Dear Cary - Dyan Cannon [45]
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?”