Lady Blue Eyes

by Barbara Sinatra

  Frank and I had gone through something similar at around the same time. He’d badgered me to tell him what I wanted for my birthday, but I couldn’t think of a thing. Then on a day out with a girlfriend I drove past the Rolls-Royce showroom in Beverly Hills and spotted the most divine white Corniche with camel leather seats in the window. “I think I know what I’d like for my birthday,” I told him from the car.

  “Shoot,” he said. To my delight and surprise, the Corniche was waiting for me in the driveway when I arrived home from my lunch. A note on it read, “For my True Love.”

  President Sadat must have wondered what he’d gotten himself into by offering his wife anything she wanted, because Jehan asked for money to build an extraordinary city of hospitals and rehabilitation centers for the veterans of the 1967 Six-Day War, in which fifteen thousand Egyptians were killed or wounded. To be named the Faith and Hope Rehabilitation Center, it would offer vocational training for the amputees and wounded, employing other veterans to support those being treated. It was a remarkable and innovative scheme that had never been tried before. Knowing how much funding the project would require, Jehan asked Frank if he could include a visit to Cairo on his next tour for a benefit. As always, Frank’s reply was “Tell me where I have to be and when.” Furthermore, he flew in all his own musicians, paying their wages, airfares, and hotels. It didn’t cost the charity a dime.

  I think of all the men I’ve met in my life (and I’ve met quite a few), the one who impressed me the most was President Sadat. He was a man of great intelligence but also gentle and kind. When I was with him, I felt that I was in the presence of a true statesman, and I know Frank did too. The concert Sadat organized for his wife was one hell of a birthday present. Everyone who was anyone in Europe and the Middle East flew to Cairo to see what they knew would be quite a show—Sinatra performing in front of the Sphinx with the Great Pyramid of Giza in the background, all cleverly lit. Those who had paid $2,500 a head for tickets to the dinner, concert, and fashion show sat at tables set out on a carpet of rugs laid on the sand, dining on lobster and veal. Frank clearly enjoyed every minute too and said afterward it was “the biggest room I ever played.” It was an unbelievable event and certainly, for me, one of the most memorable.

  Our hospitality suite was a huge Bedouin tent set up in the middle of the desert near where camel trains had been passing for centuries. Poor things, they had to be rerouted temporarily. Seeing them tramping past in the dunes day after day was fascinating and primitive. It was a long way from my first sight of a camel in a textbook in Bosworth, when I’d wondered if such a strange creature really existed. Watching the camels made me want to ride one, so I asked if it could be arranged. Frank wasn’t going anywhere near one, but he hung around to watch me and take photographs. After climbing up onto the back of the beast, I was led along a dirt track by a dark-skinned Arab in a long robe as Frank snapped away. It was surprisingly high up there and felt rather precarious, even more so when my camel suddenly broke free from his handler and galloped off into the desert.

  As I clung on for dear life, I could hear Frank going crazy behind me, screaming at the handler in unadulterated New Jersey. “You f****** mother f*****! How could you let this happen, you son of a bitch! Get my wife back here! Go get her.” He called that guy every name in the book. Fortunately, the camel finally stopped to nibble at a desert bush, leaving me shaken and breathless but unharmed. Frank, meanwhile, was still jumping around in the dust blasting the poor man responsible.

  Suddenly, the hapless Arab pulled off his headdress and threw it into the dirt. He told Frank, “Look, Mr. Sinatra, I’m not Egyptian. I’m from New Jersey.” Pointing to his skin, he added, “This is makeup, and you really shouldn’t talk to people like that!”

  Once Frank realized I was safe, he had no choice but to see the funny side.

  Ever since Dolly’s death, Frank seemed to find solace in the religion his mother had taught him and then me. He began to attend Mass with me more often, and he loved it when I took over a fund-raising project of Dolly’s to rebuild a church in Cathedral City. With the help of a golf tournament, we managed to raise more than her target amount. One thing that kept haunting him, though, was the fact that we had never been officially married in the eyes of our church.

  The more Frank thought about that, the more the omission bugged him. Still grieving for his dead mother, he told me morosely, “She’d have wanted that.” As someone who’d been married three times before and who’d chosen a wife who’d tied the knot twice, he didn’t believe it would ever be possible. That was until he sought the counsel of Father Tom Rooney, a family friend. To Frank’s surprise, he learned that according to the laws of our faith the only marriage that counted was his twelve-year partnership with his first wife, Nancy—the only one that had been sanctified in a Catholic church. If Frank could have that marriage annulled, we would be free to repeat our wedding vows in a way that he believed would appease his mother’s spirit. I loved the idea of being properly married in the eyes of the church I’d embraced as my own, but I knew the suggestion of an annulment would be controversial and I had no intention of getting involved. I hadn’t been with Frank all those years and learned nothing about keeping my nose out of his private affairs. In the end, he went ahead and organized it himself. I think it was something he needed to do for Dolly.

