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  Lots of our family rites revolved around food. Mom and I had a fetish for lychee and reddy black cherries. The produce stand at the corner of Pacific Coast Highway and Topanga Canyon carried our favorites. We gorged ourselves on bags full of the summer delicacies. Dad and I ate more fatty foods together. For some reason most of our favorite “joints” were in Santa Monica. He loved the fish and chips at H. Salt. The fish was flaky cod. I can still smell the vinegar. We bought our fresh fish at Santa Monica Seafood. “Darling, are you ready for this smelly place? All right then … Let’s get some halibut, just for the halibut!” Goofball. The Tudor House, then on Wilshire Boulevard, was another hot spot. Walking into the Tudor House was a departure from the Los Angeles world as we knew it. Where else could you sit surrounded by dainty floral wallpaper in priory chairs eating gooseberry tarts with afternoon tea and take home bangers and mash to boot? We got cases of frozen bangers (the fatty English sausage) at holiday time. Barbara made them a part of our annual Christmas party. Very British of us. It must have reminded Dad of his hometown, Bristol. At Christmastime we had multiple traditions. There are definite advantages to being from a split family. Many holiday dinners are the norm.

  Lovely, ladylike Elsie Leach. I wish I remembered more stories Dad may have shared of his mother. She is still, in large part, a mystery to me. Picture taken by Dad, Bristol, England, circa 1968.

  FEBRUARY 12, 1969 · BRISTOL, ENGLAND ·

  ELSIE’S NURSING HOME.

  (Grandma Elsie was a petite, pert, five-foot-something, ninety-five-pound woman with an owl-like gaze and devilish grin.) Dad’s cousin, Eric, Eric’s wife Maggie, and Elsie celebrate Elsie’s ninety-second birthday in fine fish-and-chip style.

  Maggie: Would you like just a spot of wine, Elsie? Or some brandy? Brandy warms the cockles of your heart.

  CG: Here’s to your ninety-second birthday. God bless, happy thoughts. Nothing like a fish-and-chip birthday. It’s the best type.

  Lots of eating and small talk about the Snooty Fox restaurant. Later, Grandma Elsie speaks into tape recorder.

  Elsie: Arch…

  CG: I love you very much, you know that, don’t you, Mother?

  Elsie: Yes, and I love you, darling.

  Smiling for Dad’s rare presence in Bristol: Grandma Elsie Leach alongside Dad’s cousin Eric Leach and wife Maggie Leach, circa 1968.

  A sweetly odd tradition came to be our 9966 Thanksgiving dinner. One of my favorite foods on the planet was Peking duck. Auntie Sylvia introduced me to it at Madame Wu’s Garden. Well, one Thanksgiving, to assuage my yearnings, Barbara asked what I might like with the turkey meal, along the lines of “nuts or berries with the stuffing?” My pip daringly replied, “Peking duck, please.” Lucky for all of us, Barbara can cook. It went off so beautifully that from then on, Barbara prepared the traditional Chinese dish as our Thanksgiving supper. The process was quite elaborate. Barbara navigated Chinatown to fetch two whole ducks, which then hung, death-penalty style, in our kitchen to dry. By the third year Dad placed a bow tie on the neck of the “male” duck. If they were going to hang in our kitchen, they might as well dress up the place.

  Recently Barbara and I traveled to an Indian spa in the Himalayas. “Ananda” translates as bliss … and it was. In L.A. life I’m a devout yogini, so everyone presupposed that India meant incessant yoga and meditation. Nope. We spent most of our time eating. We exercised a bit, but mostly, we simply relaxed together. It was family time off. True to form we found several hours a day where our schedules diverged: “Meet you at lunch” or “Meet you at the Vedanta lecture.” Perhaps we both needed a reminder of the 9966 days. Awaken midmorning and eat a little. Sun a little; swim a little; eat a little; read a little; walk a little; eat a little. Ananda.

  The candle is still contained inside this envelope.

  Our 9966 docket labeled weekdays as work, communication, and activity time. Nighttime was all about easy entertainment. Couch-potato style. Lots of TV. Weekends were for backgammon, cards, and puzzles. We spent countless hours playing games on the huge, dark, leather club chairs in Dad’s room. How anyone managed to properly sit in those damned slippery cushioned chairs is beyond me. At game time I held my cards with one hand and my balance with the other. Somehow, easily upright Dad religiously sat in his club chair for the daily ritual of coffee (black), Los Angeles Times, and Wall Street Journal. Cover to cover. Our card game of choice was Spite and Malice. It requires two decks and sometimes half a day to complete.

