Dear Cary - Dyan Cannon [26]
“I just don’t want to. I’m sorry.”
He stood there for a long time, looking disappointed, but like a spoiled kid who wasn’t getting his way. “Well, I’m sorry, too,” he said finally, then turned around and let himself out of the apartment.
I went to the kitchen counter and looked down at my pathetic tuna-fish sandwich. I smashed it with the flat of my hand and sat down and cried. Then I washed my face and without much conviction told my reflection in the mirror that I’d done the right thing.
The phone rang again. It was Victor, whispering, “He left, but he came back. He would like to speak to you.”
“All right then.”
“Dyan,” he said. “I was halfway home when I realized I don’t have your new phone number.”
“Good,” I said. “That way Clifford Odets won’t have it either.”
I hung up.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Nobody’s Perfect
“Honey, you can’t expect perfection from anyone,” my mother said. “Not even from Cary Grant.”
Three days after Cary’s unannounced visit, Mom had parachuted in to rescue me.
“This isn’t about perfection, Mom. He gave my number to a friend of his, like I was a bottle he could just pass around for everyone to take a swig. It really makes me wonder about his mental state.”
“His mental state isn’t a big mystery. He was jealous. Jealousy is the most useless emotion in the world, but guess what: three-quarters of the human race are eaten up with it.”
“Then what do I do about it? Something inside of me is really questioning his behavior.”
“Don’t make more out of this than it is.”
“I don’t know what it is, Mom, but something’s off. I can feel it.”
“Something is always ‘off’ with everybody most of the time. When my mother used to say ‘nobody’s perfect,’ I thought she meant they didn’t rinse out their coffee cup. What ‘nobody’s perfect’ really means is that everybody has some kind of character flaw to deal with. It’s going to be that way with anyone. You just have to decide if it’s worth it or not.”
She looked at me and shook her head. This was my dear, sweet mother, Clara Portnoy Friesen, who had seen real suffering in Russia. A little romantic turmoil did not add up to tragedy in her book, but she empathized. “Okay, time to stop moping!” she said. “Let’s go out and smell the roses.”
I took her to Frascati for lunch, and then we went to have our hair done. My mother was quite young when she had me, and now, barely in her midforties, she was still extraordinarily beautiful. Her long hair fell in natural black ringlets, and the other hairdressers kept coming over just to touch it.
Mom was serious about smelling the roses. On our way home, she insisted on buying flowers for the apartment. When we got back, she set to trimming the stems as we ran through our dinner options. We’d just settled on Bob’s Big Boy when Stan, the night doorman, called to tell me I had a delivery.
“I’ll pick it up when I come back from dinner,” I said.
“But it’s food, Miss Cannon. And it’s hot.”
Moments later, a young Chinese man was at the door with two large paper bags. “Greetings from Hoi Ping!” he said, bowing and handing me the bags. “Mr. Ling send his happiness regards!” I passed the bags to Mom and fished a tip out of my purse as the aroma of a Chinese feast bloomed throughout the apartment. Mother picked a note from the top of one of the containers. “It doesn’t taste the same without you,” Cary had written.
My mother took a long look at me. The note had touched her, but she kept her opinion to herself. We dug in and stuffed ourselves, then we collapsed in the living room, full and happy.
“Mom, what do you really think of marriage?” I asked. We were totally relaxed and lounging.
“Depends on whose marriage,” she said.
“I know you and Daddy had some big battles. How did you hang in there?”
“Simple. We love each other.”
“I love Cary. But is love really enough?”
“Not without patience. And forgiveness.”
“Mom, will you marry me?”
“On this and every day, honey.”
In the morning, as penance for overeating the previous night, we took Bangs for a long walk. When we got back, Victor opened the door with his usual aplomb,