by Dyan Cannon
“Make water?”
“Yes, mum. You know, you go to the bathroom on it. The urine take the pain away.”
“I have to pee on his leg?”
“Dat’s right, mum. You got to do dat or he gonna have some bad misery for a long time. But you got to do it right on dere. It got to come right from the body, or it won’t work.”
“It feels like someone is holding a red hot poker to my leg!” Cary complained. “Where’s the doctor? I need morphine!”
“Cary, go into the bathroom.”
“I don’t need to go into the bathroom!”
“Yes you do. The maid told me how to fix this.”
“I know how to fix it! I need an amputation! Immediately! Grab a carving knife, will you?”
“Come on, now.” I steered him into the bathroom. “Now, put your leg over the tub.”
“What are you going to do?”
It was hard to keep from laughing. Not because it was funny, but because it was embarrassing. “Okay, Cary . . . remain calm!”
“I’M CALM!” he screamed.
“Apparently, the antidote for the sting is urine.”
“WHAT?”
“Seriously, that’s what the maid told me.”
“Whose urine?” he snapped.
“It doesn’t matter whose urine! But somebody’s got to pee on your leg!”
“Why?”
“It’ll neutralize the poison!”
“I—I—ayeeeeeee! Okay! Anything!”
I dropped my panties and straddled his leg. This is crazy, I thought. I am about to pee on the leg of the biggest movie star in the world.
“Well, don’t take all day!”
“Cary, I’m sorry. I can’t. I can’t go.”
“Oh, heavens to Murgatroyd, why not?”
I turned on the faucet, remembering the old wives’ tale about running water making people get the urge to pee. It worked.
Within a minute, Cary exhaled, then relaxed.
“Whoa,” he said. “Our friend the maid knew what she was talking about. Dyan, I never thought I’d thank anyone for taking a piss on me, but right now it seems like about the nicest thing anybody’s ever done. Thank you.”
One evening when Cary was done filming, he came back to the bungalow and suggested that for dinner, we picnic on the beach. “Actually, I already mentioned it to the houseboy,” he said. “He’s going to bring some sandwiches down by the water at six. Nothing fancy.” I said I thought it was a lovely idea.
We relaxed awhile and then headed out the door. “This way,” he said, leading me out the front door and into the lush garden.
“Where are you taking me?” I asked.
“You’ll see.”
We walked down a long, narrow path that led to the sea. There, just a few feet from the water, was a table for two. Twinkling lights were strung through the tree branches, and flaming tiki torches danced against the inky sky. On the table was a glistening bottle of champagne chilling in a silver ice bucket. Cary led me to the table and held my chair for me, then opened the champagne and topped off our glasses.
“You’re beautiful,” he said. Hearing that made me feel beautiful. “And I’m not just talking about how you look. It’s your inner light that stirs something inside of me.”
We sat there, sipping champagne, looking into each other’s eyes, listening to the tide beat against the sand and the parrots squawking in the trees. We hardly talked. What he was feeling that night spoke so loudly, I didn’t need to hear a word.
CHAPTER TWENTY
A Coke and a Kiss
Not long after Father Goose wrapped, Cary took me to Las Vegas for a weekend getaway, then to New York for some theater, then back to San Francisco for long walks and fresh cracked crab. I caught a cold along the way, and the night after we were back in Los Angeles, I was flat on my back with it. Cary was busy that night with an industry banquet, so I was happy enough to do what I always did when I got sick: lie back, read, and guzzle Coca-Cola all day. It was the only thing that appealed to me whenever I didn’t feel well.
I was glad I didn’t have to go anywhere. My eyes looked like two poached eggs, my nose was as big and red as if I’d been on the Johnnie Walker diet for fifteen years, and I was sneezing with enough force to power a small town. I was ready to settle in for a solitary night of reading and pajamas when the phone rang.
“Hello,” I answered. My head felt like it was filled with cement.
“Dear girl, you sound terrible. Mind if I come over and bring a hug?”
“Aren’t you going to Frank’s house?” Frank Sinatra was having a pre-event cocktail party, and a gang of them would leave together from there.
