Dear Cary - Dyan Cannon [8]
Mr. Grant followed this with interest. “That’s lovely! I’m sure your father admired the Jewish code of moral discipline, even though he wasn’t religious himself.”
“Well, that was before the—let’s call it a plot twist.” This was getting awfully personal, but Mr. Grant was such an engaged listener that I let down my guard.
“Do tell.”
It was kind of a peculiar story. Dad came from a big family, and as the story goes, his brothers all found Jesus on the same day, though I never heard a clear explanation as to how that happened. But one day when I was about six, I came home to find Dad and his brothers in the living room on their knees. At first I thought they were playing jacks. Then Dad looked up at me and asked me to get on my knees and to pray with them. My devoutly atheist father had found religion.
I was a little shocked, and as young as I was, I knew this was not going to make things any easier for Mom.
“Did you get on your knees?” Mr. Grant asked.
“Yes, I did. I wanted to make my daddy happy, but I was afraid it would upset my mother. And it did.”
“How did things go from there?”
“There was a lot of conflict,” I said. “There was a big tug of war for our souls. Daddy drove us to temple every Sunday morning, singing ‘Jesus Loves Me, This I Know’ in the car. Then I’d go into Hebrew school and sing it for the rabbi. That caused quite a stir.”
Mr. Grant laughed, and I went on. It was funny in hindsight, but my dad’s conversion put a real strain on my family. Mom had married out of her faith because Dad agreed to let her raise the children as Jews. Then suddenly he was as passionate about Christianity as she was about Judaism.
“I can see how that could give you religious whiplash,” he said. “It’s fascinating how people have so many different ways of searching for God.”
“It should be easier than all that,” I said.
“I’ve always been fascinated by religion.”
“Any particular religion?”
“No,” he said. “I’m just looking for answers.”
“Really? Me too!”
“Answers to what?” he asked me, point-blank.
“Just about everything, really. But especially about that thing called ‘God.’ ”
“It’s the only question that really interests me anymore,” he said.
“Really?”
“Yes. Because it’s what all the other questions lead to anyway.”
I went on to tell him performing was in my blood. I was a five-year-old playwright, set designer, ticket seller, and director, and of course I played all the roles myself. Naturally, I was in all the school plays, and senior year one of my teachers prodded me to try out for Miss West Seattle, which was as quaintly geography-specific as its name suggests. Not surprisingly, my father loathed beauty pageants. He tried to discourage my acting, too, not because he disapproved, but because he knew it was a rough business and worried that I’d be disappointed.
“And have you been disappointed?” Mr. Grant asked.
“Oh, not at all!” I replied quickly. Then I met his gaze. “Have you?”
He laughed. “Go on,” he said. “This is wonderful.” But I noticed he didn’t answer the question.
“My father wanted me to be a dietitian,” I said. “But he finally accepted that I had performing in my blood. What did your parents think of your career choice?” I asked.
Mr. Grant grinned. “I’m sure they figured there’d been a mix-up in the maternity ward,” he said lightly. “There was nothing in the gene pool to indicate their spawn would join the carnival, put on whiteface, and walk on stilts,” he said. “Have you ever walked on stilts, Dyan?”
“I don’t believe I have.”
“You should. It gives you a very different view of the world.” He went on to talk about his lean, early years in New York, living in a small room at the National Vaudeville Artists Club, and his first big break, a role in Blonde Venus, opposite Marlene Dietrich. “I thought