Lady Blue Eyes

by Barbara Sinatra

  The day before the show, we were invited to dinner at one of the royal palaces, where Princess Margaret would be the hostess. We were led into a large ballroom and informed that the protocol was we were not to sit down unless she did. Annoyingly, she never did, and for some people that was too much. Cubby Broccoli, who was well into his seventies at the time, finally announced, “I can’t help it. I’ve got to sit down!” None of us dared join him even though we were just as tired. After what seemed like an interminable amount of time, we were finally ushered into a long dining room and shown our places. The high-ceilinged room felt freezing cold, and although I’d arrived wearing a brown velvet cape with mink trim, it was taken from me before the dinner and I felt the chill in my strapless dress.

  Trying not to shiver, I got chatting with a newspaper editor to my right who was very nice and confided in me that he and the princess hadn’t spoken in five years, ever since something appeared in his newspaper about her. “This is the first time I’m back in her good graces,” he told me. As the first course arrived and I was disappointed to see that it wasn’t a hot dish, I grew colder and colder. Soon, goose bumps covered my skin. My companion noticed and asked, “Would you like me to turn on the fire?”

  “Oh, that would be heaven,” I cried. “Thank you!” He jumped up and turned on the log-effect fire a few feet behind me. I could feel the heat of the gas flames immediately and was incredibly grateful. As he came back, I began to thank him again when I was interrupted from farther down the table.

  “Turn it orf!” Princess Margaret said sharply.

  “But Mrs. Sinatra has a chill,” my companion countered.

  “I said turn it orf!”

  “Oh my!” he replied. He stood up, got down on his hands and knees, and switched off the one flicker of heat in the room. As he sat back down next to me, he sighed. “Well, that’s another five years we won’t be speaking!”

  Frank’s London performance made more money for the princess’s charity than it had made in its entire history. Thoughtfully, he had booked the royal box for me, but when we got there I discovered that we were sharing it with Princess Margaret’s children, who’d been told at the last minute that they could sit there too. I was a bit teed off because the box had been especially reserved for me and my friends, including Swifty Lazar, Judy Green, Leonora Hornblow, and Ann Downey, but I didn’t want to tell their royal highnesses to leave. Princess Margaret, who had a crush on Frank, invited us to Annabel’s nightclub after the show for dinner in a private room. By the time we got there, after an evening squashed into the royal box, I was even more teed off and probably a little loaded too. After another drink at the bar, I suddenly announced to Swifty, “I’m not going to her party.”

  He took one look at me and nodded. “Okay then, we’ll have our own.”

  Frank walked in at that moment, took one look at my face, and said, “What’s wrong?”

  Pulling “a Frank” on him, I replied, “Princess Margaret is waiting in the back room for you, but I’ve decided that I’m not going.”

  He asked me why, so I told him, adding, “Swifty and I are going to throw our own party back at the hotel. It’ll be much more fun.” Frank agreed, so we walked out of the nightclub, leaving the sister of the Queen of England waiting for the guests who never showed. In effect, I turned her party “orf.”

  The year Frank was seventy was spent on the road as usual, promoting his latest album, L.A. Is My Lady, which he made with the inimitable Quincy Jones. The tour culminated in a concert in the southern states, followed by a private dinner for friends and family. At a time when most people might have considered taking it easy, my husband was still pushing himself, still performing and still delighting his fans—and me. He really loved what he did for a living and often said, “The worst thing you could tell me is that I couldn’t work anymore.”

  I told Jimmy Stewart that one night, and he knew what Frank meant exactly. “That’s just the way I am too!” he said. “I never want to quit. I’ll do commercials; I’ll do anything, but I need to work.” Jimmy, whose parents had owned a hardware store in Pennsylvania similar to Blakeley’s and who grew up during the Depression, added, “Coming from a poor background, you always fear you might lose it.” Bless him, that kind, modest man was a multimillionaire thanks to his shrewd investments, but he did work right into his eighties, and yes, he even did commercials. Anything, as long as it was work.

