Dear Cary: My Life With Cary Grant (15 page)

“Y
EEEEOWWWW-WHOO-WHOO-WHOO-WHOO!” That was Cary.

“YEE HAAAWWW-YIPPIE TI YI YAY!” That was Dad.

They had just emerged from the thermal spring and plunged into the cold pool. The surface of the water shimmered in the moonlight.

Cary counted seconds: “One thousand, two thousand, three thousand . . .”

Dad: “Fifteen! Fifteen seconds or bust! Submerge!”

Simultaneously, their two heads disappeared beneath the surface of the pool.

My mother and I looked at each other in sheer amazement. They were like two ten-year-old boys who'd become vacation playmates.

Now they both sprang out of the cold pool.

Dad: “Aaaahhhh-oooooooh!”

Cary: “Grrrrrrrrrrr! Ruff-ruff! Ruff-ruff.”

Mom clicked her tongue. “Your father has turned into a coyote and Cary has turned into a German shepherd. I think this means they like each other.”

“I think they do,” I said. “It's great, isn't it?”

“As long as they don't turn into werewolves. These men, I tell you. Two women like each other, they have a glass of wine and talk about their families. Two men like each other, they grow paws and tails. It's good, though. Men, they don't make so many friends the way women do. It's harder for them.”

The next morning, Cary and Dad were having coffee at the patio table. Mom and I were lounging in the sun a few yards away. Mom pointed across the pool to them.

“Dyan, I want you to take a look,” she said.

“What am I looking at?”

“Did you ever notice this?”

“What?”

“How much they look alike. They could be brothers.”

Mom was right. Now that I could finally see them side by side, the two of them bore an
uncanny
resemblance to each other.

“You're right, they could be,” I said. “The two handsomest men in the world.”

“I
'm madly in love with your family, Dyan,” Cary said. He had to leave now, and I was walking him to his car. “I knew what kind of man your father was when he shook my hand.” He flicked his wrist as a testimony to the firmness of Dad's handshake. “It's easy to tell why people respect him so much. He's good-hearted, honest, and forthright.”

“I'm really happy the two of you met,” I said.

“I've got an idea. You've got another few weeks left before you can audition again. Why don't we go to Bristol and give Elsie another shot? At the very least we can catch some football and see what's playing at the Hippodrome.”

“I'd love to,” I said.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The Dismantling Effect

U
nfortunately, the closer we got to Bristol, the worse Cary's mood got. My instinct was to draw him out. The deeper he sank into his funk, the harder it would be for him to climb out of it, I thought.

“Picnic bar for your thoughts,” I said.

He forced a smile. “I doubt that would be a fair trade,” he said. “Nothing too dazzling going on in this old noggin.”

“I'm not looking for ‘dazzling.' I'm looking for ‘honest.' You know you always get like this when you're going to see Elsie.”

“What can I say, Dyan? No matter what I do, she makes me feel rather squalid. That's all.”

“Cary, look at it this way. Instead of focusing on how she makes
you
feel, think about
her.
”

“What more can I do? I've gone to all kinds of lengths to make her feel good, and she doesn't want any part of it.”

“It's not about
stuff,
Cary—coats and jewels and all that. Have you just put your arms around her and told her you love her and held her close?”

“She won't let me do that.”

“Have you tried?”

Cary sighed. Then he took my hand and held it quietly for the rest of the trip.

T
he buildup to my first face-to-face encounter with Elsie had led me to expect . . . I'm not sure what, actually. A wicked old crone stirring a pot of broth made from human heads? Not surprisingly, though, our first meeting was anticlimactic. She was small boned, with gray hair that appeared to have been done fairly recently and a ramrod posture worthy of a West Point cadet. She said, “Nice to meet you,” without displaying any particular interest in me—or in Cary, for that matter.

Lunch was a nervous succession of random remarks that Cary had hoped would spark Elsie's interest, but nothing really did. Whenever she fell back into silence, which was for most of the hour, I would rush in to fill the void, echoing and expanding on whatever Cary had said. It was like trying to push a boulder uphill.

Before we'd gone to pick her up at the Chesterfield, the comfortable elder home where Cary had situated her (it was what today we refer to as “assisted living”), I tried to think of something I could give Elsie to break the ice, not just between the two of us, but between her and Cary, too. Browsing in a drugstore, I thought I'd hit on the perfect thing: a manicure kit. It had a nail file, clippers, scissors, some moisturizing cream, and two small bottles of nail polish, along with polish remover. I thought it might be nice to do her nails. With all the tension, though, I'd forgotten the nail kit in my purse when Cary walked her inside. I didn't worry, though, because I knew I'd be seeing her again.

The next morning, we had breakfast with Maggie and Eric. The weather was mild and sunny and Cary thought it might be nice if we took Elsie for a drive. But he came out of the home without her and came to open my door.