  When everything had been officially sanctioned by the authorities, Frank and I went off quietly to stay with our friend the “Irish Nightingale” Morton Downey at his home in Palm Beach, Florida. We repeated our wedding vows in a Catholic ceremony overlooking the ocean, officiated by a priest friend of Morton’s. It was romantic and fun and felt like yet another new beginning. From the day we were married, Frank had always referred to me as his “bride,” and I suddenly felt like one again, in another lovely gown and with tropical flowers threaded through my hair. It was on that trip that Ann Downey and I were invited to the beautiful Kennedy house right on the ocean in Palm Beach to play tennis with Teddy and some others. Rose Kennedy, the indomitable matriarch of the clan, was in residence, so after our game we were invited to her room for Mass. She was a strict Catholic and had a priest come every day. The octogenarian mother of nine had lost an eye by then and wore a patch. When we walked into the room, her one good eye homed in on me and didn’t avert its gaze. There were several of us sitting there, but that tiny woman just stared and stared at me until Teddy Kennedy was so uncomfortable that he said, “Here, Barbara, come and sit over here.” I moved to another seat, but the eye followed me. It was most disconcerting. I have no idea why she took such an interest or who she thought I might be. She never said.

  After our romantic sojourn in Florida, Frank decided that the simple service in the Everglades wasn’t good enough, so he asked me to arrange for us to be married once more in a full Catholic service in St. Patrick’s Cathedral, New York. Both of us loved “St. Paddy’s” and had mused about how nice it would have been to have married there the first time around, so when we were finally able to face each other, hold hands, and take our vows in the exquisite Lady Chapel, it meant a great deal to us both.

  As part of the healing process after Dolly’s death, Frank made another decision that came as a complete surprise. We were sitting across the aisle from each other on his plane coming home from somewhere when he scribbled a note and handed it to me. “I want to adopt Bobby,” he’d written. “I love him and I want him to be my son. He deserves to be part of a bigger family.”

  Startled, I cried, “But, Frank! He’s a fully grown man, not a boy. I’m not sure he wants to be adopted.”

  “I’ve made up my mind,” Frank replied. “I’m going to do this, for you and for him.” He wouldn’t listen to my protests and sent another message back to his lawyer, Mickey Rudin, sitting in another part of the plane. Mickey came forward to try to talk him out of it, but Frank was most insistent. “Just do it!” he snapped finally.

  When we got home, I called Bobby to gingerly explain Frank’s
proposal. His reaction was as I expected. “But, Mother, I don’t want to be adopted,” Bobby said. “I have a father, and anyway, I already took Zeppo’s name. It’s very kind of Frank, but please tell him this isn’t what I want at all.”

  Poor Bobby. I truly felt for him. The men in my life had not always been very sensitive to his needs, and at that time he was trying to reconnect with his real father, Bob, who was still in Europe. Bobby knew Bob had prevented Zeppo from adopting him all those years before, and I think my son sometimes regretted changing his name to Marx, so I completely understood his position. I pleaded his case to Frank, but my pigheaded Italian husband was determined to go ahead. In the end, his family vetoed the idea anyway, so nothing ever came of it. I tried to tell Frank it didn’t matter. I said, “Look, darling, it doesn’t make any difference. Why upset yourself like this? Bobby’s our son in all but name anyway. I wouldn’t pursue this; it’s way too controversial.” He finally capitulated but I knew he was wounded.

  Bobby had other father-figure issues to work out anyway because in 1979 the man who’d been his first stepfather got sick. Zeppo had sold the house I’d shared with him by then and moved to a place on the golf course just off Frank Sinatra Drive (which I always thought was kind of ironic). He called me from there one day and asked me to drive him to his doctor in Los Angeles, who informed me for the first time that my ex-husband was in remission from cancer. Before too long, though, it came back. Zeppo was old and alone with all his brothers dead and no one left to love, which made me sad. In return for the kindness he’d shown them, my family took care of him in his final days.

  A few days before he died, I went to visit Zeppo in the hospital. He had an awful rattle in his throat, which told me the end was near. I’d loved him once, so it was horrible to see the dashing gambler who’d wooed me in Vegas looking old and frail. In his will, Zeppo left my son a handful of possessions and some money to finish his legal education, which was thoughtful. I sent flowers and went to his funeral with Frank, and Bobby stepped up and said a few words about the stepfather who’d become a friend. It was the closing of a door for us both.

  My grandparents “Pa” and “Ma” Hillis in Bosworth, Missouri.

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  As a young bride, on the day of my marriage to Bob Oliver, in Long Beach, California, 1948.

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  An early modeling shot.

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  In my Oscar de la Renta dress at the Ittlesons in the south of France the night Frank flew in to join me.

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  Taking our vows at the Annenberg house, Palm Springs, surrounded by some of the world’s finest art, 1976.

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  The happiest day of my life.

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  My long-haired hippie of a son, Bobby, with my first husband, Bob Oliver.

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  My parents, Willis and Irene Blakeley, at their diamond wedding anniversary party at the Tamarisk Country Club.

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  Relaxing by the pool at Judy and Bill Green’s home in Mount Kisco, New York.

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  Dressed for the part at the Share Party in Los Angeles.

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  Kissing my “pilot” in front of his plane, the Lady Barbara.