  It hardly seemed possible that Frank was really seventy. As he would say, “That’s a lot of bourbon under the bridge, baby.” He’d lost so many great friends along the way—Don Costa, Jack and Mary Benny, Nelson Riddle, Yul Brynner, Count Basie, Orson Welles, and Pat Henry most recently—but he was in good health, although the doctors were always warning him about his drinking and smoking, advice he studiously ignored. As a diligent wife, I did try to persuade him to cut back on his drinking several times through our marriage. I also tried to get him to eat less red meat and Italian pasta (even secretly enlisting the help of our chefs), but that was never really going to work. Frank’s argument was that he had always taken care of himself and he knew how to pull back when he needed to. In our house Frank was the Sicilian-style padrone, a law unto himself, and he’d do whatever he wanted.

  Within a year, though, he came to appreciate the damage his diet and lifestyle could do. By November he was suffering acute abdominal pain and almost had to cancel an engagement at the Golden Nugget in Atlantic City. Typically, he went on that night as usual, and none of his fans would have suspected how much he was hurting. The following day he was flown to the Eisenhower Medical Center in Palm Springs, where he underwent emergency surgery to remove a large part of his (infected) lower colon. To allow time for his body to heal, the doctors performed a temporary colostomy and fitted him with a bag, which was something he loathed and detested. Before the six-week rest period was up, he told the doctors he couldn’t handle the bag anymore, so he made them open him up and try to fix the problem another way. Sadly, that didn’t work at first and they had to perform surgery once more and reverse what he’d made them do. Having joked that if they screwed up he’d have them whacked, one of the first things he asked when he woke up from the anesthesia was, “Are the doctors still alive?”

  Frank was never the most patient of patients and he hated getting old, but that colostomy bag really made him feel his age. In defiance of how he was feeling, he went ahead with a television role he’d agreed to months earlier—a part in Tom Selleck’s Magnum, P.I. series, which was filmed in Hawaii in January 1987. Frank loved Magnum and always said if a part came up for him in it, he’d jump at the chance. In the script that was specially written for him, entitled “Laura,” Frank was to play a retired New York cop turned vigilante to find the murderer of his granddaughter. It was an incredibly energetic role for a man of any age, never mind someone in his seventies wearing a colostomy bag. But Frank refused to let that darn bag beat him. In what turned out to be his final major acting role, he did almost all his own stunts, including fight scenes, running up ladders and over roofs, as well as acting his heart out in a tropical shirt. His energy never ceased to amaze me.

  Going to Hawaii was always a treat because it was such a fun place. On one of our first holidays there we’d rented two of the singer Willie Nelson’s houses in Maui. I’d gone ahead with Suzy Johnson, Bee Korshak, Anne Downey, and Judy Green to set everything up, and when Frank arrived with George Schlatter, we greeted their plane in grass skirts and leis and hired Hilo Hattie (whose music Frank loathed) to serenade him, Hawaiian-style. Grumpily, he walked straight past as if he didn’t know us, although he did laugh in the end and even said hello to Hilo Hattie.

  When we were in Honolulu for the Magnum, P.I. shoot, we met an actor named Larry Manetti. He and Frank got along very well, and as the show was wrapping, Larry told me he wanted to give Frank a farewell gift. He gave us a white German shepherd puppy we named Laura after the show. Then Larry asked, “You wouldn’t like a parrot, would you? I live i
n an apartment and the darn bird’s driving my neighbors crazy.” I shook my head and told him I didn’t know anything about birds except that they were dirty and that I didn’t want one. “Oh, all right,” he replied, “I’ll have it put down.” Of course I knew we couldn’t allow that, so—like it or not—Frank and I ended up flying home with a two-year-old yellow-naped Amazon parrot named Rocky.

