Dear Cary

by Dyan Cannon

  We were man and wife.

  And suddenly, I found myself wondering what that meant. I would love, honor, cherish, and obey. I would not let beauticians change my hair color . . . I was a different person now, a married woman. Things were different now, completely different. They were, weren’t they? Then why did everything seem the same? From childhood, I was made to believe that my wedding day would be the ultimate, life-transforming roller-coaster ride—that the ceremony itself, even, would be such a mind-blowing event that the world would never look the same way again. I was still waiting for the effect to kick in, though. I had a ring on my finger and a marriage license. Other than that, everything seemed pretty much the same. I looked around the room at our small wedding party, small because Cary, one of the most public personalities in the world, valued privacy above all else. He had wanted to keep this intimate, so there were only Mom and Dad, Addie and Cliff, Stanley Fox, and Charlie Rich and his wife, Evelyn. I looked at Cary, and I looked at the ring on my finger. They all looked the same too. I wondered if there was something wrong with me.

  Charlie had arranged an exquisite dinner for us: lobster thermidor, beef Wellington, potatoes au gratin, spinach soufflé . . . but my hormones had their own ideas about sustenance, and since I was the bride, I pulled rank and got Charlie to come up with a cheeseburger and fries for me. Cary had a good laugh over that. “My Dyan is American to the core,” he said.

  Charlie had transformed our wedding suite into a grotto of rose petals and candles, chocolates and champagne, and white taffeta. Once we were alone, with the doors shut behind us and our stormy nerves finally calmed . . . well, suffice it to say we made the most of our wedding night.

  I awoke the next morning, wiggled my fingers, wiggled my toes, pinched my cheeks, and laid my arm over my husband’s chest. My husband. I loved the sound of that. And I realized that finally the wedding had kicked in and nothing seemed the same. Everything seemed new and different.

  My husband stirred, looked over at me, and smiled. My husband happened to be a movie star known as Cary Grant, but those things didn’t have much to do with the man I loved. Now he was going to be my life’s companion and the father of my child.

  Stanley called as we were getting up to tell us that the news of our wedding had leaked and that the press had staked out both the Las Vegas and Los Angeles airports. To avoid all the hubbub, Cary decided we’d rent a car and drive back to Los Angeles. We hit the road before noon, but the July sun was already hissing in the sky like a blowtorch. We sang happily to the radio with the air conditioner blasting, played our word games, and had a contest to see which of us could spot the most license plates from each of the fifty states (he won).

  I was Mrs. Cary Grant. I was in heaven.

  Halfway back to Los Angeles, I noticed that my wedding band had begun to feel a little tight. When I tugged at it, it wouldn’t budge, and I noticed that my finger was swelling.

  “Cary, my finger is turning blue,” I said.

  He took a look and said, “You’re right. It’s all swollen.”

  “I can’t get my ring off.”

  “It fit just fine when I slipped it on. Let me try.” Cary pulled over, placed his thumb and forefinger around the ring, and tried to turn it. Then he tried jimmying it along my finger. It wouldn’t move. “Silly child, you must be allergic to gold.”

  “Hmmm. I’ve worn plenty of gold and I’ve never had a reaction.”

  “Let’s see if we can find a jeweler.”

  We pulled into the tiny town of Barstow and trolled Main Street for a jeweler. After looking for a while, we gave up on finding a jeweler, so we had to settle for the next best thing:

  A plumber.

  As the rented Mercedes pulled in front of Toby’s Plumbing Shop, a burly man whose ample belly peeked out from beneath a dirty T-shirt stepped out to admire the car. He let out a long whistle. “Boy howdy, that’s class!” he exclaimed. I thought he would immediately have a conniption fit at the sight of Cary Grant, but instead he set his eyes on me and said, “I’ve seen you somewhere.”

  “She’s the best actress in Hollywood,” said Cary, who Toby seemed to think was my chauffeur.

  “That’s it! That’s it! I’ve seen you on the tube! One of those shows. I know I have!”

  “Could be,” I said, getting a kick out of this. Cary, though, was getting impatient.

