Good Stuff Page 13

  Dad’s only advice on relationships was “Don’t marry the guy you break the bed with.” Well, that about says it, Dad. Guess he’d been there, done that. Dad’s quip on sex, “Every generation thinks they discovered it. Take a look at that filled-to-capacity football stadium. See all those people? Imagine how much sex it took to create them.” Clearly attraction was important to Dad, but he “got” that there’s more to the picture. After Mom, Dad had only two semiserious girlfriends before he met Barbara. Both women were British. They were friends, mostly. They laughed a good deal and I was usually in on the joke. Otherwise, all women generally doted on Dad the way women dote on Cary Grant. Dad treated men and women very similarly. Perhaps he flirted with no one, or perhaps he flirted with everyone.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Polishing an Academy Award

  Treasures throughout my home bespeak his life. His books grace my bookshelves. “From your Notorious and Indiscreet friend,” Ingrid Bergman. “For Cary, One of the best I’ve ever known, and my pal,” Mervyn LeRoy. His Fabergé clock graces my desk: “Cary—for 16 years of devoted service to Fabergé.” Dad’s Academy Award sits on my mantelpiece. People are drawn to it. How much does it weigh? The award needs a bit of polish at present and I’m miffed about it. Wouldn’t want to tarnish an Academy Award. Blasphemous. How does one go about such a thing? Google “How to polish an Academy Award?” These are the strange moments of inheritance. Lest I momentarily forget my lineage, my surroundings remind me.

  Dad was an avid reader of nonfiction. After devouring the daily newspapers he fed his mind with books on American and European history and political autobiographies. While sifting through some of the treasures Dad gave me, I lit on Dad’s ex libris: “I shall pass through this world but once. Any good therefore that I can do or any kindness that I can show to any human being, let me do it now. Let me not defer or neglect it for I shall not pass this way again.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The Leach Potato Wart Cure

  In terms of Dad’s pre-me life, here’s what little I know. Dad’s mom was Elsie and his dad was Elias Leach. My grandparents. He was raised an only child in Bristol, England. His father wasn’t around a lot. Dad was a troublemaker at school, and the way he described it, he liked to jump atop the wall to the girls’ locker room. In our equivalent to sixth grade, that propensity got him kicked out. Dad then found a more profitable use for his acrobatic skills. He joined the Pender Troupe, with whom he traveled to America. He shared memories of walking on stilts and introducing shows by running onto the stage and diving, headfirst, into small invisible trapdoors in the wooden floor. No wonder he later loved the circus. The only other relatives I knew were Eric and Maggie Leach. Eric was Dad’s mother’s sister’s son, Dad’s cousin. Maggie and Eric were the British Frick and Frack. Ever sweet, hospitable souls with lilting voices and little round cherubic features. They were side by side for life. I never met Dad’s dad. Sadly my grandpa, handsome Elias, died young. I was too young to really remember meeting my grandmother. I believe I traveled to Bristol just twice to see her, once when I was a wee babe with Mom and Dad, and then again at the age of two or three. Dad rarely if ever spoke of his parents. My memories are some amalgamation of photographs, audiotapes, and distant flashes of my grandmother, but too disparate to assemble into coherent thought.

  As most fans know, Dad’s original name was Archibald Alexander Leach. For acting purposes he was asked to change it. Dad was given a list of forenames and a list of surnames from which to choose. At that time shorter names were in vogue. I’m quite happy he chose the name Grant. It’s a term that connotes giving. Quite the opposite of Leach, thank you very much. Geographically and emotionally, Dad moved a great distance from his parents and his roots. His name accurately reflected the distance traveled.

  Dad’s previous marriages went undiscussed as well. Nothing taboo; I simply never asked. He was married five times. I knew the names of his first three wives and vaguely knew their faces. That was all fine, and beyond that, it was history. Where had they met? What was the initial attraction? Where were the women from? What were their hobbies? Did they have pet nicknames? Favorite joints around town? Where did they live? What did Dad learn? Why did they divorce? Did he miss any of them? Regrets? No clue. Life in the present occupied us. The past played little role. That was then. He had no meaningful contact with his exes, aside from my mother. So we moved on. There were some sweet reminiscences, but that was about it.