  At night, we’d have our dinner together, on trays, in the bedroom, in front of the television. It was totally normal and exquisitely comfortable. I’ve thought about the traditional paradigm of the family sitting down for supper. That’s the time when everyone breaks bread together, discusses the day’s events, bickers, laughs, and bonds. Not us. Because Dad was retired, we had all day for those activities. “Retired” is actually an ill-fitting word for my father. Not a day went by where he wasn’t active in business. He was on the board of many companies, and, like a venture capitalist, fascinated by the puzzle of each. Following busy, rarely dull days, nighttime was for relaxation. With trays perched in front of us, Dad and Barbara on the bed, and me at a bedside table, we dined. Before Barbara lived with us, I was on the bed alongside Dad. I must admit that I felt thoroughly debunked at the side table—I mean, I grew up there! After twelve years as the resident female, who was this British woman who was taking my place at dinner? I spent my crib years in that room! My crib was in the front of the room, closest to the window, separated from Dad’s bed by a stereo, about ten or fifteen feet away from him. Somewhere around the age of two the crib was traded in for a sweet, child-size bed. It had a miniature pull-out desk on the side where I could do my coloring. Very fancy. I still remember being in the crib. I remember seeing his big face, head, and hands resting alongside me. He used to reach over the edge and adjust my toys and things. He would talk to me in a smooth, low voice and sometimes sing to me in that same voice. He had a record of his songs that he played now and then, as he sat, or mostly stood, by my crib. At night, when he slept, I could hear him snore. He did it with gusto. Mostly, I slept right through it. He always felt close. At some point I was moved into my own room, but at dinner I was queen bee next to Dad again. So … what right did Barbara have to take my spot on the bed, when I’d had dibs since I’d been in a crib? After dinner I’d hop up there with them for a bit before bedtime. Barbara and I would trade shoulder rubs while we all watched TV. Dad relished that time. I imagine it made him feel we had become a complete family. New territory for the Grants. So shoulder rubs following dinner was our new tradition. Suited me just fine. It was our cozy, day-is-done, dumb-down, chill-out time. What better than TV to accompany?

  So there we are at dinner, all perched in front of the telly. The Grants were fans of sketch comedy, game shows, and documentaries. Standard weekly fare included The Carol Burnett Show, All in the Family, and Dad’s favorite, 60 Minutes, a Grant Sunday ritual. Dad cherished Andy Rooney’s segment. Andy Rooney had a way of making the mundane hysterical. The newsman’s Seinfeld. The Carol Burnett Show scored big points when an actor broke face. Mischievous fun masquerading as work was just Dad’s cup of tea. On-screen and off my father oozed “I’m having the time of my life.… Catch me if you can.” Dad took the world and all its affairs seriously lightly. Tim Conway’s old man (the one who mimed geriatric-paced flashing with his trench coat) brought down the house. Like Mr. Magoo, the old man narrowly escaped disaster, pissed off anyone without the patience of a saint, and astounded everyone in his path. Dad and I used to imitate him around the house. With crossed eyes, donning invisible trench coats, we’d fake flash each other at a snail’s pace. The accompanying sound is “Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah.” Dad also loved Benny Hill. He busted up at that slight, old, bald man patting all the pretty things’ heads. Wish fulfillment, perhaps? When I managed to control the clicker, Jacques Cousteau won out. Nature documentaries were also standard fare. Wild animals of the Kalahari, wha
les of the Pacific, or whatever little varmints we found interesting. My personal TV quota was generous, even on school days. Dad occasionally looked askance at my less than intellectual fare of Bewitched, I Love Lucy, and The Brady Bunch. But I was responsible with homework, received consistently good grades, and always kept a tidy room, so … if TV was my guilty pleasure of choice, he let it go. All in the Family was the only sitcom we watched together. Dad loved Carrol O’Connor’s Archie.

