we go, we go, whoopity whoopity woo!
Then we died and woke up in hell, where our heads were wedged in a vise grip that was being tightened and tightened by purple gargoyles until our little skulls were about to be crushed. I spent the next two days with my head nailed to the pillow—no classes, no meals, nothing. I was poisoned and had the unshakable conviction that I was dying, but all too slowly. When I finally recovered, I vowed never to get drunk like that again.
And I didn’t.
Until, that is, the night Cary and I went partying in L.A. with Roddy Mann, the beloved English journalist and
novelist who was a good friend of Cary’s. Roddy wrote a hugely popular syndicated weekly column for the Sunday Express and Los Angeles Times and was read by millions, but he wasn’t dazzled by Hollywood. “Once you’ve been to five parties, it’s the same cast,” he told me over drinks at Chasen’s. “In Paris and London, politicians, journalists, and actors all mix together. Here you generally only meet people who do the same thing you do.” I told Roddy I’d felt the same way about Rome. “Oh yes, Rome. Wonderful. You know what I’m talking about then,” he said.
I liked Roddy. He was the kind of person who liked to push through social barriers; we had that in common. And Roddy liked to bend an elbow. Through several hours of revelry, I somehow got the idea that I could keep up with an English journalist. (Put English and journalist together and you get a liver as powerful as a nuclear reactor.) Cary was his usual moderate self, but I plowed along with Roddy, and I got as drunk as a rugby team after a tournament win.
We dropped Roddy off at his apartment, and on the way home I decided that it would be fun to do something hilarious. I could barely move, so my options were limited, but as Cary stopped for a light on Beverly Boulevard, I found I had just enough motor coordination left to yank the keys out of the ignition and toss them through the open window. They went flying into the grass of someone’s front yard. Hee hee hee! I gave Cary a blotto ain’t-I-cute smile and giggled with delight. Well, that grumpy old movie star just wasn’t into the spirit of the game. When he was really aggravated, he would mutter curses under his breath that kind of reminded me of a Cockney version of Popeye. He managed to pull over to the curb, slam the car into park, jump out, and slam the door so hard the car shook. I watched with delight as he stormed over to the sidewalk and combed through the grass, looking for his keys.
He didn’t find them. That was even funnier! He took a flashlight from the glove compartment then went back to look again. I stepped out of the car to help him, weaving my way toward him. “Enough!” he barked. I turned and wobbled back to the car. I remember thinking, God, he’s adorable when he’s angry. And I’m adorable too! Just the cutest thing . . .
Cary finally found the keys and off we drove. Me? Cary hadn’t played along the first time, so that called for an encore—then he would surely get into the spirit! At the bottom of Benedict Canyon . . . Whoops! Did I do it again? Yep!
Only this time, the keys were swallowed by a thicket of tall, gnarly, brambly weeds. He let me help him look, but all we got for our efforts were scratches on our arms and legs.
“Thanks to you, we’re walking!” Cary snapped, and he made his way up that long, steep hill that led to his house. I traipsed along behind him, unaware of how furious I’d made him.
“After that great big dinner, it’s good walking,” I suggested slurrily. Old grouchy Gary Crant didn’t think that was funny either.
When we got to his house, Cary led me to a guest room, a onetime maid’s room; handed me a towel; then snarled a quick good night and firmly shut the door.
That’s the last thing I remember. I guess I was out like a light.
Then I died and went to hell and awoke to the purple gargoyles mashing my head in their vise grip. I recognized them as the same gargoyles I’d met at the University of Washington after that bottle of Nawico.
I had my clothes on. Check. I was indoors. Check. Ten fingers, ten toes. Check. But where was I? It apparently wasn’t a jail. So far, so good.
I staggered to the window and pried the blinds open. The sun jabbed me in the eyes with its fingers and I reeled back onto the bed.
Slowly, the night came back to me. Dinner at Chasen’s. The flying car keys. An angry Cary marching me up the hill, toward his place. So that’s where I was!
I crawled to the bathroom, looked in the mirror, and who do you think was staring back at me but the bride of Frankenstein herself.
I drew a bath, then took a shower and let the hot water beat against my aching head, but to no avail. Little railroad workers were blasting a tunnel through my brain. A major thunderstorm of drinker’s remorse was closing in on me. How could I have been so stupid?
How, amidst that pea-soup fog of deadly toxins, I came up with the perfect idea to reclaim my dignity is beyond me. Yes, I knew exactly what to do.
I picked up the phone.