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  Toasting our sixth anniversary.

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  Rehearsing at Giza for a night to remember.

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  Dancing with my husband at his sixty-fifth birthday party.

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  Frank cooking and kissing our dear friend Judy Green.

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  Frank miserable at home with the flu. He prescribed himself “Dr. Daniels.”

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  At my desert ranch with Bar Dancer, the horse given to me by my school friend Winnie Markley and her husband, Jimmy Razook.

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  Always a sucker for the underdog.

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  With Sidney Poitier and his wife, Joanna.

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  With Bruce Springsteen and his wife, Patti Scialfa, the night before Frank’s eightieth birthday tribute.

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  Bob Dylan at our house before Frank’s eightieth birthday celebration.

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  Frank talking to young victims of abuse at the Barbara Sinatra Children’s Center.

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  Paul Anka, Charlton Heston, Frank Sinatra, me, and Gregory Peck at Frank’s seventy-fifth anniversary award dinner at the Beverly Hills Hotel, 1989.

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  Two wonderful singers, one wonderful evening. Frank with Ella Fitzgerald at the Society of Singers kick-off dinner, 1988.

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  With my great friend Cary Grant.

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  Dressed to the nines for the Frank Sinatra “My Way” tribute, 1995.

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  Scanning the news pages on the road.

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  With Liza with a “z” Minnelli.

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  President Gerald Ford and his wife, Betty, welcome me, Greg, and Veronique to a Washington party.

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  With President Bill Clinton, who sought Frank’s advice about a sore throat.

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  Clint Eastwood always makes my day.

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  With Tony Bennett and Jolene Schlatter at John Kluge’s ninety-fifth birthday party at Cipriani in New York, September 2009.

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  With my best friend.

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  ELEVEN

  With Prince Rainier and Princess Grace of Monaco at the anniversary

  party we threw for them at our Palm Springs home.

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  Come Rain or Come Shine

  It is no secret that New York held a special place in Frank’s heart. He loved having an apartment in Manhattan and always relished performing in the city and in nearby New Jersey, his home state.

  One year he took me on a rare visit back to Hoboken on the west bank of the Hudson River. He showed me the site of the cold-water flat at 415 Monroe Street where he’d been born. Walking hand in hand in that square mile not far from what is said to be the birthplace of baseball, Frank showed me the streets where he grew up among gangs of Irish, Italians, and Germans. Within sight of the Lower Manhattan skyline, the Sinatra connection was recorded everywhere, from a bronze star on the sidewalk to a small museum next to the house he bought for his parents on Hudson Street. He took me to see the homes on Park Avenue and Garden Street where he’d lived as a teenager, and he drove me past the A. J. Demarest High School, from which he’d dropped out. At the local library, he told me, there was a collection of his books, paintings, and memorabilia he’d gifted in honor of his mother.

  At the Hoboken jail, he told me a story that made me laugh out loud. The singing heroes of Frank’s childhood had been Bing Crosby and Billie Holliday, so when Bing was arrested for being drunk in his neighborhood, Frank couldn’t believe his luck. He hurried over to the jailhouse, which had its cells in the basement, their windows at street level. Getting down on all fours, Frank peered in at his incarcerated idol desperate to talk to him, sing for him, or get any professional advice he could. Sadly, poor Bing was so loaded he could barely respond and yelled at “the kid” to go away. Frank ribbed Bing about that years later when they became buddies in Palm Springs.

 
Frank showed me the saloons that he knew as a scrappy kid. He drove me to the site of the Rustic Cabin in nearby Englewood, where he’d been “discovered” singing songs and telling jokes in between waiting tables. Everywhere we went there were signs claiming that Frank Sinatra was here or Frank Sinatra worked there. There was a Sinatra Drive and plans for a Sinatra Park. The local diner sold a “Frank Sinatra Steak,” and almost every Italian restaurant offered “Pasta Sinatra.” It was his town, but just as I’d escaped Bosworth and made a better life for myself, Frank had gotten out of Hoboken. His legacy was the hope for those he left behind that they might escape too if that was what they wanted. “When I was there I just wanted to get the hell out,” he once said. “It took me a long time to realize how much of it I took with me.” With his strong sense of community, loyalty, and devotion to things Catholic and Italian, Frank was a Hobokenite through and through, and the place rightly claimed him as its own.

  Despite his great love of New Jersey and New York, Frank didn’t have a song that summed up his feelings about the place. I’d long thought that he should. When Martin Scorsese directed the 1977 musical New York, New York, starring Liza Minnelli and Robert De Niro (who Frank always hoped might play him in a movie one day), I had an idea. The title song written by John Kander and Fred Ebb and belted out by Liza was such an incredibly powerful number that I suddenly realized it was perfect for Frank. It would be great for him because of his connection with New York, but I was convinced it would be a huge hit internationally too. When I first suggested that he record it, though, he dismissed my idea out of hand. “Naw, that’s Liza’s song,” he said. “She does it great. I’d never take that away from her.” Frank had been close to Liza’s mother, Judy Garland, since the 1940s, and he treated Liza like a sassy daughter. His loyalty was touching.