Good Stuff Read online

  This Is a Borzoi Book

  Published by Alfred A. Knopf

  Copyright © 2011 by Jennifer Grant

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

  www.aaknopf.com

  Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Grant, Jennifer, 1966–

  Good stuff : a reminiscence of my father, Cary Grant / by Jennifer Grant.

  p. cm.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-59667-3

  1. Grant, Cary, 1904–1986. 2. Motion picture actors and actresses—United States—Biography. 3. Grant, Jennifer, 1966–

  I. Title.

  PN2287.G675G73 2011

  791.43′028′092—dc22

  {B} 2011000454

  Jacket photographs courtesy of the author.

  Jacket design by Carol Devine Carson.

  v3.1

  United as partners, my mother and father

  brought a child into the world. Perhaps

  a similar cocreative love leads me to write

  this book. In honor of Mom and Dad’s love,

  and in gratitude for her wisdom, this

  book is dedicated to my mother.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

  Chapter One · The Knee-Jerk “No”

  Chapter Two · Archives: The Time Machine

  Chapter Three · 9966: Freedom Has a Beautiful Structure

  Chapter Four · Butter and Margarine

  Chapter Five · Friendship Is Born of Respect

  Chapter Six · Friends and Travel

  Chapter Seven · Smart Women

  Chapter Eight · Racetrack

  Chapter Nine · Dodger Days

  Chapter Ten · Acting

  Chapter Eleven · Fame

  Chapter Twelve · Fame, the Lifestyle

  Chapter Thirteen · Society of Gossips—or, Mind Your Own Business

  Chapter Fourteen · Mom & Dad—Mad at the Cookies

  Chapter Fifteen · The Beautiful English Woman in Dad’s Jennifer-Blue Cadillac

  Chapter Sixteen · Dad and Barbara

  Chapter Seventeen · The Grants

  Chapter Eighteen · It’s Okay to Be a Pip

  Chapter Nineteen · Dad and Me: Slow Like Stew

  Chapter Twenty · Marbles Now or Horses Later?

  Chapter Twenty-One · The Phantom Pot Smoke

  Chapter Twenty-Two · Don’t Marry the Guy You Break the Bed With

  Chapter Twenty-Three · Polishing an Academy Award

  Chapter Twenty-Four · The Leach Potato Wart Cure

  Chapter Twenty-Five · My Father Was a Hottie

  Chapter Twenty-Six · Deeper Waters

  Chapter Twenty-Seven · Live with Death

  Acknowledgments

  List of Illustrations

  9966 Beverly Grove Drive, Beverly Hills, 1968

  Palm Springs desert, circa 1976

  Vail, Colorado, circa 1976

  Cary Grant and Jennifer, circa 1969

  Jennifer Grant on the bus to school, 1970

  Providence Saint Joseph Medical Center, Burbank, 1966

  Envelope with flower from Jennifer to her father, 1969

  Dad’s illustration of an upside-down “wabbut”

