Drawing on all my reserves and remembering that, as Mrs. Frank Sinatra, I had to remain dignified, stoic, and do everything in my power to keep my husband’s legacy alive, I set about arranging what I hoped would be a fitting tribute to the man I dearly loved and already missed so dreadfully. I soon discovered that arranging such a funeral would be a huge undertaking, strewn with pitfalls. Everyone who was anyone expected an invite, and I—as the gatekeeper—had to say yes or no. The former employee of Frank’s whom he’d fired pleaded with me to be allowed to come. He even had his wife go to work on me in tears, which was when I finally cracked. Then there were his two surviving ex-wives to be considered, along with the wishes of his family and the expectations of friends in show business, industry, and politics. Because of the overwhelming number of people who wanted to attend, we had to make it invitation only and arrange for tickets to be issued at a special box office, as if this were his last concert.
As well as trying not to upset anyone and staying true to what Frank would have wanted, I had to organize the entire affair in less than a week. The two-hour funeral Mass at the Good Shepherd Church in Beverly Hills was set for Wednesday, May 20, six days after Frank’s passing. I went to see Cardinal Roger Mahony, the archbishop of Los Angeles, who was wonderfully helpful and planned it all with me, from the music to the prayers.
Although it was a closed casket, I wanted Frank to look his best, so I had the staff at the funeral home dress him in one of his finest navy blue suits and a striped tie. Friends and family gathered around his coffin before it was closed to place special mementos inside. He was to be buried with a flask of Jack Daniel’s, a roll of dimes, some stuffed toys from his grandchildren, and his favorite candies. Bobby added a packet of Camel cigarettes and his Zippo lighter. My gift to Frank was a gold Bulgari medallion I’d had inscribed and given to him for one of his birthdays. I slipped it into his pocket. The wording, translated into Italian, was: “You still give me a thrill.” It was something that held special meaning for us both.
The night before the funeral, we held a candlelit vigil with musical tributes and prayers in the chapel. Dear Suntan Charlie played “In the Wee Small Hours” and other classics. Friends stepped up and offered reminiscences, read poems or extracts from letters Frank had written to them. I stayed for the service but then prepared to go home, leaving some of those closest to Frank standing around his casket talking about him and telling jokes. My parting glimpse was of George and Jolene, Steve and Eydie, Don Rickles, and several others laughing and telling stories about Frank’s great humor, generosity, and warmth. I liked the idea of him still being the center of attention, even after he was gone. Frank would have enjoyed that.
The day of the funeral was surely one of the longest of my life. I don’t think I slept a wink the night before, and when I arrived at the flower-filled service, I was numb. I’d had official programs printed with a picture of Frank on the cover above the words “Francis Albert Sinatra, born into life December 12, 1915. Entered into eternal life May 14, 1998.” Someone handed me one, and I stared down at the photo, still unable to take in that he was really gone. The chief pallbearers included Don Rickles, Eliot Weisman, Bobby, Steve Lawrence, and Frank Jr. Tom Dreesen, who’d first heard Frank singing “Come Fly with Me” when he shined shoes in bars as a young boy and had gone on to “fly” with him for fourteen years, couldn’t believe he’d ended up carrying his coffin. Honorary pallbearers included old friends like Tony Bennett, Milton Berle, Ernest Borgnine, Kirk Douglas, Quincy Jones, Gregory Peck, Wayne Newton, and Jerry Vale. It was what Frank would call “a good crowd,” with other notable faces including Liza Minnelli, Tony Curtis, Mia Farrow, Anthony Quinn, Sidney Poitier, Larry King, and our good friend John Kluge.
After the introductory rites, there was a musical tribute by Bill Miller on the piano. “Ave Maria” was sung by the choir, followed by an address and prayers from Cardinal Mahony. There were readings from friends and family, then psalms from the choir and congregation. The homily preceded the communion, which was accompanied by Frank singing “Put Your Dreams Away” with its heartbreaking opening lines, “Put your dreams away for another day and I will take their place in your heart.” It was the perfect choice. When his voice filled that church, fragrant with the scent of gardenias, there wasn’t a dry eye in the house.
