by Dyan Cannon
“What’s wrong with your natural hair color? It makes you look like everyone else.”
We drove for a while in silence. At a stoplight, he narrowed his eyes at me with withering disdain and shook his head.
“I’m sorry,” I said, and I started to cry. He softened a little.
“Silly child, there’s a reason blondes have a reputation for being bubbleheads. This isn’t scientifically proven, but I’ve got my theory and I think I’m right. The peroxide is absorbed into the brain tissue and causes mental deterioration.”
That sounded so ridiculous, I didn’t say anything.
“Cary, I wasn’t trying to displease you. If you’d like, I’ll get something to tone it down with tomorrow,” I said with a sigh.
“Do that . . .” But he said it like it was an order. I’d never heard this tone before. Welcome home.
At the end of the week, a letter arrived for Cary from my father.
“Your father is such a good man,” Cary said admiringly.
“You and my dad have at least one thing in common, Cary. You both insist on spelling my name the old way.”
“What can I say, dear girl? I love you the way you were born, every inch of you and every letter. D-Y-A-N is for the stage. But ‘Diane’ spelled the old-fashioned way—she belongs to me.”
“Oh, Archie.”
“Please don’t call me that,” Cary answered. He smiled, acknowledging a joke that was not a joke.
My heart was brimming over with love for my wonderfully generous father. It couldn’t have been easy for him to write those words. I was sure he meant them, but he was still struggling with the fact that his daughter was marrying a man who was older than he was.
A man who, if the hair incident was any indication, was acting like he was my father.
Outwardly, things seemed normal enough as we took several trips in that three-month interval between our engagement and our wedding. We went to England twice, for soccer and to see Wimbledon, where we sat in the players’ seats, and we made some closer-to-home excursions to Santa Barbara and Palm Springs.
When we were alone, though, Cary’s emotional presence was like a radio signal in a storm. Since our engagement, he’d been fading in and out. We’d be on the plane or in the car, going to or coming from one destination or another, and he’d seem a million miles away. I also thought it was curious that he hadn’t gotten me a ring, but that was hardly my main concern . . . what bothered me most was the frequent criticism. He would find something wrong with my appearance. He would object to my makeup, sometimes intensely, and two or three times he berated me for wearing blush or eye shadow when I wasn’t wearing any. Other times, when I dared to put on a touch, he didn’t say a word. Sometimes it was my posture, or how I dressed, or just the expression on my face. It was tiring, and I was wearing myself out trying to buff out any blemish in my overall presentation that he might take aim at.
Finally, I knew I had to say something to him. We were having dinner at Hoi Ping, and instead of the usual relish he had for the food, he was picking listlessly at his plate.
“Cary, if I ask you something, will you give me an honest answer?”
A shadow crossed his face. It lasted just for a split second, and to anyone else it would have been imperceptible, but it was something I’d developed the ability to detect.
“Of course.”
“Have you had a change of heart?”
He sighed and took my hand. “I’m sorry. I know I’ve been rather remote lately.”
“Honestly, you seem to drift out into space. It’s like you’re not here. And when you are, you criticize me so much of the time. I mean, nothing seems the same.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Okay, for instance, what happened to the Daily Word? Remember how we’d listen to it together every day and talk forever about the ideas?”
“Dyan, nothing’s changed.”
“But we used to spend hours just laughing and playing word games with each other. Cary, please be honest with me. If this doesn’t feel right, then now is the time to tell me. We haven’t made the wedding arrangements yet. In fact, hardly anybody knows we’re engaged. And”—I held up my left hand—“I’m not even wearing a ring.”
“Dyan, that’s not it.”
“Then what is it, Cary? I want this to be a real two-way relationship. If something’s bothering either one of us, we should be able to talk about it with each other. That’s the kind of marriage I want. I sure hope you do too. Because I couldn’t live with it the way it’s been.”
“I haven’t talked about it because I didn’t understand it myself until a few days ago.”
“Is it me?”