  On the front lawn of 9966 Beverly Grove Drive, Beverly Hills, 1969

  Elsie Leach, Bristol, England, circa 1968

  Elsie, Maggie, and Eric Leach, circa 1968

  Jennifer Grant’s fifth birthday candle, 1971

  Palm Springs, circa 1972

  Postcard from Dad, 1983

  Jennifer and her mother, Malibu, circa 1975

  Jennifer Grant’s turtle drawing

  The Hamptons, circa 1973

  Palm Springs, 1970s

  Madame Wu’s Garden, circa 1971

  Audrey Hepburn’s note to Grant, 1966

  Aunt Marje, with Cary and Barbara, circa 1980

  Grant’s telegram to Walter O’Malley

  Santa Monica, 1966

  L.A. Dodgers ticket stub, Father’s Day, 1969

  Telegram from Prince Rainier, 1978

  Grant’s private plane, circa 1971

  Telegram from Princess Grace, 1966

  New York, 1969

  Grant’s handmade “Alphabet Book,” circa 1972

  Letter to Jennifer on her eleventh birthday, 1977

  Letter from Grant, 1986

  Grant and Jennifer, circa 1970

  Willie Watson, circa 1973

  Dyan Cannon, circa 1967

  With President Gerald Ford, Century City, California, 1974 or 1975

  Jennifer Grant, circa 1970

  Note from Grant, circa 1978

  Grant and Barbara Harris, 1981

  Words of advice from Grant

  Grant, Barbara, and Jennifer under the Golden Gate Bridge, circa 1980

  Grant and Barbara’s wedding day, 1981

  Grant, Barbara, and Jennifer, 9966 Beverly Grove Drive, circa 1983

  Cary Grant’s letter to Jennifer, 1969

  Hollywood Park racetrack, circa 1978

  Grant’s letter marking Jennifer’s high school graduation, 1983

  Telegram from Grant, 1972

  Grant’s birthday cake, January 18, 1982

  Jennifer’s first drawing, Beverly Hills, 620 Foothill Road, 1967

  Letter from Grant, date unknown

  Quotations for Jennifer, date unknown

  Grant and Jennifer, on the steps leading to the lawn, 9966 Beverly Grove Drive

  Note from Grant, 1973

  Malibu’s “shrimp show” horse show, circa 1978 or 1979

  MAY 30, 1968 · 9966 BEVERLY GROVE DRIVE

  Daddy attempts to put Jennifer to sleep. Jennifer wants to “read” Newsweek magazine as Daddy reads a book. Two-year-old Jennifer’s words struggle to find their way out.

  JG: Bend it.

  CG: What, darling?

  JG: Bend the book.

  CG: One must always be careful with books and treasure them.

  JG (blurts out): I love you. Will you hold my hand? (then)… Always be careful with books. Always be careful with books.

  Chapter One

  The Knee-Jerk “No”

  A few years ago, I visited a dear friend of mine, Yehuda Berg, for counsel.

  “You should write a book about your father.” Right out of the clear blue sky. “No. I’m too private.” “Well, all right then, write it for yourself, but you need to write.” At home, for my eyes only, I wrote for an hour or so a day. Two days later, my friend Mark Teitelbaum called. “Hey, I just got back from New York. Met with a literary agent there about some stuff, have you ever considered?” “NO!” Damn it. Twice in a week. Once I could ignore. But two people, both recommending I write a book about Dad. That same week I was asked if I’d do a television special on Dad. Hmmm … Okay … here’s my out. Maybe spending the next few years of my life delving and examining isn’t necessary. I weighed the proposed television tribute. Alas, where Dad is concerned, it’s all or nothing for me. The privacy policy won out. No to the show. But for the first time, the possibility of a tribute lingered. The idea of writing … The moment my lips uttered no, my heart knew yes. Something about all that Dad gave me. I wrote every morning for a month.

  IN MY FATHER’S LATER YEARS he asked several times that I remember him the way I knew him. He said that after his death, people would talk. They would say “things” about him and he wouldn’t be there to defend himself. He beseechingly requested that I stick to what I k
new to be true, because I truly knew him. I promised him I would. I’ve easily kept that oath. Although many books about him have been published, I’ve read none. Not out of a lack of interest. I’m sure there are some wonderful things I could learn about my father, but most likely more misconceptions than are worth weeding through. To me, he was like a marvelous painting. All the art historians wish to break down the motives, and the scheme, and so on. I would rather know, as I do, his essence. I believe that at the heart of a person lies passion. For the last twenty years of his life, I was given the extraordinary privilege to experience the full, vital passion of his heart. Dad used the expression “good stuff” to declare happiness or, as one of his friends put it, he said it when pleased with the nature of things. He said it a lot. He had a happy way of life. His life was “good stuff.”

  Just after my father’s death, I graduated from Stanford. My senior year I had worked as an intern at an advocacy firm in San Francisco. My plan was to take a job with this same firm and later move on to law school. When Dad died I shifted gears in ten seconds flat. I felt pulled, in an almost subterranean way, home to Los Angeles. Why? If Dad came home, that’s where he’d be. Have I been waiting for Dad to come home all these years?