Remembrances were made by Kirk Douglas, my beloved Bobby, Gregory Peck, George Schlatter, Frank Jr., and R. J. Wagner, among others. George said afterward that all he could think of was that Frank was going to sit up suddenly and say, “Hey, Crazy? Get off!” George made the congregation laugh when he called Cardinal Mahony “Your Honor” (instead of “Your Eminence”) and told them, “When you think how old Frank was in people years, you realize he was awake longer than anyone else. He was eighty-two years old, but he’d been up for most of it!” Tom Dreesen, who also spoke, said all he could think of was Frank saying, “All right, Tommy, it’s showtime. Be funny and be brief.” After prayers, the choir and congregation sang the hymn “May the Angels Lead You to Paradise.”
I arranged for Frank’s casket to be covered in a blanket of gardenias, and their heady scent filled my nostrils. It brought back powerful memories of our “True Love” wedding at Sunnylands, and of every anniversary and birthday bouquet he’d presented me with since. The portrait of Frank I loved by Paul Clemens took pride of place on an easel at the front of the church. I sat staring at his face and wondering how I could possibly go on without him. Dean Martin once said, “This is Frank’s world; we just live in it,” and he was right. Without Frank in my world, what sort of a life would it be?
When it came time for Frank to go home to the desert, back to the Palm Springs cemetery where his parents, Jimmy Van Heusen, and so many of his friends were interred, I followed his casket out through the church, the cardinal steady at my side. In my hand, I tightly clutched a few of the blessed crucifixes we’d had made to give out to special friends after the service. Holding on to them somehow meant that I hadn’t let him go yet.
Emerging onto Santa Monica Boulevard and into the dazzling light of day, I was momentarily blinded. The organ music was fading behind me, and in its place all I could hear was the buzzing of media helicopters low overhead. Looking up, I saw a plane flying across the sky trailing a banner bearing a heart and Frank’s name. Another plane was doing intricate loops and skywriting Frank’s initials. I felt as if I’d entered some surreal circus arena. Traffic was at a standstill because of all the fans who’d gathered holding up signs and banners saying things like “Goodbye, Blue Eyes,” or “We Love You, Frank.” They jostled for position with television crews and photographers, their lenses all trained on my face. As I stepped into the cool darkness of the limo, I had never been more grateful for sunglasses.
We followed the hearse to the airport, where Kirk Kerkorian had lent us a plane big enough for Frank’s casket and the rest of us. The journey home took no time at all, and when we emerged from Palm Springs airport in a motorcade, hundreds of people lined the streets all the way into town. I don’t know how they figured out when we would be passing by or how long they’d been waiting in the heat, but there were so many of them and they stood waiting patiently to pay their respects. Most applauded, some saluted, many waved, and several threw flowers and cried, “Good-bye, Frank!” or, “Welcome home, Blue Eyes!” It was unbelievably moving.
At Frank’s simple plot, set flat into the earth of the rolling green lawn of the Desert Memorial Park in Cathedral City, we had the area roped off and tented, and the press kept away. This part was for immediate family only. Frank had chosen the plot years before, when he’d relocated his father Marty’s remains there from New Jersey. He bought several at once, for Dolly, for him, and for me. My parents were nearby too, along with dear Jilly and Jimmy.
When Frank died, everyone felt they had a claim and wanted to celebrate his life in their own way. One of those suggested ways was a full military honor guard, including the draping of an American flag over his cas
ket as if he’d been a general or something. President Clinton’s permission had already been sought. To me, such a gesture would have been disrespectful of the brave servicemen and women who’d given their lives for their country. Frank was denied military service because of his punctured eardrum. Because he was such a deep patriot, that was something he regretted for the rest of his life, but whenever he could he performed for the military and for servicemen at home and abroad. He had the utmost respect for the armed forces and their traditions, but I knew this wouldn’t have been right. I told those who were pressing for it, “We cannot do that. Frank was never in the service, and he wouldn’t want it. Besides, we’d be terribly criticized.”
