Free Dear Cary: My Life With Cary Grant by Dyan Cannon Page A

the door too.
    Cary was waiting for me outside Odets’s house. As we stepped inside, I took in a room that was positively sticky with fame. There was Frank Sinatra, Danny Kaye, and an older man I didn’t recognize whom Cary introduced as Howard Hughes, with whom he was friends.
    â€œI thought Howard Hughes was a hermit,” I whispered as we walked away.
    â€œI wouldn’t call him a hermit,” Cary said. “He just generally prefers to keep as much distance between himself and the human race as possible.”
    For reasons not apparent to me in the moment, the most memorable part of the evening, though, would be meeting the host. Odets was about Cary’s age; they’d been friends for a long time. Clifford was not someone you’d pick out of a crowd as being anything special, but once you started talking to him, his brilliance was electrifying. He had a receding but untamable thatch of wiry brown hair, sensuous lips, and a piercing gaze. He was not handsome, but as your eyes warmed to his countenance, he became beautiful.
    Cary had described Clifford as a “leftist intellectual,” and I wasn’t really sure what I’d find to talk about with him. But after Cary introduced us and then went off to greet some other friends, Clifford and I connected over something very basic: our Jewish heritage. Clifford, too, came from Russian-Jewish stock; his masterpiece Awake and Sing! followed the tribulations of a Jewish immigrant family in New York who faced grinding poverty. When I told him my mother’s family had left Russia to escape the pogroms, and that my great-grandmother had been killed in one of the waves of violence, his heavy eyebrows knitted together with interest.
    â€œThat must have had a huge impact on your family,” he said.
    â€œOf course. Did your family experience any hatred to that degree . . . because of your heritage?” I asked.
    â€œIt was rough where they came from and rough where they got to.”
    â€œWhat about for you?” I asked.
    â€œI try to look to the future, hoping that one day all of those divisions will no longer exist.”
    â€œThat is beautiful,” I said.
    Clifford and I talked for a while longer, until Cary rejoined us. He pointed to his watch; it was almost midnight. We said our good nights and headed out the door, arm in arm.
    â€œIf you’re not completely drained,” Cary asked, “why don’t you come to the house for a nightcap?”
    â€œUh, okay,” I said. It came out of me before I really thought it through, though. It had been a great evening, but I was ready to call it a night.
    Since we both had our cars, I followed Cary. We drove past the Beverly Hills Hotel and headed up Benedict Canyon. As we came to his street, he turned and slowed, waiting for me to follow. I was about to, but . . .
    I changed my mind.
    For some reason, it just didn’t feel right.
    I glanced up Cary’s street and saw his brake lights flare. I figured Cary would just understand that I was tired and probably call after I got back to Addie’s.
    I had done so much talking at the party that I’d hardly eaten. Once home, I wolfed down a couple of stale Twinkies and hit the hay. I fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.
    I didn’t think about the fact that Cary didn’t call that night, but I did get a little chill when he didn’t call the next morning. I listened to the Daily Word anyway then took Bangs for a short walk and hurried back in case he did call. I was getting ready for an audition later in the day when the phone finally rang.
    It was Cary, putting on the voice of Clifford Odets.
    â€œHello, this is Clifford Odets.”
    â€œAnd this is Greta Garbo!” I said, laughing, and hung up.
    The phone rang again. This time I answered, “Strategic Revolutionary Command!” and hung up again. I figured Cary would drop the game the third time around.
    â€œIs this