Dear Cary - Dyan Cannon [70]
I scripted the scene in my head:
I’m sorry, Dyan. Our situation has become untenable. There are things you want from me that I can never give you, and I refuse to keep taking advantage of you . . . Oh, and Leslie Caron and I are going to move into a bungalow in Fiji and have thirty children. We hope you’ll come and visit.
Oy!
I heard a crash in the parking court and then a nasty metal-on-concrete scraping sound. A car door opened and slammed. I looked out the window and saw Cary surveying the damage to his silver Rolls-Royce. He’d driven into one of the concrete pillars in the parking court. There was a gash in the front quarter panel, and the paint was badly scratched. Cary kicked the door, walked a few paces, kicked the trash can . . . then he got back in the car and threw it into reverse with a screech. He backed into the street. A horn blew and tires squealed. He threw it into drive and pulled into a parking space. Then he got out and started stomping up the stairs to my apartment. Cary Grant is stomping, I thought. Cary Grant was the most graceful man who ever trod the earth, and he was stomping. Clomp-clomp-clomp up the steps. Bang-bang-bang on the door. I opened it and braced myself.
He stood there with his hands thrust into his pockets—another thing he never normally did—biting down hard on his lower lip. I could practically see green sparks shooting out of his eyes.
“What is it?” I asked.
Cary shut the door behind him. A low growl emanated from his throat. Not a grrrrr; a growl. He was acting positively deranged.
“Is everything okay?” I said, trying again.
“No, everything is not okay!” he snapped. He crossed to the window and let out kind of a karate-chop yelp.
“Cary, are you going to talk to me?”
“Actually, no—no I’m not,” he said. He then turned, flung the door shut behind him, and ran down the corridor.
I watched from the window as he got into his battered Rolls, backed over the trash can lid, and pulled into the street. More tires screeched. He lurched to a halt, and then peeled off.
My imagination was having a tea party for every single catastrophe that might have occurred. Had something happened to Elsie? I thought about calling Maggie and Eric, but I didn’t want to alarm them for nothing. Maybe Cary had had some terrible financial setback. Or . . . he’d mentioned recently that he was due for his annual physical. Maybe that was it . . . had he been diagnosed with some terrible disease? I thought about calling Stanley Fox. But even if Stanley knew, he wouldn’t divulge anything. I tried to settle down and watch television, but my head was spinning with dreadful possibilities.
The hours dragged by. Later that night, I sat in front of the TV, massaging my gums, per my dentist’s orders, with the little rubber nub on the base of the toothbrush handle. I had a little itch in my ear, and I scratched it with the nub. After a few minutes, I realized I couldn’t hear the TV all that well. I looked down at my toothbrush and realized the little red nub was gone. But I found it—in my ear. I tried to dig it out with my pinky but only managed to push it in deeper. Then the phone rang. It was Cary, but I couldn’t hear him very well. Only well enough to tell that he was still agitated.
“Let me switch ears,” I said. “I can’t hear out of this one. There.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know that little red rubber thingie on your toothbrush you’re supposed to use on your gums? I’ve got one stuck in my ear.”
“Really? It won’t come out?”
“No. It’s in there really deep.”
Cary was on the case. His tone shifted to dispassionate medical practitioner. My predicament provided a face-saving opportunity for both of us. “Get in the shower, make the water as hot as you can, and let it run in your ear. Then tip your head and give yourself a few hard whacks. That ought to dislodge it.”
I gave it a try and called him back. “It didn’t work. It’s still stuck.