Dear Cary - Dyan Cannon [24]
“That must have had a huge impact on your family,” he said.
“Of course. Did your family experience any hatred to that degree . . . because of your heritage?” I asked.
“It was rough where they came from and rough where they got to.”
“What about for you?” I asked.
“I try to look to the future, hoping that one day all of those divisions will no longer exist.”
“That is beautiful,” I said.
Clifford and I talked for a while longer, until Cary rejoined us. He pointed to his watch; it was almost midnight. We said our good nights and headed out the door, arm in arm.
“If you’re not completely drained,” Cary asked, “why don’t you come to the house for a nightcap?”
“Uh, okay,” I said. It came out of me before I really thought it through, though. It had been a great evening, but I was ready to call it a night.
Since we both had our cars, I followed Cary. We drove past the Beverly Hills Hotel and headed up Benedict Canyon. As we came to his street, he turned and slowed, waiting for me to follow. I was about to, but . . .
I changed my mind.
For some reason, it just didn’t feel right.
I glanced up Cary’s street and saw his brake lights flare. I figured Cary would just understand that I was tired and probably call after I got back to Addie’s.
I had done so much talking at the party that I’d hardly eaten. Once home, I wolfed down a couple of stale Twinkies and hit the hay. I fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.
I didn’t think about the fact that Cary didn’t call that night, but I did get a little chill when he didn’t call the next morning. I listened to the Daily Word anyway then took Bangs for a short walk and hurried back in case he did call. I was getting ready for an audition later in the day when the phone finally rang.
It was Cary, putting on the voice of Clifford Odets.
“Hello, this is Clifford Odets.”
“And this is Greta Garbo!” I said, laughing, and hung up.
The phone rang again. This time I answered, “Strategic Revolutionary Command!” and hung up again. I figured Cary would drop the game the third time around.
“Is this Dyan?” the man asked. Whoops. Suddenly it sounded like Clifford Odets.
“It is.”
“We met last night at my dinner party.”
“Is this really Clifford Odets?”
“It is,” he said, echoing my line.
“Oh, Clifford! I’m sorry! I thought it was Cary, pretending to be you. How did you get my number?”
“From Cary, of course.”
“From Cary?” I said. “Oh, of course. It’s nice of you to call.” I was perplexed and trying to puzzle this out. Maybe Clifford was planning a surprise party for Cary. Or, we’d talked about him visiting Sandy Meisner’s acting workshop. Maybe he was calling for a schedule. That had to be it.
And then he asked:
“I was wondering if you’d have dinner with me later this week. Are you free Thursday?”
Whoa, Silver! Was he asking me on a date? Like a boy-meets-girl date? I almost put the question to him point-blank, but then I laid my bet on it being a date-date. It was the slightly querulous tone of his voice that tipped me off. Didn’t he know I was dating Cary? No! Cary had not told him that I was dating Cary!! When Clifford figured this out, he might very well feel like an idiot. I already felt like an idiot. The jury in my head acquitted Mr. Odets on all counts of untoward behavior. The posse in my mind was rustling up a lynch mob for Mr. Grant.
“Thank you for asking, Mr. Odets,” I managed to say more or less gracefully. “It’s so nice of you to ask. But I am seeing someone.” (Like the man who introduced us?)
“Oh, I didn’t know that. Well, the invitation is open if anything changes.”
“I appreciate that,” I said.
If Clifford had asked him for my number, Cary had to have known the reason. It was obvious. Clifford was a gentleman. He would have asked if I were available. Why would Cary do a thing like that? Was that how these guys played it? They pursue you, earn your trust, and then pimp you out to one of their buddies? Not me, buster. No way. I wasn’t anybody’s flavor of the month. Not even Cary Grant’s.
I called my mother and told her the whole story. I was