  How did Dad spend his childhood? Who were his friends? What was his room like? Did he have a favorite toy? Did he tell me? Have I forgotten? I’ve only the tiniest glimpses. For instance, Dad tried to cure me of my warts. They were mortifying! One lumpy grossness on the inside of my right palm and one on my left index finger. Tenacious things. Dad told me he knew of an old English trick certain to rid me of the buggers. The process was to rub a potato on the warts and then plant said potato in the garden. Somehow the potato was meant to magnetize the warts to it. Every morning I awakened to see if my warts had made their pilgrimage home. Damn. No luck. Thereafter Compound W was applied daily. They grew back and back and back again. Finally, after years, I shaved them off. Dad claimed I didn’t have enough faith in the potato. Apparently it had worked for him as a child. Who taught him that trick? My grandma Elsie Leach? Did he plant the potato in his garden? Did they have a garden?

  For all too brief an interval, Dad had a stepson named Lance. Lance’s mother, Barbara Hutton, was Dad’s second wife. In the day-to-days of their living together, if the telephone rang while Dad was in a meeting, six- or seven-year-old Lance greeted the caller with “I’m sorry, Mr. Grant can’t come to the phone now.… He’s in confidence.” Dad thought it a superior term to “conference.” He found the error so spot-on charming that he refused to correct Lance. Some eager caller eventually let on, much to Dad’s chagrin. That was the sole story Dad recounted of Lance. That and Lance’s death. Lance was a pilot who died in a crash at the age of thirty-six. Whenever Dad spoke of Lance his eyes softened and his gaze thoughtfully sloped. These are the things he told me. That’s all I know for sure.

  Occasionally stories of Dad’s pre-Jennifer life find their way to me. At a recent dinner party I was introduced to Nena Woolworth, a cousin of Barbara Hutton’s. She pulled me aside to relate how very special my father was to her family. “He was the only one who really loved her (Barbara Hutton) for who she was. He was the only one who never went after her estate … he was the one bright spot.” How sweet of her to share this with me. Dad’s love had integrity. He could never demean himself and their relationship by going after his previous wife’s wealth.

  In Dad’s later years he didn’t sleep much. He woke most nights at two or three a.m., and, unable to return to sleep, he would read for an hour or two. Sometimes he barely slept. He was a middle-of-the-night worrier. He stressed about doing the right thing in life. Dad bore a rigid conscience. One cross word or careless remark deeply troubled him. Was this tendency for worry rooted in his childhood? As a child I didn’t have much curiosity about his history. Context may not have occurred to me. Dad related some quaintly amusing anecdotes, the “I remember whens” that get repeated year after year. I gathered it wasn’t easy. At Christmastime, prior to opening our truckloads of gifts, he’d say, “You know, when I was a boy, in wartime England, we were lucky if we got an orange in our stocking.… That was it. An orange was a true delight.”

  These are the moments I remember best: the way, childlike, his face lit up and his feet danced about at the sight of this homemade cake. January 18, 1982.

  “Jennifer’s first drawing, Aug. 16, 1967. Beverly Hills. 620 Foothill Road.” In his exuberant way, Dad labeled some of my chicken-scratch drawings “mini Picassos.”

  Why don’t I research more about Dad’s past? Aren’t I interested? Yes and no. In our heart of hearts, I believe we all know the skinny on people and situations. We unconsciously block what’s too much for us to process. So, somewhere insi
de … it’s all there. Other than that, I prefer knowing what I know. I remember his saying this and that, wearing these shoes, and eating this type of ham, and before speeches how he would always … type of remembrance. It feels safer to me. While I might discover the links to myriad minuscule and not so minuscule pieces of the puzzle by digging into Dad’s lineage and pre-Jennifer choices, the likelihood is as good that I’d burrow myself a mudhole. Information arises when and if it needs to. That’s enough for me. I’ll stick with my trusty experience as a guide.

  In case he left something out, Dad saved for me these musings on living, dying, and the art of happiness. Later, in his own print, he added Barbara’s name to the typed page.

