Dear Cary: My Life With Cary Grant (11 page)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Game Time

W
hen 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.

“I
n 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.

“W
hat 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.

After acting class the next night, Mary, my acting partner and one of my few married friends, asked if something was wrong.

“Cary doesn't want to get married,” I said. “But I don't know if he really means it. Then again he told me flat-out.
Twice.
”

“You need to move on.”

“But—”

“But nothing. He spelled it out for you. Be grateful he was honest. Now you have to deal with it. You need to ask yourself what
you
want.”

“I want him.”

“Without marriage?”

That stopped me cold. No, I didn't want him without marriage. I wanted it all. “I don't know what to do,” I told her.

“Yes you do,” she said. “Maybe if he'd never been married, you could bring him around. But you owe it to yourself to take him at his word. Do whatever you have to do to move on. Think about
your
dreams.”

I didn't want to think about
my
dreams. I wanted to think about
our
dreams.

On Cary's end, the line went cold for a solid week. Mary was right. I had to move on, and the easiest way to accomplish that was to put some distance between myself and Cary. I called Addie and asked her to find out what auditions were opening up in New York. She called back promptly with news of a part in
The Fun Couple,
a new play starring Jane Fonda that would open in New York on Broadway. But . . . I'd have to go to New York immediately for the audition. All the better, I thought. “And, Addie, set me up for anything else that looks good,” I said. “I want to be in New York for a while.”