  Over twenty years later, Rocky is still part of the Sinatra household. I tried to find him a home, but no one wanted him. He has bitten almost everyone who’s ever come near him, including me; I have scars all over my arms and handle him now only with a little ladder. He has no respect for fame or fortune—he’s drawn blood on everyone from Frank to the housekeeper. He bit George Schlatter’s finger down to the knuckle and wouldn’t let go. Frank’s road manager, Tony Oppedisano (known as Tony O), used to open the oven door and call, “Here, Rocky, climb in there!” Bobby’s frightened of Rocky, and so is most of our staff. Even my husband, who loved all creatures, never warmed to our noisy, green-feathered bird, not least because Rocky crawled out of his cage one day and traversed two rooms with enormous determination just to reach up and sink his beak into Frank’s calf. The only people I have ever known Rocky to like (apart from Michael Douglas, Felicia Lemmon, and Dolly Martin) were a chef we once had named Roland and a woman who works for me now named Irena. Rocky especially adored Roland and would ride around in his apron or on his shoulder, but he sank his beak into Roland’s neck one day, whereupon Roland refused even to speak to him again. So far, Irena, Rocky’s latest crush, remains unscathed.

  I have come to the conclusion that Rocky is like a four-year-old with attention deficit disorder. He has tantrums when he gets jealous or if he is moved from a place where he’s settled and happy. He makes a racket all day long, he never learned the words to “My Way” despite my patient hours of training, and I can’t get rid of him because no one else would want him, so I guess I’m stuck with him for life. When I die, I’ll leave him to my enemies.

  FOURTEEN

  Breaking ground for the Barbara Sinatra Children’s Center in Palm

  Springs on Frank’s seventieth birthday, December 12, 1985.

  COURTESY OF MARC GLASSMAN

  Body and Soul

  The highlight of Frank’s seventy-first year for me was the fruition of a project very dear to my heart that has continued to be a focus of my life. Having always supported at least one major charity a year, from War Orphans to World Mercy, I’d never quite found the one that seemed perfect for me. That was until the 1980s, when Barbara Kaplan, who played tennis with me at the Racquet Club, approached me about a charity she was trying to establish in Palm Springs.

  A mother of three married to Danny Kaplan, head of cardiology at the Desert Hospital, Barbara worked for family counseling services and specialized in child sexual abuse. She and her colleagues had no central base and were forced to give therapy sessions to victims wherever they could find a space—in vacant offices, the basements of banks, or the back rooms of churches. The scheme cost around thirty thousand dollars a year to run but couldn’t keep up with demand. When she told me that she hoped to set up a special center where victims and counselors could work in private to break the cycle of abuse, I was impressed but not that interested. I told her, “I’m sorry, but I’m really busy with my other charities, and anyway child abuse doesn’t happen to anyone I know. I don’t have a connection with this at all.”

  She refused to give up, though, and kept mentioning it to me each time I saw her. Then one day she told me she was arranging an auction in aid of the charity and asked if I could help persuade some of our celebrity friends to donate art. “Well, I suppose I could do that,” I said. Frank offered several of his paintings, and darling Tony Bennett gave us a couple of his much-coveted works (Frank was the first to say that Tony was a far better artist than he). Tony Curtis gave us one or two, and other friends like Kirk Douglas, Dinah Shore, Claudette Colbert, Anthony Quinn, and James Cagney donated sculptures, paintings, prints, and needlework. I persuaded most of our Palm Springs friends to attend the auction with Frank and me at the Sheraton Plaza, which helped draw in the crowds and the money. Don Rickles came along and sat in front of Frank bidding for a Tony Bennett painting his wife, Barbara, really liked. What Rickles didn’t know was that every time he put up his hand to place a bid, Frank would raise his hand behind him to place a higher one. Don finally got the painting when Frank stopped bidding, but our comic friend never realized how the price had been bumped up. With that kind of competition, the auction raised more than sixty thousand dollars, so I was very pleased and thought to myself, That went well.