  “Sir, we’ve got a little problem,” he said. “Her wedding ring is stuck and I’m worried about her finger. Is there something you could do to help us?”

  Toby was a prince about it and he took on the job with a sense of mission. First, he applied a lubricant and spent a good fifteen minutes gently trying to twist and jiggle the ring off my finger. Finally, he said, “I ain’t a professional in these matters, but stuck is stuck. And the way your finger is lookin,’ we’d better get it off quick. I’ve got a little blowtorch I use to cut steel with. I can protect your finger so it don’t get burnt.”

  Normally, the idea of anyone—let alone a plumber—taking a blowtorch to my hand would have sent me packing. But there was something about Toby that made me feel safe with him. And I really was beginning to worry about my finger falling off.

  “There ya go,” Toby said a few minutes later, dropping the piece of gold into my palm.

  “Much obliged,” Cary said. He tried to press a bill into his hand but Toby refused.

  “That wasn’t work,” Toby said. “That was just helpin’.”

  I gave Toby a hug and we left.

  Back in the car, I held the severed ring in my palm and shrugged to myself. Well, I thought, there are plenty of rings out there, but only one Mr. and Mrs. Cary Grant.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Honeymoon Getaway

  Not surprisingly, we returned to Cary’s house to find a gaggle of hungry reporters blocking the road, hoping to confirm rumors of our wedding. Rolling down the window as he drove through the clot of media, he shouted out the window, “Me? Married? I’ve had my three strikes! I’m out!”

  Inside the house, Cary shut the door behind us and locked it. “Whew. We’ll have to feed the animals sooner or later, but after the weekend we’ve had . . . all I want is a Manhattan—and you!” He gave me a long hug and longer kiss. Married life was pretty nice so far, even with two dozen of our best friends popping flashbulbs in front of the house.

  Sorting through the mail, Cary found a telegram from the director John Huston, who was living in Ireland at the time:

  NOTHING LIKE A HONEYMOON IN IRELAND TO BRING YOU LUCK. KEEPING THE HEARTH WARM FOR YOU BOTH. HOPE YOU’LL BEAT A PATH RIGHT OVER HERE. LOVE, JOHN.

  “What a nice surprise,” Cary said appreciatively. “How do you fancy a proper honeymoon on the Emerald Isle?”

  “Where you go, I go,” I said.

  “And let’s always keep it that way.”

  Since I’d never been to Ireland, we decided to toodle around a few days on our own before going to John’s country estate in county Galway. In Dublin, we rented a car and started driving. No map, no destination. Ireland seemed more like a movie of Ireland than a real place. It was Technicolor green—mossy, grassy, and leafy—and all around us, the hills, fields, and furrows undulated like waves in a stormy sea. We spent the night in a cozy bed-and-breakfast in a quaint village, had dinner at the corner pub, and set out again the next day, aiming for Dingle Peninsula, which was famous just for being beautiful. We drove the country roads, winding past lichen-stained walls of ancient stone and the ruins of castles scattered like ashes across the landscape.

  We drove with the radio on—rock music wasn’t on the airwaves then, so it was mostly a diet of American postwar pop—and we sang along to all the songs we knew and some we didn’t. “Pull over!” I said when “Singin’ in the Rain” came on. I cranked up the sound and sprang out of the car. “Come on! Dance with me!”

  “Silly girl, it’s drizzling!”

  “I’m dancin’ in the rain,” I sang as I twirled on the glistening roadside tu
rf, “dancin’ in the rain . . .”

  I realized this was the first time Cary and I had ever had time together to just follow our whims, with no set schedule for several days. And it was the first time I’d seen him out in the open with nobody watching, nobody calling, nobody taking pictures, nothing to be on for. There’s nothing to stop us from living happily ever after, I thought. I hoped it could always be like it was here in the Irish countryside.

  By the time we arrived at John Huston’s, we were both probably the most relaxed we’d been in our whole time together. A year or so earlier, John had become an Irish citizen and had taken up the lifestyle of a country gentleman, presiding over a huge estate that included a sprawling Georgian mansion and stables that had been converted into living quarters. Coming up the long driveway, we saw John’s son Tony training his falcon. For several days, we lived the life of the gentry, admiring John’s amazing art collection, lounging in the garden with drinks, enjoying conversations about art, film, friendship . . . John was a fantastic storyteller and one of the most sociable people I’d ever met. He could go on telling stories forever, and he held a couple of large dinner parties where every other person was Duke of this or Duchess of that.