  While there’s a lot of stuff I certainly don’t know, there’s also a lot I do. For instance, Dad had a very unique yawn. He didn’t just plain old “I’m tired” yawn. Dad’s yawns were multisyllabic and he made the most of every one. Dad’s yawn had flourish. The sound was something like “aaaaa yeeee haaaaw haaaaaw.” It had volume. It was an announcement. The big bear part of Dad, standing tall, head back, arms outstretched to the world, announced that his day was complete. It was time for rest. His yawns were celebratory. As if to say, “Another day well done.” How many people know about my father’s round tuits? On outings, he often carried a convenient little gag along. A round tuit is an inch-wide wooden disc with the word “TUIT” emblazoned across its center. Around to it. A round tuit. When greeting friends, he’d ask, “Did you get around to it?” Brows furrowed in response—what had they forgotten? They’d promised Cary Grant something marvelous and they’d slipped. “Uh, around to what?” Now they were hooked; Dad loved it. Next he’d feign concern to really pull them in. “Oh, come on now … tell me.… Did you get around to it?” “Oh, Cary … I don’t know what you mean.” “Well then”—he’d hand them the disc—“You can relax. Now you have.” Goofball. This stuff lives in me. The many oddities, the many glances, the many sighs, snores, hugs, pauses, prat falls, and more … that’s just plenty for me.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  My Father Was a Hottie

  As one might well imagine, the ladies constantly swooned over Dad. Truly, women of all ages gazed, half-stoned-looking, as though they’d tripped into Jesus incarnate complete with circumfluent halo. They’d even cozy up to me to pose for Dad. I could feel it. Their peripheral focus was on me, but the real focus was on Dad. Like those Southern belles who so eyelash-battingly lob one comment whose subterranean drift runs, “Aren’t I the ideal stepmother? Don’t I look good? I’m sexy, I’m sweet, I love your daughter.…” Run, Dad!

  Everywhere I turn it seems my father’s looks are being held up as the definition of handsome. Given, he was gorgeous, but clearly there’s more to it. I can certainly think of some male supermodels who are all that … but no bag of chips. If it’s true that girls just wanna have fun, then perhaps that was icing on Dad’s attractiveness. He made life fun. It’s absurd to presume it was all about the outer picture. Even the bankable on his own merits talent of George Clooney recently did a seemingly conscious imitation of Dad in a Vanity Fair photo shoot. Dad in present tense. Was he spoofing my father? Perhaps playing into the joke of “it’s all about looks.” I’m happy that he’s representing Dad as an environmentally conscious, talented, beautiful man. Clooney waited until this phase of his life to don my father’s style. Post Syriana. Post becoming a producer and director. Elegant.

  My favorite of Dad’s physical characteristics were his hands. Beautiful, powerful, large, masculine, broad palmed, long fingered, vascular, could-do-the-work hands that held elegance in their assured gentility. He had nice feet, too, but his hands were the pièce de résistance.

  As far as attire goes, my father is still known for his classic, timeless taste. True style. He’s the all-time best-dressed lists go-to guy. Books are sold on his sense of style alone. Every time I flip open a magazine there he is, looking stunning in a suit. GQ recently touted his signature large, black, square eyeglasses as the new in thing. New indeed. I only wish I had his fashion sense.

  Dad’s style had a system behind it. Dad signaled approval with “My how smart you look.” Interesting. How “smart.” Not how sexy or pretty or stunning. How smart. It implies the look has good, practical thought. One is appealing to the eye because the choice is about more than egotistical whim. It’s, let’s say, environmentally correct. Dad and I shopped at the Gap together. Dad loved the Gap. It spoke to his uniform theory and the store was decently priced. Dad thought schoolchildren wearing uniforms eliminated competition and helped even the playing field. At the time, the Gap was stocked with one basic type of jean. Dad wore Levi’s 501s. I don’t recall him ever purchasing new blue jeans on our outings. Blue jeans were built to last and got better with age. Also, they weren’t covered in logos. Dad hated logos. “If they’re going to plaster their name all over me, they should pay me to advertise their product.” Dad was somewhat prescient, because today’s gang violence is often tipped by designer shoes and clothing. Yes, the roots run far deeper, but the surface picture is kids killing kids over shoes. So I guess Dad’s uniform theory holds water. He did allow a single exception. When Polo shirts were first on the scene, I requested one. Luckily for me, Dad okayed the mini Polo logo and Beverly Hills is a small town. Dad ran into Ralph Lauren and forwarded my request. Ralph delivered big. Dad doled out my goodies on a weekly basis … summer shades, autumn shades, I had about fifteen Polo shirts. Thank you, Ralph.