“She doesn't feel like going for a drive, but she'd like to see you for a bit.”

“Me? You mean, just me and her?”

“Yes,” Cary said. “Don't look so frightened. She doesn't bite. Not
hard,
anyway. Really, it's a good sign.” I hoped so. He seemed very pleased.

“What should I do with her? Should I take her for a walk?”

“I don't think so. Elsie's not much for walks. But ask her.”

I remembered the nail polish. Okay, I'd give her a manicure.

“I'm going into town for a bit to place a call,” he said. “I'll be back in an hour.”

She was in her room sitting bolt upright, as rigid as a post in a straight-backed wooden chair. She nodded to the only other chair in the room and asked me to bring it closer. We sat face-to-face, our knees almost touching.

“You're very pretty, but you're too young for Cary,” she said. Oh, we were off to a
great
start.

“I brought you a little present,” I said, reaching into my purse for the nail kit. “How would you like a manicure?”

“If you like,” she said.

Whew. That was better. I got to work. I took her hands and filed her nails, which were a bit ragged. Then I rubbed some moisturizing lotion over both her hands and massaged them. I glanced up and noticed that her mouth had relaxed. Well, that was
halfway
to a smile! She seemed to be enjoying it. When that was finished, I wiped the excess lotion from her fingertips and then painted her nails. The polish was red—bright red. I liked the idea of bringing color back to Elsie, even if only on her nails. She watched placidly, or maybe just with detachment. When I finished, I pulled her arm gently out and flexed her hands back so she could see how pretty they looked.

“Get it off!” she screamed suddenly, yanking her hand away. “I hate it! Get it off!” Now she seized the bottle of polish and flung it across the room. It bounced against the white wall, splashing blood-red polish everywhere. The wall looked like someone had been shot standing in front of it.

“It's all right, Elsie. I have the polish remover right here. Just give me your hand.” I took three breaths and tried to keep from crying.

“I'm sorry,” I said when I'd finished. “I thought you'd like it.”

She glared at me in stony silence.

After what seemed like an eternity, Cary came back for me. “I gather the two of you have had quite a nice visit together,” he said. Obviously he hadn't noticed the red splatters against the wall. He squeezed Elsie's hand and gave her a peck on the cheek. “We'll be getting back now,” he told her.

“I'll walk out with you,” Elsie declared.

Elsie and I walked side by side through the hallway, with Cary following. The corridor was narrow, and a portly doctor was coming from the opposite direction. I gently tugged on Elsie's arm to pull her to my side of the hall. But to my surprise, she seized my arm and with what seemed like the physical strength of a lumberjack pulled me over to her side of the hall. I guess she had to be strong, physically and mentally, to have endured what she'd been through.

“So how did it
really
go?” Cary asked when we got to the car.

“Not great. I don't think she likes me.”

“Oh, she likes you,” he said. “She has never once asked to spend any time alone with any woman I've ever brought to meet her.”

If I were the only one of Cary's women Elsie had liked enough to be alone with, I hated to imagine what she'd have done with the others.

I've never thought of it before, but since that time I've never liked the sight of red nail polish.

“Y
ou could have told me you'd arranged this,” I told Cary.

“It's like leaping off the high dive, Dyan,” he said. “If you take too much time to think about it, you'll back out.”

I let out a long sigh. I'd been ambushed, and I didn't like it. It was our second day back in London from Bristol, and now I sat in the living room with Cary and his acid guru, Dr. Mortimer Hartman, the man who'd launched Cary's previous wife, Betsy Drake, into cosmic exploration, who then in turn got Cary involved. I was next in line.

“Cary, can I have a moment with you? Excuse us, Dr. Hartman.”

Cary and I stepped into the hall. “This isn't fair, Cary. This really upsets me. It's an obvious setup. I told you how I felt about this drug a long time ago. You know how sensitive I am. I can't even take an aspirin without feeling weird.” That was true. I hadn't even had a cup of coffee since I was in Portugal. One sip and I was like a Mexican jumping bean.

“Dyan, do you trust me the way I trust you?” he asked.

Bull's-eye.

“Do you think I would have asked Dr. Hartman to fly all the way to London if I didn't think this was important?”

“You shouldn't have asked him before you asked me. That's the point.”

“Dyan, if it weren't for LSD, you wouldn't be in my life,” he said. “Bottom line, I wouldn't have found the courage to open my heart to you and let you in.”

“That doesn't make sense, Cary.”

“Why?”

“You did LSD with Betsy for years and the two of you split. That's not a very good recruitment ad.”

“Betsy and I both evolved from the experience,” Cary said. “Unfortunately, it was in different directions.”

“Why would this be any different?”