A couple of hours later, I awoke again to the distant sound of the doorbell ringing. My head still ached. I was starving. I was thirsty. I got out of bed and put my ear to the door and listened. I could hear faint footfalls, the opening of a door, a few muted, indistinguishable words, the door closing. Then, nothing. But a few minutes later I heard those same footfalls again, approaching. They stopped in front of my door. Then there was a knock.
“Who is it?” I said.
“Who do you think it is?”
I slowly opened the door. Cary looked me dead in the eye. Oh no, I thought. From his look, I could tell I’d really blown it. Then he read aloud the Western Union telegram I’d phoned in.
“ ‘Dear Cary: Oopsie. I screwed up big-time. I’m so, so, so sorry. I was childish and stupid. But I know how to make it right. I’ll do your dishes, I’ll wash your car, I’ll even mend your clothes. (I don’t do windows, though.) Please forgive me. Signed: The Girl Down the Hall.’ ”
Cary folded the telegram. “Grrrr. This way,” he said curtly. I followed him obediently.
When he led me out the front door and into the driveway, I felt like a vampire sprung from the crypt after a hundred-year sleep. The sun was so bright I could barely open my eyes, but somehow I managed to stagger along, following Cary down the steps. There were three cars in the driveway: the Rolls, his housekeeper’s car, and the station wagon that belonged to the groundskeeper.
“Start with the Rolls,” he said.
“How did you get your car back?” I asked.
“I had an extra set of keys.”
Cary then picked up the garden hose and turned on the faucet. He pressed a big yellow sponge into my hands and pointed to the Rolls. “Get to work,” he said.
“Me?”
“Yes, you,” he said ever so sternly. He was about to hand me the garden hose but, without any apparent forethought, turned the hose on me full-blast. The water was ice-cold, refreshing, and purifying. I was soaked and laughing and forgot about my headache, for a few minutes anyway. I snatched the hose from his hand and turned it right back on him. He didn’t make a move—he just stood there, grinning, while I doused him with freezing water.
“Are you just going to stand there and take this?” I said, egging him on.
“Give me all you got!” he said, grinning.
And I did.
“In a hundred years, marriage will be obsolete and all children will be born out of wedlock.”
That was Cary speaking. That was Cary masking either his fear of or disdain for marriage with a smoke screen of philosophical posturing.
“Cary! You sound like some kind of deranged Old Testament prophet.”
That was Addie, not having any of it. We were at Ciro’s, “celebrating” Addie and Cliff’s impending marriage.
Cary went on. “Sorry, Addie, but I don’t think marriage is a natural state. I think it might work better if you didn’t live together. Houses next door to each other, maybe.”
“Cliff and I don’t live together now,” Addie said. “But we’re looking forward to living together.”
“Why?” Cary asked in a maddening, professorial tone.
“Because they love each other, Cary!” I interjected.
“We want to share our lives with each other—completely,” Addie put in.
“But if you share all of your life, there isn’t any left for either one of you,” Cary said, persisting. “I’ve been through that three times. I used to think it was me.”
“It is you, Cary,” Addie said.
“No, Addie, it’s the institution. It doesn’t work in modern society. What I think works is to share the part of your life that is shareable. It’s an important
part, but only a part.”
“What do you think, Cliff?” I asked.
“I think we should talk about something else!” he said cheerfully.
“What do you think we have here?” I asked Cary when we were in the car. In the restaurant, I’d decided to treat Cary’s dissertation on the end of marriage as we know it as mere banter. But it left me feeling like I had a popcorn kernel stuck in my throat and I was determined to cough it up.
“Everything,” he replied. He smiled. Yeah, go ahead and smile, I thought. But you’re not getting off the hook.
“I mean, where do you think we’re heading, Cary? Is this just a temporary relationship or do you think we have a future together?” Oh Lord. I’d meant to administer a mild electric current. Instead, I’d thrown the voltage lever all the way up and hit him with full power. Cary’s smile wilted. He slowed and pulled the car to the side of the road.
“You know I’ll never get married again, Dyan.” His voice was low and firm, without a hint of indecision. “So please don’t plan your life around me. I’ve had enough of marriage.”
I realized I was holding my breath. I let it go and looked at him. I didn’t want to believe him.
“I’ve already been around the block a few times,” he added, “and I just want to stay put.”
Gut punch. “That must have been a pretty rough block,” I said.
“I don’t know what it is, but something happens to love when you formalize it with marriage. It cuts off the oxygen.”
Cary looked at his watch and went on. “I’ve been under this kind of pressure before and I just don’t need it.”
“I understand,” I said.
I lied.
In the past seven or eight months, I’d met his friends and his colleagues, and I’d become a big part of his life. In Hollywood we were a known item. Time to wake up, I told myself.