  At some level it’s still hard for me to admit that my father died. I can talk about it and around it, but those two words. “He died.” What can that possibly mean? That I won’t get to hear his voice again? That’s not true; I have movies, I have all his taped conversations with me, I have pictures, I have slides.… I even have one of his sweaters in my closet. If I remember well enough, he will come back. He’ll appear, out of thin air, at my door or in my living room, and we’ll laugh and we’ll hug and we’ll talk and we’ll hold hands, and maybe he can hold the baby while I make lunch for him. After all, he’s a grandfather now. There’s so much playing to be done. Watch out, baby Cary may pull your hair, Dad. And my dog, Oliver, is named after our mutual nickname, Ollie. In a Cockney accent we could greet each other with, “ ’ello Ollie! ’ow ya’ doin’, Ollie?” Oliver and baby Cary will look at us sideways, and then my father will never leave again.

  A break from cantering across the Palm Springs desert. We likely stuffed ourselves with pancakes at Lindy Lou’s before setting out. Circa 1976.

  To write this book is to fully admit, more than twenty years later, that he died. To move on with my life. The tribute to my father is more than mildly overdue. Dad has been deservedly honored by everyone and their mother. The U.S. government even turned my father into a stamp. For many years I’ve stayed silent. Other tributes to Dad stem from the perspective of show business, where the intimate side of his life is somehow vaguely analyzed, but never revealed. I am my father’s only child. The world knows a two-dimensional Cary Grant. As charming a star and as remarkable a gentleman as he was, he was still a more thoughtful and loving father.

  Madame Sylvia Wu, the marvelous restaurateur, was close to Dad for more than forty years. When I called Auntie Sylvia to discuss the book, she sweetly chided, “It’s about time!” Sadly, several of Dad’s closest pals, among them Frank Sinatra, Charlie Rich, and Gregory Peck, are no longer alive to share their memories of him.

  Privacy was a gift our family worked hard to maintain. Selfishly, I have guarded my memories of Dad, clutching them to preserve that part of him that I alone knew.

  Why didn’t Dad write his own book? One archived audio cassette recorded in 1962 is a self-hypnosis session made for Dad. He was being instructed to exercise, gently, daily, and to write his autobiography. Presumably these are activities he wished to pursue, and he’d hired someone to help him with autosuggestion. The woman soothingly advised that he complete his autobiography with tremendous compassion for his subjects and not to worry, not to criticize the work, just to do it. Also, to exercise a bit each day. This was four years prior to my birth. Was Dad examining his life before having a child? Why didn’t Dad finish his book? Did he consider revealing his history, his childhood, to the world? He never spoke of the endeavor, but he saved the tape for me. What turned him around? With so much misinformation out there, did he want to address and correct it? Is this why he stayed up at night? Was he too distressed about involving others’ lives? Of course, his was the definitive voice. His parents were already gone. Any writing would have served Dad and Dad alone. Dad’s parents weren’t famous, he was. He knew his story. Anyone reading his story would have done so to learn about him. His motives were therefore the central theme. My guess is he came to terms with his past, and with anyone who wished to write about it. Let them examine their own motives. In my case, ultimately it’s the same matter. Dad is gone; I write about him for me.

  My hopeful guess on his attempted autobiography is that Dad was done with his homework. He came to terms with who he was and who his parents were. Let others play their guessing games. He trusted that those who knew him, knew him. Those who didn’t, never really would. To make a case for himself would therefore be a fruitless, energy-wasting endeavor. He’d forgiven who he needed to forgive, let go of what he needed to, and accepted himself as he was. Archibald Alexander Leach, Cary Grant, and all.

  It’s important to understand the commodity of celebrity. In revealing my life, Dad’s life, and including his friends, what is being “cashed in”? Privacy? Dad’s name? There are certainly less all-consuming ways to make a profit. My conscience pulls, the way Dad’s did. The only reason to write is to share the beauty of his life behind the curtain. I never knew Archibald Leach. I never really knew Cary Grant as the world thought of Cary Grant. I knew Dad.

  Dad had two somewhat conflicting beliefs. He would remind me to never pay attention to what other people were thinking about me, because, he said, they were too busy thinking about themselves to really think about me. Funny. The polar opposite belief he espoused was “All you have is your reputation.” The latter, I’m guessing, was learned through the business of “show” business. Dad has, and had, a deservedly glowing reputation. However, this belief in “reputation first” seems to have given rise to his fears of what might be rumored after his death. Then, there are interesting misconceptions about Dad. My choice is to leave these misconceptions to themselves. My hope is that we are wise enough with our own weak spots to allow great men theirs.

