Dear Cary - Dyan Cannon [21]
I’d assumed we were alone in the house, but a very proper lady of indeterminate age appeared and nodded hello. Cary introduced me to Helen, his live-in cook and housekeeper. Helen, who was also English, announced that dinner would be served in twenty minutes.
“Just enough time for a little serenade!” Cary said. He plopped himself down on the piano bench and launched into Cole Porter’s “You’re the Top.” Cary had played Cole Porter in Night and Day. What I didn’t remember is how well the man could sing. I applauded and begged for an encore. Cary obliged until Helen announced that dinner was ready.
“Good stuff!” Cary said. He motioned for me to follow him, straight through the dining room—and into his bedroom.
“That,” he said, indicating the far side of the bed, “is your side. And this is my side.” His side was the one close to the door.
MY SIDE? HIS SIDE? WE’VE GOT SIDES?
Before I could get a word in, Cary turned on the TV and flopped back on his side of the bed, propping himself up with pillows, his long legs stretched out in front of him. He patted my side of the bed. “Come on,” he said. “I won’t bite.”
I climbed aboard. I was glad I’d worn slacks. And clean socks.
Dr. Kildare was playing. “I just love this show,” he said.
At that moment, Helen stepped into the room with a giant silver tray in her arms. “Just relax and stretch your legs out, dear,” she instructed me, rather like she was about to perform surgery.
I guess I was a little jumpy, because I did just the opposite—jerked my knees up just as Helen was lowering the tray onto my lap, flipping the tray into the air and watching a hail of silverware, crystal, china, and food fly everywhere. I was mortified! I scooted off the bed and started scraping food off the floor with my hands. I looked up to see Cary peeking over the edge of the bed. “You don’t want to put Helen out of a job, do you?” I slowly let go of the shard of china I was holding.
In a flash, Helen had made the disaster disappear and was lowering a new tray onto my lap, fortunately without further incident. Now I began eating my way through the strangest dinner date of my life, and I couldn’t have told you what we ate five minutes after Helen took away the trays. The whole situation made me feel like Alice in Wonderland. No, I felt like Diane Friesen from West Seattle in Cary Grant’s bedroom, watching Dr. Kildare on Cary Grant’s TV, on Cary Grant’s bed, with nothing but a Cary Grant–imagined line separating us. What kind of looking glass had I stepped through? I felt like I was walking through a hall of funhouse mirrors, each reflecting its own scenario. Dr. Kildare burbled in the background like it was coming from an echo chamber. I didn’t hear a word of it. I was too busy daydreaming about how the name “Dyan Grant” would sound. But I stopped myself short. Don’t get carried away, Dyan!
After everything had been cleared, Cary reached into the drawer of his nightstand. “Have you ever had a Picnic bar?” he asked.
“A what bar?”
“A Picnic bar. They’re what makes life worth living for every English schoolboy. They’re positively unbeatable!” It was made of milk chocolate, peanuts, raisins, and caramel. Watching Cary peel away the wrapper, I could almost see a little boy. It was touching and sweet beyond words. And astonishingly opposite to the kind of wild debauchery people imagined took place in Hollywood.
After a while, we went to the yard and gave Gumper some doggie treats. “Cary, with all of the TV shows you see, what made you call me after that episode of Malibu Run?”
“Something in your spirit.”
“What was it?”
“I sensed there was a part of you that was slightly untamed.”
“And you wanted to tame it?”
“Dyan, I wouldn’t ever want to see that part of you tamed.”
“That’s a good thing,” I said. Our eyes locked. After a moment, I said, “I think I’d better be going. And besides that, you’ve got an early morning.”
“I can’t wait ’til I retire,” he said. “I’m going to sleep until noon every day, and do nothing but watch TV and stuff myself with