  It was a magical week we had in Ireland, and I hoped the spell would carry over to England, where we were headed to make the obligatory visit to Elsie. By this point, I knew better than to expect any magic there; I’d lowered my hopes to “merely bearable.” Still, I hadn’t given up on trying to salve the wound that Elsie and Cary shared. As we walked from the parking lot into Chesterfield, it struck me that Cary was walking with a forced deliberateness that reminded me of a funeral march. I took his arm and stopped him. “Cary,” I said, “we’re not visiting a grave. We’re visiting Elsie. Whatever mood she’s in, just be grateful she’s alive.”

  Cary took my hand. “I know you’re right, but . . . okay.”

  I had to hand it to Elsie, though. When we entered her room, she looked up and smiled, the very picture of a dear, sweet elderly lady.

  After Elsie shrugged off his embrace, Cary announced, “Elsie, we have great news. We’ve gotten married!”

  “Congratulations, Betsy,” Elsie said without blinking. Betsy, of course, was Cary’s previous wife, Betsy Drake.

  “It’s Dyan, Elsie,” we both said in tandem. I could see Cary clenching his teeth, but I laughed. Cary and I were finally married, and Elsie could call me “Chuckles the Clown” for all I cared.

  Driving back, we heard a crack of thunder and suddenly the sky unleashed a fierce rainstorm. Cary seemed like he was about to slip into another one of his Elsie-induced funks, but he was forced to snap out of it when we got back to the hotel, where dozens of reporters mobbed the entrance. We got out of the car in the pouring rain, and Cary took me by the arm, lowered his head, and charged them like a ram. My heel gave way in the confusion and I fell to the ground, but Cary pulled me to my feet, swept me up into his arms, and stormed through the doorway. We were safe, but we were also trapped.

  “The way they’re carrying on, you’d think Cary Grant was around here somewhere,” I joked. To me, all of this was a novelty and I was treating it like a game. To Cary, though, it was a grind. A few hours later, they were still there, and even by midevening the throng hadn’t diminished. We ordered room service and watched television. The next morning, no change. For my part, I could think of far worse things than being trapped in a hotel room with Cary. But for him, it was old hat. He grew restless and started prowling the room like a caged animal, grrrrring and making phone calls like an exiled king trying to get back to his castle.

  Finally, I couldn’t take any more of Cary not being able to take any more, and I said, “Let’s pretend we’re in a spy movie and make a daring escape.”

  “How are we going to get out of here? I’m sure they’ve got the elevators cased, along with every other square inch of the building.”

  “Call the manager,” I suggested. It proved to be a good idea. Cary and he cooked up the plan.

  So, at four in the morning, we made for the back of the building, where the assistant manager opened the window that led to the fire escape. We rattled down three flights of iron steps to the alley below where a car awaited us. Two bellboys had already stowed our luggage in the trunk. Cary got behind the wheel, thanked the Bristol Royal Hotel’s manager for his help, and we sped off.

  We were going to stay with Cary’s friends Charles and Louisa Abrams, who had a country home outside of London. Charles was the owner of Aquascutum, one of the most venerable high-fashion clothing companies in England. We spent a couple of days with them, taking walks down the country lanes, lazing in the back garden, reading, and enjoying the peace—until somebody spotted us and blew our cover. One afternoon the four of us came back to find a clot of reporters gathered outside the gate. “Okay, I think it’s time to let a little air out of the media balloon,” Cary said when we got inside. “Time for a press conference.”

  “A press conference?”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll handle all the questions. I’m an old hand at it.” Cary called his London press liaison and set up the conference for the next morning at the Savoy Hotel.

  When the time for the press conference arrived, Cary was as cool as gin and tonic on the rocks. He was smiling, relaxed, and on. He played the press like a piano.