“I’d like to see you first. I’m on my way.”
I lugged myself to the bathroom mirror and splashed my face. Trying to pretty myself up was pointless. I looked like hell on a snack cracker. I rubbed some lotion on my hands and slogged back to the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of Coke, and went to pop it with an opener. But my hands were slick from the lotion, and the bottle slipped from my fingers and broke on the ceramic tile floor, splashing Coke everywhere. What a mess!
I’d just finished picking up the broken glass when the house phone rang. It was the doorman, announcing Cary. It felt as if I had taken only a couple of steps toward the kitchen to finish cleaning up when Cary knocked. Well, the spill will have to wait, I thought as I did an about-face and let him in. He was wearing a jet-black tuxedo, and he was just plain shimmering with elegance.
“Hello, dear girl. My goodness. You feel awful, don’t you?”
“Yes.” Kerchoo.
“Here.” He gave me a bottle of champagne.
“How sweet. I don’t think I should drink with a cold, but I’ll get you a glass.”
“No, no. Save it for another time.”
“Okay.” I walked to the fridge and put it in. “Do you want a Coke?”
“Sure,” he said, taking off his jacket and sitting back on the couch.
I filled two large glasses, sidestepped the spill, and was steps away from Cary when . . .
Klunk.
Cary had taken off his shoes and I stumbled over them, thus drenching that crisp, perfect, ever-so-white tuxedo shirt with a large glass of the Real Thing.
I simply turned to a pillar of salt. Cary reacted the way movie cowboys do when they’ve been shot: first startled, then touching the wetness where the bullet pierced through the heart. He was in shock and rapidly cycling through the stages of grief: anger, denial, bargaining, and then finally . . . acceptance.
“I—you—I . . . oh dear God.” Then he snapped out of his confusion and whisked off his shirt.
“I’m sorry,” I coughed, and fought off an urgent need to start bawling. “Here, I’ll take care of it.” I held out my hand. He regarded me with supreme mistrust. “No, really, I can fix it.”
What would Mom do? That is what I asked myself. First she would remain calm. And she would make everyone else remain calm. So I told Cary, “Please remain calm.” And I said it in a very official voice.
“I’m calm!” he yapped in a high pitch that sounded like a coyote.
Cold-water-cold-water-cold-water. Cold water always fixes everything. I ran the shirt under cold water. Most of the color of the cola seemed to come out. Iron. Now we iron. I heaved the ironing board out of the closet and plugged in the iron. I wrung the shirt out in the sink, then laid it out on the ironing board. So far so good. I exhaled and set the iron down on the shirt. I tried to slide it forward but it wouldn’t move. It gurgled and hissed. Oh, I’d forgotten to put water in it. I lifted the iron and the shirt stuck fast to it. I peeled the shirt off and screamed. The iron had secreted a gooey brown muck onto the shirt in the shape of the iron.
This seemed like a perfectly good time to regress into childhood. I ran into the living room and barricaded myself between the wall and the television console.
“Dyan, what on earth—”
“Your shirt is dead. I killed it
.”
“Dyan!”
“Go look for yourself!”
The next thing I heard was his Cockney Popeye voice, unleashing a torrent of unintelligible profanity.
“Dyan . . . I’m stuck to the floor!”
Oh, I’d forgotten to warn him about the spilled Coke.
I peered over the top of the TV. “Cary, I forgot to tell you. Don’t walk in the kitchen. I spilled a Coke.”
“&^%#!”
“Where can I get you another one?”
“Another Coke? No thanks!”
“No!” I cried. “Another shirt!”
“Just call Hong Kong and ask for Jimmy! He makes all my dress shirts.” Then he let out a laugh. “You’d better come out from behind there now, silly child.”
I crept out from behind the TV and looked into the kitchen. Cary stood there shirtless over the ironing board holding his destroyed shirt, one foot bare, one sock stuck to the floor, and a look of bemusement on his face.
I couldn’t believe it, but he was smiling.
“I don’t suppose you have something that would fit me?” He arched a brow.
“I’m sorry, Cary. So, so sorry, Cary.”
