Dear Cary - Dyan Cannon [52]
I left the next day, feeling a pang of longing for him before I even got on the plane. Parting was agonizing for both of us, and this good-bye was the worst yet. In a few days, I’d be on the road with the cast and crew of How to Succeed for a solid year, and we knew that we wouldn’t be together very much in the months to come. We were both anxious about the separation. Had I made the wrong decision?
Cary sent a telegram the morning after I got to New York: “Silly Child! How is it that you are there and I am here? . . . and why didn’t you tell me yesterday was your special day? Silly Child. Happy Birthday! Happy Birthday, Dear Beautiful Girl. You are missed. Love, Cary.”
The next week, we hit the road and I was doing what I felt I was born to do: acting, dancing, singing, and entertaining people. The road was a magical thing, but it could turn on you if you didn’t take care of yourself. I loved the lights, the audiences, and the excitement, but even though I rarely had a moment to myself, it could be lonely. Having Bangs with me was a saving grace, but Bangs minus Cary . . . our family wasn’t complete.
Cary must have sensed this because he churned out letters with fierce intensity, writing at least once a day, sometimes twice. He was still in France, where he was now shooting Charade, and I savored his letters, word by word. I wasn’t as good about writing as Cary was, but he was understanding about it. “Don’t worry about writing,” he said in one of his letters, “whether you do or not—daily; if you do you do, if you don’t you don’t. It should not become a duty—unless pleasurable. It’s a joy for me because it fills the moments that I’m without your company.”
In his letters, his English stiff upper lip softened and he expressed many things that he kept hidden when I was with him: loneliness, sadness, wistfulness . . . illness, even.
Your notes keep me happier than I would otherwise feel. Thank you. The countryside all around—is snow covered—icicle-hung and mysterious—but my rooms are warm and I must take advantage of this quietude, and day without filming, to write. I think of you throughout . . .
At this precise moment life is a dreary business—I’ve been awake most of the night—acheing (that’s ACHEING) after days of fight scenes which will take at least a minute of film . . . And there’s my aching heart too. In ten days only one letter—your first from Cleveland on arrival there . . . yesterday when I arrived at the studio eager and certain—I couldn’t believe the nothing that was before my eyes on the desk top—and then, still, none again at evening’s delivery. It is early, nine a.m., and I am going to the studio to loop—there must be a letter—I’m dispirited enough. Please undispirit me. Love C
Dyan—If I’m not writing much these days, it’s not because you didn’t cross my mind . . . for actually you don’t CROSS my mind . . . you’re THERE . . . IN it . . . So long!
YOU’re THE girl.
Cary
A telegram from Rene, Cary’s driver in France:
NO LETTER FROM YOU MR. GRANT WORRY PLEASE WRITE SOON
RENE.
Later, in another letter, while we were playing in Columbus, Ohio, he wrote: “I hope you like Columbus—he discovered America. I discovered you. And you UNcovered me . . . and I’m not a bit cold. I like it I like it.”
My schedule made it hard for me to write consistently. Once Cary had gotten back to Los Angeles, I wrote notes in batches and sent them to Dorothy, Cary’s secretary, and Helen, the maid, with instructions to place them strategically around the house: in the refrigerator, taped to the bathroom mirror, or on the TV set, even on his pillow. I wanted him to feel my presence, and he’d call overwhelmed with delight whenever he found one, which was just about daily.
There were always a lot of guys buzzing around the production. When you’re in the spotlight, people project their fantasies onto you. Many men sent me flowers many nights, made backstage visits, and asked for dates. The attention was fun, but I always made it clear that I wasn’t available. Cary