  In the spirit of gossip reportage in those days, the questions were designed to elicit cute, quotable answers. How did you first meet? How long was it before you were in love? When did you propose? Cary was a master at giving reporters catchy lines and whimsical comebacks without tipping his hand. That way both sides came away happy.

  The clincher came when a reporter asked, “Would you two like to make a movie together?”

  In response to the question, I gave a very enthusiastic nod. The laughter took Cary by surprise and he shot me a glance, then turned back to face the press. “In all seriousness, I’m very close to exiting the movie business once and for all,” he said adamantly. “Dyan and I are a family now, and I’m so looking forward to being a dull and domesticated house husband.”

  As much as I loved the idea of doing a movie with Cary, it certainly didn’t take first place in my thoughts. I couldn’t picture Cary as being dull and domesticated, but the house husband part—I kind of liked that idea.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Pressure Cooker

  In the weeks before the wedding, I kept telling myself that after we were married, everything would be all right. In the months before the baby, I told myself that after the baby came, everything would be all right. I told that to myself daily.

  After our honeymoon, Cary’s shell opened and closed and opened and closed. Sometimes he let me in, sometimes not. When it was closed, he wasn’t so much temperamental as he was withdrawn, but his moods shifted without warning or apparent cause. It was like watching TV with someone who was always changing the channel; you were never tuned in to the same show long enough to get comfortable. Of course, I’d spent days at a time at his house, but now that I was officially residing there, I started to get a different perspective.

  For one thing, I really started to see what a solitary person he was. If the phone rang, nine out of ten times, it was for me. My friends knew I preferred for them to call during the day, so I wouldn’t be distracted with calls after Cary got home. Cary rarely called anyone but Stanley Fox. He went to the studio almost daily for four or five hours for final negotiations on Walk, Don’t Run, which he continued to declare would be his last film. He got home early and was disappointingly content to kick off his shoes and blank out in front of the television. Hoi Ping seemed like a lost memory, a night out seemed about as distant as Jupiter, and if Cary was being invited to any parties, he sure wasn’t telling me about them. Walk, Don’t Run would be shot in Tokyo, and I was eager for Cary to lock up the deal. They would have a five-or-six-week location schedule, and I thought the time away together in an exciting, exotic city like Tokyo would boost both our spiri
ts. I was in a house on a hill in Beverly Hills, but the way the mood had been, it might as well have been Wuthering Heights.

  Bangs did keep me company and her status as an indoor dog was nonnegotiable, though I occasionally had to defend it; Gumper continued to preside over the backyard like a canine Statue of Liberty ready to welcome anyone who entered the territory, no matter what their motives.

  As summer came to an end, I was starting to feel stifled. Dr. Gourson had recommended exercise, saying it was good for both me and the baby, so I came home one day with a tennis racket and told Cary I wanted to find a teacher.

  “Silly child,” he said, though there was a noticeable deficit of silliness to be found anywhere. “I don’t like it for you. With tennis, you only use one side of your body. It throws you out of balance, physically and mentally.” When I protested that Billie Jean King struck me as an overall well-balanced person, Cary pointed to his temples and said, “You see these gray hairs? Gray is the color of wisdom. I’ve been around a lot longer than you, Dyan, and I’ve learned a few things.” Our age difference had never come up before we were married, but since our wedding, Cary had begun pointing to his wise gray temples with increasing frequency.

  The consensus of Mary, Addie, and the rest of the sisterhood could be summed up by that familiar refrain: “Once the baby comes, everything will be fine.” Mary was of the opinion that more men than not went through a pretty difficult adjustment period when fatherhood loomed the first time around. Conveniently, she said, it lasted just about nine months. “I’ve experienced it more than once. Right up to when the baby is born, you’d think the husband is planning his own disappearance in the Andes. Then when the baby arrives, he’ll be so proud you’d think he’d brought the child to term himself.”

  A couple of aspects of this rang true. I had never really pondered our age difference—Cary to me was timeless and ageless—but he was going to be sixty-two a few weeks before the baby was due. He didn’t look it and he didn’t act it, but the fact was Cary had spent nearly sixty-two years not being a father, so becoming one sure had to be an adjustment.