  Archibald Alexander Leach. I don’t think my grandmother, Elsie Leach, ever fully accepted Cary as Dad’s name. Who can blame her? She named him Archie. God knows, if my friends so much as uttered a slight derivation of my name, they were hastily corrected. Wonderfully embarrassing. Here’s the scene: The telephone at 9966 rings, Dad answers. “Hey, is Jen there?” Dad gives a guttural throat clear and says, “I named her Jennifer for a reason.” In a lesser mood he might simply scold the caller with “Her name is Jennifer, not Jen.” A bit of bite. So, true to the family stripes, until her dying day my grandmother referred to Dad as Archie. Carrol O’Connor’s Archie was continuously beleaguered by his family’s antics. He was always going off at Edith’s imbecilic comments or Meathead’s leftist ramblings. While daughter Gloria pulled her own ridiculous gaffes, she was by and large spared Archie’s wrath. Me too. Dad had one, rarely used nickname for me: Modigliani. Dad thought I had a nice neck. It’s nowhere near half as long, tapered, and elegant as any of Modigliani’s sirens … but I still dig the nickname. Every once in a while he’d cast a gentle glance my way, murmuring, “There’s my Modigliani.”

  How is it possible to look the way he did at seventy-two? Palm Springs, California, circa 1972.

  Chapter Five

  Friendship Is Born of Respect

  My father consistently spoke in glowing terms of his loved ones. Barbara, his mate and companion, was “That Barbara! Isn’t she amazing. The most organized, thoughtful, talented woman … and she’s a delightful cook.” Dad would literally sing at the thought of her. Dad marveled over his pal Kirk Kerkorian: “Brilliant man! Kirk doesn’t flaunt his wealth. He’s quiet and reserved. He studies things carefully.” In describing me, he’d say, “You’re a happy soul” and “You’ll have a happy life.” To me, that’s one of the kindest things he could have said. He was right. Reminding me of this fact may have cemented it. Perhaps Dad recognized it in me, or perhaps he knew that times would get rough and he wanted me to know my own strength. I’m not sure which came first, but, no matter the difficulty, whatever tribulations I may have faced, I’ve always felt happiness at my core. If it’s true, why not fill your child with this belief? Knowing my father thought this has given me strength.

  Although my father was naturally kind and charming with people, he restricted his inner world to very few. My mom’s mom, Clara Friesen, often reminded me, “If you’ve got three friends, it’s a lot.” Who has time for more? Intimacy takes time. From my perspective, Dad’s closest companion was Stanley Fox, his personal manager of many years. I remember the long conversations Dad held with Stanley. The wise laughter. Dad and Stanley learned from each other and respected each other’s opinions on politics, money, and family. Stanley was reserved, with a penetrating, slow gaze. He made thinking look attractive. When Stanley did speak he was forthright, direct, and gently self-assured. We sometimes visited with Stanley and his wife, Jewel, at their home in Brentwood. Jewel served delicious coffee cake. Over the years, Dad and Stanley acquired similar characteristics. Vocally and physically they came to mirror each other. After Dad died, I visited the Foxes. I was immediately struck by Stanley’s gestures. It was as if a piece of Dad were sitting in front of me. His modulated voice, thoughtful listening, and economic gestures were Dad’s. They even dressed similarly. Gray slacks, button-down shirts, and cashmere sweaters.

  Dad’s friendships endured. Every year we had a small Christmas dinner, and every year the same friends showed up. Quincy Jones and Frank and Barbara Sinatra were regulars. Sometimes Gregory and Veronique Peck, Johnny and Alex Carson, Kirk Kerkorian, Merv Griffin, and Eva Gabor joined us as well. Once or twice David Hockney joined us, as did Sidney and Joanna Poitier. Kirk was by far the most private of the lot. Unless we were on family vacations, most of the time Dad and Kirk visited by themselves. They were buddies. Kirk said that there was never a moment of dissension, of any sort, in their twenty-five years of friendship. They were introduced by the owner of the Las Vegas Dunes Hotel, Dad’s buddy Charlie “Kewpie” Rich. In Kirk’s words, from the moment they met, Dad was consistently humble, kind, and terrifically smart. Takes one to know one. They held a profound respect for each other’s accomplishments, which, though different, were similar in scope and magnitude. Both were mavericks in their respective fields. “Kirk’s a self-made guy. His parents were Armenian immigrants. He started from the ground up. Flew a single-engine prop plane and built his business into all this.”