“No, no, and no. It’s this film. Walk, Don’t Run. It’s everything to do with film in general. I’ve wavered and wavered. I think this could well be the last movie I ever make.”
“You’ve said that about your last half-dozen films.”
“It’s different this time. There’s nothing wrong with the script, but I’ve had trouble making myself commit to it. You know, I’m winding down something like thirty-two years of moviemaking. It’s the longest marriage I’ve ever had, and it seems like an old friend that I don’t have much in common with anymore. So it’s like a divorce. I guess I’m having separation anxiety.”
“I don’t like that word, ‘divorce.’ ”
“Dyan, you’ll never have to hear it applied to us. And when I wrap this picture up, you’ll have me all to yourself. I’ll be an old codger in a bathrobe and slippers, shuffling around and boring Gumper to death with my philosophical rambling. And rooting through drawers for Picnic bars.”
I smiled. I felt relieved. Really, it made perfect sense. Whether or not Walk, Don’t Run would prove to be Cary’s last film, I believed that he truly was contemplating the end of his moviemaking years. Of course, he could go on making films until he was a hundred and ten years old if he wanted to, but I believed him that the thrill was waning.
I could feel us both relax, and I was grateful for it.
“And you know something else?” Cary said. “It’s time for us to get on the stick with some wedding plans. Let’s start nailing down some details this week. And I think you should start looking for a wedding dress.”
I smiled.
“Really?” I said. “Are you sure?”
“Really. I’m sure.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Hormones and Hamburgers
Up until now, Cary and I had entertained a number of wedding scenarios: A homey wedding at his place in Palm Springs, beneath the electric-blue desert sky. A seaside ceremony on the beach in Santa Barbara. Or somewhere in the mountains . . . it was fun savoring the romantic vision of each one of them. A couple of days later, Addie went shopping with me for a wedding dress, and I asked her opinion.
“Just keep it simple, quiet, and remote,” she said. “But I kind of like Palm Springs. You’ve got everything you need there.”
I was leaning that way too. Cary had had a busy couple of days of script conferences for Walk, Don’t Run, but they’d be taking a break midweek. I couldn’t wait to plot out the details of the ceremony. Addie and I had spent the afternoon shopping, and when I returned home, Cary opened the front door as I was getting out of the car. I ran toward him and threw my arms open wide. Cary stood ramrod straight and thrust his arms out like a police officer.
“Please don’t run,” he said. “It buzzes me up. Just walk.”
That took the skip out of my step. I thought that he was probably thinking about the movie again and feeling moody. I toned it down, walked up slowly, and gave him a gentle hug.
“What kind of trouble did you and Addie get into?”
“Oh, the usual. Armed robbery, forgery, impersonating the clergy.”
He didn’t laugh. It was as if he didn’t hear me. “I’m ready for a Manhattan. Would you like some wine?”
“It’s a little early. Is everything okay?”
“I work
hard, I loaf hard.” I went over to him while he was making his drink and tried to put my arms around him, but he fended me off, saying, “Would you mind getting me some ice?”
He was obviously giving me the cold shoulder. I got him his ice.
“Oh, I meant to tell you,” he said when he had settled into the chair with his drink. “The wedding will be at the Dunes on July 22. Charlie Rich is taking care of everything.”
I felt like the wind had been knocked out of me. Cary’s friend Charlie Rich was a Las Vegas hotelier.
“What?”
“Charlie called and I gave him the news. He said, ‘How about I give you a wedding for a wedding present?’ I rather liked the idea of that.”
I had nothing against a wedding in Vegas. I had nothing against the Dunes. I had nothing against Charlie. But it was my wedding, too. I started to object. I wanted to say, “Why didn’t you run it past me? I thought we were doing this together.” But instead, I caved. It wasn’t worth the battle.
One morning several months later, buttoning up a pair of slacks, I found the button and the buttonhole were having a mini tug-of-war. My slacks must’ve shrunk, I thought. That darned cleaner. But then I had to face the truth. I’d been wolfing down Bob’s Big Boys like I was a bear putting on weight for hibernation. And Cary and I had been piling on the desserts. I’d have to start watching that.