  The grief of losing my father has come in waves over the years, as it does with most people. His love and devotion as a father provided my closest, most intimate relationship. Dad, and our time together, is in my bones. While reflecting on him, the memories themselves seem to boil down into certain “essences of Dad.” My words, by their nature, are finite. Dad, now, is infinite. Still, perhaps these words can sniff around the essence of Dad’s soul, to further elucidate the world’s knowledge. Perhaps the old saying about the bird holds true: “If you love something set it free.”

  Many people long for a father’s love. I had it. I have it still. Perhaps by writing this book I can transfer some of the love I feel for him. Perhaps Dad will inspire a daughter, son, mother, or father. If so, good stuff. I can hear my father’s tone now, a little grumble with a Cheshire cat sparkle in the mix, “gooooood stuff.”

  Après ski on one of our rare trips to the snow. Dad didn’t ski but filmed me making a mess of it. Here we’re stuck on some Rubik’s Cube–type game. Vail, Colorado, circa 1976.

  Chapter Two

  Archives: The Time Machine

  A few years before I began this book, my stepmother, Barbara, alerted me that she was cleaning out “the vault.” In the seventies remodel of 9966, Dad had an actual bank-quality room-size vault installed in the house. It took force to shut the six-inch-thick door and crank the steel handle down. Spinning the round numbered lock gave a grand flourish of control. Almost all of Dad’s personal childhood archives were burned in World War I. Dad’s goal: Nothing would rob me of my records the way the war robbed him of his. If the house burned to the ground, my childhood memories would be protected. In 2003, the shelves of boxes once held in the vault for me were transferred
to my possession. Oh dear … my house isn’t a vault … is everything safe? What’s in all these boxes? What am I responsible for? My childhood home was no longer the place for my childhood archives. There were ten to fifteen large boxes. And boxes within the boxes. Each of them labeled: JENNIFER’S NOTES TO DADDY, STANFORD, JENNIFER’S DRAWINGS, ENGLISH TEA SET. All sorts of things, all together, in boxes, on the living room floor of my Santa Monica home. What to do? The tea set was and is gorgeous. Gold leaf. Tiny roses atop the teapot and sugar bowl. One-sip cups fit for a proper five-year-old’s tea party. Other boxes were more confusing. Tapes. What sort of tapes are these? Small quarter-inch somethings. Some labeled with Dad’s printing: JENNIFER AND ME, AT 9966, MAY 30, 1971, SKIPPING AND LAUGHING. That’s the title. Skipping and Laughing. There’s another larger tape, CARY’S OSCAR. What sort of machine do I need to play these tapes? Are they still good? Then there were cassettes. Maybe fifty. And Super 8 films. I opened every box, looked about, and then they sat in my closet for almost a year, until I could wrap my head around the first steps to tackling them.

  The boxes contained photographs, slides, notes, cards, clippings, memorabilia, and Super 8 movies and audiotapes of me growing up with Dad. The audio blurbs I’ve sprinkled throughout the book come directly from these tapes. Until I was about twelve, Dad took painstaking care to ensure that I had an accurate record of my life. It is a firsthand account of the way he “saw” his daughter through a lens and in his words. Dad entrusted me with a great deal. The archives of life with my father are a precious piece of Cary Grant.

  The boxes are my own personal treasure chests. What amazes me is the scope of his “Jennifer” files. He saved almost everything he got his hands on. Dad wasn’t a pack rat in other areas of his life. Other than newspaper clippings, there were no stacks of stuff around the house (even his clippings were filed and kept in a large trunk). But when it came to me, anything I touched was fair game. What should I do with the bar of soap on which I once glued a squirrel’s picture and multicolored glitter? Notes I’d crumpled and thrown in the waste bin were taken out, hand ironed, stapled together, and then dated and detailed in his signature red, capitalized type. For instance, SUNDAY, OCTOBER 29, 1978: WRITTEN WHILE BARBARA AND I PLAYED CARDS is the caption for notes I took, reporter style, of their card game of Spite and Malice. Dad saved a “recipe” I’d written for my lunch salad on April 27, 1979. It lists apples, raisins, longhorn cheddar cheese, Bac-Os Bits, avocado, pastrami … I swear to you I can taste the salad now.