  Barbara Kaplan was clever, though. Soon after the auction, she arranged for me to meet some of those who’d benefit from the money we’d raised. Coming face-to-face with those innocent little children who had been so mistreated tore my heart out. That’s when I knew I had to get more involved. Those children needed some semblance of sanity in a purpose-built center of their own instead of having their therapy sessions scattered all over town. I knew of an empty building once used for cancer patients, and I approached the hospital that owned it, but sadly things didn’t work out with them. Then I formed a local board to help me get the project running, but we were quickly tied up in red tape. Several people warned me that Palm Springs had had a children’s center before that hadn’t succeeded. There seemed no way forward until our friend the businessman and racehorse owner Danny Schwartz, who was on our board, said, “Why don’t you ask Uncle Walter?”

  I knew Walter Annenberg was closely involved with the Eisenhower Medical Center, so I made an appointment with Danny, went over to Sunnylands, and told Walter what I wanted to do. His response wasn’t what I’d hoped for. “I started something like this at the Desert Hospital and in London, but both projects died,” he told me. “I don’t want to go through all that again.”

  “Okay, Walter. I understand,” I replied, trying to hide my disappointment. “You don’t have to give me any money, but would you at least help me find a suitable plot?” When he agreed to see if there was any land available within the Eisenhower Medical Center compound, I assured him that, once a site had been found, I’d sell the idea and raise the necessary funds myself. I’d hired an architect to work out how much space we’d need and had the costs broken down per room. In what I hoped would be a state-of-the art facility and outpatient therapy center, there’d be an auditorium and entry hall costing $100,000 each. The other rooms would be as little as $10,000 each, but overall we’d need to raise several million dollars just to get the center built, never mind staffed and operational.

  Nelda Linsk, a friend I made when I first came to Palm Springs with Zeppo, in 1958, had recently sold a house to the architect and builder Don Knutson and told me he wanted to get involved in the community. “Great,” I said. “Let’s set up an appointment.” We invited Don to the Compound, and I made sure there was a surprise waiting for him. When he walked into the room and looked around to see Cary Grant, Jimmy Stewart, Gregory Peck, and Frank Sinatra all smiling up at him, his mouth fell open. He didn’t know where to look next. Later he asked Nelda, “What does Barbara want from me?” Nelda replied that I’d tell him when I was ready.

  Once Walter had arranged for us to have a plot on the campus of the medical center, all I had to do was raise the money. Using all my charm, I persuaded the best in the business—Frank, Dean, Sammy, and Liza—to perform at a benefit. Each table was priced at ten thousand dollars, the cost of one small therapy room. Then I went to see Don Knutson. Just as I was walking out of his house with the plans for the center under my arm, he asked me, “Barbara, what would you rather I do? Buy a table for the concert or a room in the building?”

  I paused before replying. “Well, I think you should buy the entry hall, because I know you’ll be going to the concert anyway.” He didn’t respond at first, but as I walked to my car, he cracked. “Okay, okay!” he said. “Then put me down for that.” I could hardly believe
my ears. Don was the first person I’d asked, and he’d agreed to pay for one of the most expensive areas in the whole center! I was so proud of myself that I hurried home excitedly. I couldn’t wait to tell Frank, who listened in silence while I carried on.

  Finally he couldn’t stand it anymore. “All right! I’m sick of hearing about it. I’ll buy the auditorium.” That nearly put me away completely.

  From then on it was easy. Walter Annenberg asked me how many rooms I’d sold, and when I told him the two largest spaces had been spoken for, he asked me what was the next one down. “The office,” I replied. “It’s seventy-five thousand dollars.”

  Walter nodded and said, “I’ll pay for it.” Not only did he write a check there and then but he and his wife, Lee, continued to contribute to the project for the rest of their lives. So much for not helping. Selling the rest was plain sailing. Our friend the businessman and racehorse owner Danny Schwartz bought four or five of the ten-thousand-dollar rooms. Father Rooney raised the money to buy one and persuaded a bishop from Ireland to fund another. Vince Kickerillo, an old friend and the husband of Mary Miller, a singer signed to Reprise, was more than generous. With the money raised, we found a builder from Riverside and were ready to begin. Frank and I broke the ground on his seventieth birthday in December 1985, confident that the 12,500-square-foot children’s center would open the following year.