The next morning, I awoke feeling like I’d ridden a whirligig all night with a full stomach. I was seasick and nauseous. I went to the bathroom and tossed my cookies. Hmmm. My period had been late a number of times before, so I hadn’t thought much about it this time around. When Cary left for the studio, I called his doctor, Dr. Gourson, and made an appointment for that afternoon. It had to be Dr. Gourson, because his confidentiality could be trusted.
“Congratulations, Dyan,” he said. “You’re going to be a mother.”
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“Cary’s a lucky man. I’ve known him for all the years he’s been in Hollywood. This is going to be the greatest gift you could’ve given him.”
“Thank you, Dr. Gourson.”
The doctor’s office was at Hollywood and Vine. Vine was near Highland. Highland ran up to Barham and Vine ran up to Barham, and Barham ran up to Bob’s Big Boy. At the drive-through, I got three burgers. One for me, one for Cary, and one for the baby. The baby ate in the car.
How was I going to tell him? A few ideas came to mind. How was he going to react? A few more ideas came to mind.
Wish I’d gotten the baby another hamburger, I thought.
Cary wasn’t inside the house when I arrived, but I looked down the backyard slope and saw him by the pool, relaxing in swim trunks and his cotton robe. I hoped he was in a good mood—as if something like the whole future of our family-in-the-making could hinge on whether he’d gotten caught in traffic on the way home or had skipped lunch and had low blood sugar. Well, I thought, let the Bob’s Big Boys lead the way.
“I got a little snack for you—I mean, us,” I said, sitting down on the chaise lounge with him. I opened the bag and gave him his burger.
“Good stuff!” he said. Good start, I thought. He noticed the shopping bag I’d brought along with me. “What’d you get?” he asked.
“Go ahead and eat your burger. I have a little surprise for you.”
Cary was already giving the burger his full attention and deferred answering until he’d devoured it. Then he wadded up the wrapper, popped it into the bag, and rubbed his hands together. “Did you say something about a surprise?”
I handed him the bag and he reached inside. He took out one package, unwrapped the tissue from around a little pink dress, and looked at me quizzically. Then he unwrapped the tissue from around a little boy’s blue jumper.
“Are you trying to tell me what I think you’re trying to tell me?” he asked.
“How do you feel about being a father?”
“How do I feel about being a father?”
Oh God, is this going to do us in? I thought.
“Are you asking me that because you’re going to be a mother?”
I gulped and nodded.
Oh no. Somebody help.
Cary looked like someone had told him a story that didn’t quite make sense, and now he was trying to figure out how to be amused by it. My heart started to sink.
“Just one minute, Dyan,” he said. He got up, walked to the deep end of the pool, and let himself fall in backward. He disappeared beneath the surface, bobbed up again at the other end, then got out and shook himself off like a wet dog.
The next thing I knew, he picked me up and rocked me like a baby before giving me a big, long kiss.
“I finally am going to have the family I’ve always wanted,” he said.
We were happily on our way.
The morning of the wedding, I got my hair done and had a manicure. “Maybe a little rinse to brighten your hair?” the beautician asked.
I felt a jolt of electricity go down my spine. “No! No rinse! Please!”
Disaster averted. Doing anything to my hair color before the wedding seemed like the equivalent of crossing the paths of a hundred black cats while walking under a succession of ladders. I was even extremely judicious about the color the manicurist put on my nails: it was a very light peach color, just a shade deeper than natural. I had to wonder about it, though . . . why was everyone always wanting to “brighten” my hair? Maybe after the wedding I’d dare to do something about it. Certainly not before.
From the beauty parlor, I met up with Addie and Cliff, who were flying to Las Vegas with me.
On the plane, I suddenly became inexplicably weepy. “What’s wrong with me, Addie?” I asked, plucking yet another tissue out of a package. “I’m getting everything I wanted. The husband, the baby, the family. And I can’t stop crying.”