“No worries,” he said, buttoning up his desecrated shirt with regal aplomb. He stepped into his patent leather shoes, and pulled on his tuxedo jacket, and straightened his bow tie in the hall mirror. He looked at his watch. “I’ll be right on time,” he said.
“You’re going like that?”
“Yes! I’m going to start a fashion trend.”
“Huh?”
“I’m going to show up for Sinatra’s party just like this, with a full-sized iron burn on my tuxedo shirt. And I’m going to pretend like it’s completely normal. I’ll bet you that in no time, everyone will want an iron burn on their tuxedo shirt.”
“Oh, Cary.”
“Come here, silly child. I haven’t given you your hug.”
But he didn’t give me a hug. He gave me a kiss. Full on the lips.
“I’d better go home and change,” he said. “And you’d better be well by tomorrow because I’m going to want to take you out for a Coke.”
It was easier to imagine Alfred Hitchcock throwing a Halloween party than a Christmas party, but for Alfred, every day was Halloween. And that included Christmas. As we rolled into the holidays—our second round of holidays together—Cary was buried in a flurry of invitations, most of which he politely declined. But Cary and Alfred had a special relationship. They’d done four films together, at least three of them classics. Hitch, who was vocal in his disdain of movie stars, had been quoted more than once as saying, “[Cary was] the only actor I’d ever loved in my whole life.” Cary loved Hitch, too, and in addition to everything else, I think he always particularly enjoyed being around a fellow Englishman. “He’s English to the core,” Cary said appreciatively, adding, “if you overlook the fact that he’s really from another planet.”
As we pulled into the driveway of the Hitchcocks’ Bel Air home, Cary looked at me and grinned. “All I’m going to say,” he said, “is be prepared for anything. He’s not called ‘the master of the unexpected’ for nothing.” With that in mind, we walked to the front door, where Alfred greeted us with a tray of Windex-blue martinis. Cary introduced us and Hitch gave a small bow.
“I hope you’ll forgive me, Cary, but we’re fresh out of LSD,” Hitch said, deadpan as always. “I hope a martini will suffice. I made them so you could have a drink and see colors at the same time.” We each took a glass off the tray and raised it to Alfred, who looked at me and said, “You know, Dyan, I think I’ve figured out why Cary likes LSD so much. The reason is, the letters stand for pounds, shillings, and dollars . . . This way, please.”
We followed Hitch to the living room, where about a dozen other guests were mingling. Impossible to miss was Jimmy Stewart, who, as I walked in, was just sitting down on the large, overstuffed sofa. As soon as he alighted, there erupted a seven-second burst of flatulence. Jimmy sprang from the couch like he’d been stuck with a hat pin and everyone laughed—including Jimmy, who broke out into his familiar mirthful croak.
“Oh dear, he’s at it again,” Alma Hitchcock said serenely. “Alfred bought his first whoopee cushion in 1927, and he’s never fallen out of love with them.” She smiled at Alfred. “Have you, dear?”
“They’re a more powerful social icebreaker than alcohol,” Hitch mused. “You see, next to fear, flatulence is the most fundamental aspect of the human condition.”
“Alfred!” Alma chided gently.
Hitch went on. “I’m utterly sincere. Since no one will voluntarily break wind in polite company, it must be induced. However, I haven’t been able to dislodge Alma from her skepticism on the matter, have I, dear?”
“No, dear,” Alma replied. “I disapproved in 1927 and I disapprove now, but I have ceded that territory to you, haven’t I?”
“And quite graciously,” Mr. Hitchcock said.
“Indeed,” Alma said.
I wanted to hug them both. Cary wandered off to mingle, and I found myself talking to the legendary director, one-on-one. “You know, Mr. Hitchcock, there’s something I want to share with you. Cary has two wonderful cousins named Maggie and Eric, who live in Bristol. You and Mrs. Hitchcock remind me so much of them. They make everyone feel at home the way you do.”
“Well, my dear, if you ever run away from home, you know you’re welcome here.”
“That’s very sweet.”
“You’ve got a very nice presence.”
“Thank you.”
“May I ask you an impertinent sort of question?”