  Dad’s friends were highly successful people from all walks. While achievement distinguished their ranks, kindness was the common denominator. Likes attract. It’s common to hear that success necessitates cutthroat behavior. What an unfortunate belief. Focus, yes. Diligence, yes. Decisiveness, check. My father shared a birthday with Muhammad Ali. Though I never saw them together, it was lovely overhearing their annual, joyous “happy birthday!” phone calls. In actuality, Muhammad Ali’s birthday is January 17 and my father’s is January 18, but they carried on as if it were the same day. Muhammad Ali’s autobiography places a conscious emphasis on kindness. His race brought him face-to-face with outrageous bigotry, but he turned righteous anger into fuel for change. The ultimate kindness. For Dad, much of the time love meant simple kindness.

  One of Dad’s deepest dislikes was witnessing thoughtless behavior. He couldn’t tolerate it in himself or others. When Dad said, “Oh, how unkind,” it reflected his sadness at a person’s lack of consideration. It was an indictment of character. The war baby side of my father knew the value of little in times of need. He made rubber-band balls and clipped coupons. So if I carelessly threw out half of a delicious peach, I might hear “Oh, how unkind” as he lifted the sweet treat from the wastebasket to inspect my folly. It truly saddened him. I often wonder what my father would think of the world today. Particularly the state of the environment. My bet is that Dad would be big into recycling and drive a Prius. He’d scowl at my gas-guzzling car and trot off in his conscious choice.

  Dad’s friends have been good to me. When I was about ten years old, Dad took me to hear Frank Sinatra at the Hollywood Bowl. Front row center. I felt pretty in my white cardigan sweater and patent-leather shoes. Somewhere early in the concert, mid-lyric, Frank stopped singing. There he stood, directly above me onstage. “Jennifer, I love you, Jennifer.” Oh dear. Wow. Heart stopped. Dad got teary. Me? Really? Lucky me. Big moment. I wasn’t embarrassed, just awed. Still feel it. Perhaps it warmed Frank’s heart to see Dad and me together. Barbara Sinatra said that often women would swear that Frank was singing directly to them. The little girl in me wanted to protest, “But he really did! And I loved it!” Many years later, in an entirely different format, Frank stepped up for me again. It was nine years after Dad’s death, at our annual Christmas party; I was twenty-nine and freshly divorced. It was all I could do to dress for the party and people could see it from a mile. There’s a certain condescension that’s masked as concern. The “Oh, I’m so sorry …” Stepford thing. Well, I was up to my ears with it and leaking blood all over. Frank and Barbara were seated near the fire in the study when I hobbled over and cuddled up next to Frank on the couch. I can’t remember who approached me next with the customary “Oh, dear Jennifer, I’m just so sorry, what a tremendously difficult thing.…” Frank cut him or her off at the pass. “She’s just fine, thanks. Anything else?… How you doin’?” Instant blood transfusion. It was a tiny moment, but he knew me. He knew just how to deflect and protect.

  Dad and Frank were gifted with the indefinable incandescence of charm. They were high on life and the
y radiated. Their containers were well honed, structured, and self-defined. They surrounded themselves with stringent supporters. Their give-and-take required a high level of circuitry and tolerated few leaks. So where others might gush that high feeling, they let it out in a constant stream. They flirted with almost everyone and everything and life graciously flirted right back.

  Dad liked romance and made friends with couples who knew how to dance its dance. Hollywood royalty. A March 2007 Vanity Fair article compared “Old Hollywood” with “New Hollywood.” The “Old Hollywood Power Couples” roster included Walter and Carol Matthau, Ronald and Nancy Reagan, Lew and Edie Wasserman, and Billy and Audrey Wilder. Weird to think of them as “power couples.” Power what? Ronnie and Nancy? Billy and Audrey? Billy was always such an instigator and Audrey with her long cigarette holder … they’re a power couple? Hold on … I’m all grown up now … this should make sense … but it’s puzzling. Couple objectification. In my mind, “power couple” connotes Bill Gates and Paul Allen. The Vanity Fair article objectified lot of married couples were Dad’s buds. All of them. Yeah, I knew them too, in that “I better sit up straight and they’re always nicely dressed and pretty cool to me” adolescent sort of way. However, even adolescent Jennifer knew that above and beyond that, clearly these spouses loved uniquely. They were joined at the hip. In my experience, these people shared uncommon bonds. Maybe Vanity Fair’s got something here. Maybe that kind of love translates into power. Too romantic a thought? You should’ve seen these couples.