“Premarital heebee-jeebies,” Addie said. “And your first-trimester hormones are probably having a hootenanny. Did you tell your mom and dad?”
“Not yet. They have enough on their minds.”
“You’ll be fine. And you look beautiful. Cary’s going to melt when he sees you.”
In Las Vegas, Cary had arranged for a small chartered plane to take me to neighboring Clark County to pick up our marriage license—a precaution we hoped would prevent news of the wedding from leaking out to the press. Addie offered to go with me, but I asked her to go to the hotel and check on Mom and Dad, the flowers, and the other preparations. I was back in two hours, half-airsick and no less emotional. A limousine whisked me to the Dunes. I went to the two-bedroom suite Charlie had arranged for us to use before the wedding. Mom, Dad, Addie, and Cliff were waiting there, and I was starting to get ready when Stanley Fox came out of Cary’s room.
“Cary just wanted to make sure everything went all right with the marriage license,” he said.
“Everything’s fine,” I said. “How’s Cary?”
“Getting ready,” Stanley said. Of course, tradition held that the bride and groom shouldn’t see each other before the wedding. To heck with tradition, I thought. I’m a nervous wreck and I need to see him. I knocked on his door. He opened it and I went into the bedroom where he was changing. Before I could say a word, he took a step back and stood completely rigid with his arms at his sides. He gave me a long, cold look and said, “What the hell did you do to your nails?”
I looked at my light-peach-colored nails and could barely speak. We were going to be married in ten minutes!
“They’re gaudy, Dyan. It’s just not flattering.”
Just open the door and run for your life, Dyan. That’s all I could hear.
Now I started crying for real. I turned and almost bumped into Stanley as I left Cary’s bedroom. I crossed through the living room past my parents, Addie, and Cliff, and bolted into the other bedroom. Mom and Addie marched in right behind me, leaving Dad standing there, half beside himself, and Cliff looking just plain confused.
“Dyan, it’s just nerves,” Addie said. “Everyth
ing is nerves. His nerves, your nerves. It’s going to be all right.”
Mom took a towel to my tear-streaked face. “Just relax. This is what you’ve always wanted—to marry him.”
I felt like a boxer being toweled off and pushed back into the ring. “I’m scared,” I sobbed. “I don’t want to do this.”
“Then there’s just one thing to do,” Mom said. “Get in the car and go home.” She sat down on the floor in front of me. “Seriously, if this feels wrong to you, forget about the wedding, the wedding dress, the wedding reception . . . forget about all of that because it doesn’t matter. No one’s going to die if there’s no wedding today.”
I exhaled. I immediately felt like I could breathe again. We sat there for several minutes, not saying anything. Finally I said, “I’m afraid to do it and I’m afraid not to.”
Just then there was a soft knock at the door. Addie opened it and there stood Cary, smiling softly. “May I have a word with Dyan, please?” Addie and Mom left the room.
“Dyan, give me your hand.” I did it without thinking. “I’m terribly sorry for my outrageous behavior.” He stroked my fingers. “I don’t know what got into me. The color’s really very nice.”
“Cary, you don’t have to do this, you know. It’s not too late to change your mind.”
“I haven’t changed my mind, Dyan. I’ll tell you something about weddings, though. The more experience you have with them, the more nervous you get.”
I almost laughed. “Are we going to do this?”
“I say, yes!”
“Then I’d better get dressed.”
He patted my hand and said, “Good stuff.”
With Addie and Mom’s help, I pulled myself together in about a half hour. Just before I left the room, Daddy squeezed my hand. The love that shone in his eyes melted my heart. The next thing I knew, I was standing beside Cary in front of the justice of the peace, in a small party room decorated with magnificent flowers. Cary was beaming. It was as if nothing had happened. The next thing I knew, he was placing a gold wedding band onto my finger. It glided into place quite easily, a perfect fit.