“Because the first time I laid eyes on you, I felt a connection I have never felt before at any time in my life. Please trust me on this, Dyan. Please.”

I stopped. I looked at him. I said, “You don't play fair, Cary.”

I turned on my heel and went back to the living room. Cary followed. I looked at Dr. Hartman. With a silver fringe of hair circling his shiny pate, and horn-rimmed glasses, he was anything but a poster child for the counterculture.

“I'm not eager to do this, Dr. Hartman.”

“Talk to her, my wise mahatma.”

My wise mahatma
. I'd heard Cary refer to Dr. Hartman that way before. In Cary's eyes, the doctor was some sort of shaman.

“Cary has been a true pioneer in the uncharted territories of the psyche,” he said. He spoke softly, thoughtfully, and reassuringly.
Soothingly.
“I've learned much more from him than he's learned from me. He knows the particularities of the experience, Miss Cannon, and he believes you can reap huge rewards from it. That can't be said about everyone. I trust his judgment completely.”

I looked at Cary. Cary was looking at me . . . and beaming. Beaming with love, I thought. He leaned forward and took my hand. “Dear girl, if you had found the key to ultimate peace of mind, wouldn't you do anything to share it with me? I know you would. I know you want to get closer to God. This will do that.”

Dr. Hartman continued. “The drug has a dismantling effect. It can tear down our inner walls and help us look at the world, and ourselves, through new eyes. And everything you sense and see is a hundred times more vivid than usual.”

“But what is it about me you want to change?” I asked Cary.

“It's not about
change.
It's about growth, and living a fully realized life,” he answered.

“But I don't believe you have to take a drug to do that.”

He paused and said, “I'm thinking about our future. This is important to me.”

I only just hesitated and then turned to the
mahatma.
“Okay, Doctor, what's next?”

And so I did it. I gave in. Even though everything inside me told me to run for my life. I put myself in Cary's—and Dr. Hartman's—hands. Dr. Hartman held out a small dish with a tiny blue pill and told me to dissolve it under my tongue. I took it and hoped for the best.

And then I waited.

Nothing.

Dr. Hartman sat across from me with a notepad next to him.

“Why don't you tell me what you're feeling?” he said.

“I'm feeling like I just swallowed a blue pill and that I'm sitting in a room with two men.”

“Are you feeling anything at all?” Cary asked a few minutes later.

“I'm hungry.”

“I'll get you something,” Cary said, and he jumped to his feet like an attentive husband.

“No,” I said. “I'd like to move around a little. I'll get it myself.”

“Miss Cannon, it's better if you stay still,” Dr. Hartman said, but I was already out of there.

I went to the kitchen and looked in the refrigerator. There was a pound cake, and in the freezer was vanilla ice cream. I got myself a slice of cake and two scoops of ice cream. I took a few bites. Sweetness. Coldness. Then I noticed that I didn't
taste
sweetness and I didn't
experience
coldness. I
was
sweetness and coldness.

That was some pretty special ice cream and cake, I thought, as a giant red tulip bloomed from the palm of my hand. I took another spoonful of ice cream and the tulip went away. Then it came back. I heard footsteps. They were looking for me. I tiptoed out of the kitchen and squatted under the nook beneath the stairs. I didn't want them seeing me with the tulip shooting out of my hand. They might ask where I'd gotten it and I wouldn't be able to tell them. They might think I stole it.

Sometime later, it could have been seconds or it could have been hours, I contemplated just how fragile and beautiful a glass of milk is—now that I was one
.

I wanted to get up, but I didn't want to spill myself over the glass rim of myself. Then I heard footsteps.
No, no, no. Keep away. I don't want to be spilled . . .

Then I was back in the living room with Cary and Dr. Hartman.

“What are you feeling, Dyan?” Dr. Hartman asked.

I cocked my head and looked at him.

“What is it, Dyan?”

“Every time you speak, all these letters tumble out of your mouth.”

“How does that make you feel?”

“It's rude. They're getting on my blouse.” Then I must have scrunched up my eyes at him. “You'd better take your shirt off.”

“Why?”

“Because your muscles are growing so fast they're going to rip it.”

I looked at Cary. I suddenly saw him as a boy of ten, twelve, fourteen . . . It was as if the years had first rewound, and now they were fast-forwarding. Cary was turning into an old man in front of my eyes. His skin sagged, his eyelids drooped, his neck hung like tangled bedsheets . . .

“I don't think I like this,” I said. “Make it stop.”

Cary laid his hand softly on my shoulder, but it melted into yellow goo. “Dyan, this is your opportunity to ask the universe
anything you want. Now, try to calm down.
”

“Everyone, please remain calm,” I said.
Ask the universe something . . .
“Okay, universe. I want to ask you,
what is God?
”