Dear Cary - Dyan Cannon [73]
A man who, if the hair incident was any indication, was acting like he was my father.
Outwardly, things seemed normal enough as we took several trips in that three-month interval between our engagement and our wedding. We went to England twice, for soccer and to see Wimbledon, where we sat in the players’ seats, and we made some closer-to-home excursions to Santa Barbara and Palm Springs.
When we were alone, though, Cary’s emotional presence was like a radio signal in a storm. Since our engagement, he’d been fading in and out. We’d be on the plane or in the car, going to or coming from one destination or another, and he’d seem a million miles away. I also thought it was curious that he hadn’t gotten me a ring, but that was hardly my main concern . . . what bothered me most was the frequent criticism. He would find something wrong with my appearance. He would object to my makeup, sometimes intensely, and two or three times he berated me for wearing blush or eye shadow when I wasn’t wearing any. Other times, when I dared to put on a touch, he didn’t say a word. Sometimes it was my posture, or how I dressed, or just the expression on my face. It was tiring, and I was wearing myself out trying to buff out any blemish in my overall presentation that he might take aim at.
Finally, I knew I had to say something to him. We were having dinner at Hoi Ping, and instead of the usual relish he had for the food, he was picking listlessly at his plate.
“Cary, if I ask you something, will you give me an honest answer?”
A shadow crossed his face. It lasted just for a split second, and to anyone else it would have been imperceptible, but it was something I’d developed the ability to detect.
“Of course.”
“Have you had a change of heart?”
He sighed and took my hand. “I’m sorry. I know I’ve been rather remote lately.”
“Honestly, you seem to drift out into space. It’s like you’re not here. And when you are, you criticize me so much of the time. I mean, nothing seems the same.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Okay, for instance, what happened to the Daily Word? Remember how we’d listen to it together every day and talk forever about the ideas?”
“Dyan, nothing’s changed.”
“But we used to spend hours just laughing and playing word games with each other. Cary, please be honest with me. If this doesn’t feel right, then now is the time to tell me. We haven’t made the wedding arrangements yet. In fact, hardly anybody knows we’re engaged. And”—I held up my left hand—“I’m not even wearing a ring.”
“Dyan, that’s not it.”
“Then what is it, Cary? I want this to be a real two-way relationship. If something’s bothering either one of us, we should be able to talk about it with each other. That’s the kind of marriage I want. I sure hope you do too. Because I couldn’t live with it the way it’s been.”
“I haven’t talked about it because I didn’t understand it myself until a few days ago.”
“Is it me?”
“No, no, and no. It’s this film. Walk, Don’t Run. It’s everything to do with film in general. I’ve wavered and wavered. I think this could well be the last movie I ever make.”
“You’ve said that about your last half-dozen films.”
“It’s different this time. There’s nothing wrong with the script, but I’ve had trouble making myself commit to it. You know, I’m winding down something like thirty-two years of moviemaking. It’s the longest marriage I’ve ever had, and it seems like an old friend that I don’t have much in common with anymore. So it’s like a divorce. I guess I’m having separation anxiety.”
“I don’t like that word, ‘divorce.’ ”
“Dyan, you’ll never have to hear it applied to us. And when I wrap this picture up, you’ll have me all to yourself. I’ll be an old codger in a bathrobe and slippers, shuffling around and boring Gumper to death with my philosophical rambling. And rooting through drawers for Picnic bars.”
I smiled. I felt relieved. Really, it made perfect sense. Whether or not Walk, Don’t Run would prove to be Cary’s last film,