  On a recent shopping/browsing escapade I happened upon boots that were fashioned to look old. The toes were faded, the heels were scratched, and the rubber soles were worn on the corners. The conceptual design? Let’s make boots for people who have so many shoes that they’ve no time to wear them? Dad’s voice boomed through my brain. “What a scam! Imagine that, paying for worn boots. Pay me to wear those and then they can sell them to someone else.” He’d likely feel the same way about prefaded denim, another manufacturer’s ruse.

  Around the house, Dad was completely casual. Of course, even his casual had flair. When I was a child, in the mornings and on weekend afternoons, Dad wore beautiful monogrammed pajamas and silk robes. After Barbara moved in, Dad replaced his pj’s with caftans. The magical Barbara sewed them for Dad in a rainbow of colors. He practically lived in his linen and cotton Mediterranean tunics. “Great ventilation!”

  FORM WITH FUNCTION

  If he were to show up today, at my door, he would be in perfect fashion. Dad didn’t have one signature outfit, but he stuck to a few favored ensembles. Generally slacks and sweaters, jeans and cotton shirts, or suits and ties. I see him in my favorite of his casual looks: jeans, a worn and therefore faded red shirt with Western-style pockets, a camel-colored cashmere sweater, his silver and turquoise belt buckle, and round-toed cowboy boots. Never the pointed ones. Dad found them silly. “What’s the idea behind them?” he’d say. “Unless you need to crush a cockroach in the corner.” Even for the purposes of Western-style horseback riding, Dad wore the round-toed boots. Many, if not most, of the “real” cowboys I’ve met wear round-toed boots, so I suppose there’s something to it.

  Dad was never a fan of fads. In fact, he deplored them. I remember when men started wearing suits and T-shirts together.

  If he happened to see a young “hip” fellow at, let’s say, the Directors’ Lounge of the racetrack, wearing a dark suit with a T-shirt, he’d scoff, “Doesn’t that man know that he’s ruining his suit? Ridiculous.” Trends were wasteful and impermanent, and in Dad’s view trends had been calculated by the fashion industry to keep us at their mercy. If one followed fads, he convincingly argued, one always had to buy the newest latest thing and throw out last week’s wares. Dad particularly disliked potentially harmful fads. Bell-bottomed trousers caused bike wrecks. High-heeled wedge shoes made women break their necks. He was dramatic about it, but he was, in essence, correct. He did, however, indulge me by wearing what was in his mind semi-risqué…his light pink cotton button-down shirt
. Lovely.

  Dad’s friend Howard Hughes had some of his own ideas about good form. 9966 was a favorite with Howard. I was under the errant impression that he owned it at some point. Wrong. Howard often visited Dad at 9966, dining on steaks and ice cream. Howard bought the property directly above ours, which was a larger lot, and tried to “switch” it with Dad. No dice. So, prior to my birth, if Dad was away on location, Howard often stayed at 9966. When packing to go away on vacation, if I showed up with too much luggage Dad would look at my cases, furrow his brow, and remind me of what he proclaimed to be a Howard Hughes principle: “Did you know that Howard traveled with two suits? Just two. While he was wearing one, the other would be cleaned. Shirts made of a disposable cloth, easily folded and compact. Nothing unnecessary.” I’m not exactly sure how I was to apply the principle. Two dresses? Couldn’t do it. But then, my dapper father himself didn’t apply the rule. One medium-size suitcase was more his style. His cajoling made me a fairly efficient packer, but I’m still dazzled by those women who can pull off a small roll-on case for a week’s journey abroad. Good form indeed.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Deeper Waters

  1966 · BRISTOL, ENGLAND

  Dinner at Eric and Maggie Leach’s home.

  Mom, Dad, Grandma Elsie, Aunt Maggie, and Uncle Eric.

  Family urges Elsie to sing one of her songs. She very sweetly does.

  Grandma Elsie: “You taught me how to love you, now teach me to forget …”

  1967 · NEW YORK