“That would be fine,” I said.
“I’ll admit it’s equal parts idle curiosity and enlightened self-interest.”
“Sure.”
“Have you and Cary discussed making a movie together?”
“No,” I said. “To be honest, it’s never come up.” I actually had to think about it. Cary’s career was Cary’s career, and my career was my own too. When we got together, we checked our careers at the door. That’s not to say the idea of being Cary’s leading lady in a film wasn’t attractive; of course it was. But I was much more preoccupied with being his leading lady in real life.
“I think it would be splendid,” Hitch said. “The two of you have a very nice chemistry. If you care to pursue it, I have a little something you could slip into his drink that would make him quite compliant. Unfortunately, it would also cause a long-term loss of motor coordination, but we can adjust the role to fit that.”
“Alfred!” Alma called. “Dinner is served!”
We ambled to the table with our blue martinis and took our seats. Two butlers brought large, covered platters to the table. Hitch gave them a nod, and they removed the covers to reveal large slabs of prime rib. The beef smelled wonderful, but it looked awful.
It was blue. Bright, turquoise blue. Then along came the side dishes: blue broccoli, blue potatoes, blue rolls . . .
“Cary,” Hitch said placidly, “would you care to say grace?”
Cary folded his hands and looked heavenward. “Dear Lord, please punish our friend Alfred to the full extent of your almighty powers, but spare his dear wife, Alma, because as hard as she tried to edit the meal, he insisted on the final cut.”
“Do you think it’s safe to eat?” I whispered to Cary.
“The color may be off-putting, but I’m sure it’s perfectly fine,” Cary said sanguinely. He was wrong. By the time the night was over, the two of us had worn a groove in the carpet between the bed and the bathroom.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Happy New Year
We spent Christmas Eve at Bob and Goldie Arthur’s. Bob and I had bonded in Jamaica, and since then I’d come to be really fond of both him and his wife, Goldie. They were kind, down-to-earth people, and each year they threw a Christmas Eve party that was intended especially for children. I’d been looking forward to this. I loved children, children loved me, and to be honest, I hoped that
the sight of me playing with the kids might stir Cary’s paternal yearnings. It was a big, raucous party with probably forty kids rolling and rollicking all over the floors, the furniture, and each other. As Cary and I walked into the fray, children clustered around us like puppies, pulling at our clothes, tugging at our hands. Anyone taller than three feet was fair game!
I got down on the floor and mixed in for five or ten minutes, playing along. Some of them were very shy, of course. So I slapped my knees, squeezed my eyes shut, and cried, “There’s one thing I don’t like. I don’t like kisses! Don’t anybody kiss me because I hate kisses!”
Naturally, I was suddenly mobbed by giggling munchkins pecking me with kisses. “No! No! No! Kisses are terrible! Oh . . .” Then I dropped my voice to a conspiratorial whisper and pointed to Cary. “Do you know who hates kisses more than anybody in the world? That man there!” The children squealed, identified their target, and the kiss brigade went in for the attack.
After our near brush with death by kisses, we thanked Bob and Goldie and headed for Palm Springs.
“Where’s my horse?” Cary asked, a little perplexed that my ride had been led out a few minutes before his. We were at the stables, where I was anticipating the unveiling of the first real gift I’d ever given Cary: a custom-made saddle emblazoned with his initials. It was no easy task coming up with a meaningful gift for a man who really did have everything, but during our last visit to the ranch, I realized that as much as he loved riding, Cary still used the stable’s saddles. It surprised me that nobody had ever thought to give him one. I saw my opportunity, so I enlisted the owner, who helped me get the perfect saddle for Cary.
“Here he comes,” said Gus, the owner.
“That’s not my usual saddle,” Cary said, catching a glimpse of the chocolate-brown leather that was burnished to a glow.
“Oh, yes it is,” I said. “Merry Christmas and happy birthday!”
Cary approached the horse and touched the saddle, then saw his initials emblazoned onto it. He laid a hand on the leather and froze in place for a moment with his head down. Then he turned to me, his eyes soft with emotion. All he said was, “Dear girl,” and he held me in a long embrace.