In an effort to be conciliatory, I eventually agreed that the flag could be draped over his casket at the interment, away from prying eyes. When the service was over and his casket had been lowered into the earth, a member of the Marine Corps handed me the neatly folded Stars and Stripes from “a grateful nation.” I accepted it silently before turning to Frankie. “Here,” I said. “I’d like you to have this.” My husband’s only son seemed deeply touched by my gesture.
For Frank’s simple granite grave marker, I’d chosen the inscription FRANCIS ALBERT SINATRA. 1915–1998. BELOVED HUSBAND AND FATHER. Engraved along the top was the song title “THE BEST IS YET TO COME.” Lost in my grief standing at his graveside, I felt in that moment that the best had come and gone.
• • •
If I’d hoped for some time for quiet reflection after Frank’s funeral, I was to be disappointed. The condolence letters, prayer cards, and messages of sympathy from around the world swamped me. People were grieving for my husband whether they’d known him or not. He’d provided the sound track to their lives, and suddenly, it felt to so many of them, the music had stopped. Although I was overwhelmed by the volume of letters and cards, the outpouring of love and support touched me enormously. One of the most memorable notes was from James H. Billington, the librarian of the United States Congress, who wrote that Frank “taught tolerance for all people” and “transcended art.” He added, “Sinatra had no equal and will never be replaced.”
I had similar notes from presidents and kings, complete strangers, devoted fans, and distant relatives. Many claimed that the world had lost its greatest entertainer and that there would never be another like Frank. Faced with so many letters, I had response cards printed and edged in navy blue, each of which I signed personally. It was a mammoth undertaking, but it helped me get through each new day. The cards said,
Your thoughtful condolence has helped me through this difficult time. Frank was my love, my friend, and my knight in shining armor. My husband was a vital and dynamic part of his family as well as for people throughout the world. He has left a deep void in so many lives. Through his music Frank will live forever. May God bless you and hold you dear and as Frank would say, Sleep Warm.
For those I knew personally, I also slipped in a poem by Shannon Lee Moseley, which seemed to sum up Frank’s life and his passing. It read:
My life’s been full, I savored much;
Good friends, good times, a loved one’s touch.
Lift up your heart and peace to thee,
God wanted me now. He set me free.
When Frank rewrote his will in 1991, seven years before he died, he told me some of what he’d decided, but I didn’t know everything by any means. He’d always kept the business side of his life separate and had an excellent team to help him. All he promised me was that I would never need to worry about money or have to deal with any unforeseen issues after his death. It was just like the promise he’d made when I’d paid for our marriage license.
After Frank died, our attorney and his executor, Harvey Silbert, came to see me. Fortunately, there was to be no family reading of the will as the bulk of the estate had been divided up years before. Harvey then read me the full contents of the will before handing me a copy. Just as Frank had promised, everything had been taken care of. He left Frankie all his sheet music, which was a nice touch. That was Frank’s way. I had more than I could possibly need, yet I would have traded it all in a heartbeat for just one more day with my dearest love.
Life had to go on, and I was busier than ever not just with the children’s center but with taking over many of the charitable causes that Frank had supported. Friends were very kind and made sure that I was invited out to dinners and card games, parties and concerts, but I wasn’t in the mood to be sociable and preferred to stay home with my memories.
Bobby was a great support, of course, and called or flew in frequently from his home in Manhattan. A successful entertainment lawyer, he had recently become engaged to a pretty Texan named Hillary Roberts, and I secretly longed for my first grandchild. One night about three weeks after Frank died, Bobby agreed to be my date for a quiet dinner with George and Jolene Schlatter at their house a few blocks from ours. Deciding to walk there and back, we set off for what was a relaxed and enjoyable evening. A few hours later, on our way home in the dusk with George and Jolene as our escorts, a car suddenly screeched to a halt at the curb and four men jumped out. Running up to us, they quickly separated us. I couldn’t see what was happening behind me, but Jolene must have sensed the danger before we did because she fled into a neighboring driveway, the only one with its gate open.
“Where’s the park?” the man who’d cornered me barked into my face. “We’re meeting someone there.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I replied, sounding braver than I felt. “There isn’t a park around here.” He began to argue with me and insisted that I must know the place, but I told him, “I don’t know and I’m not even sure it exists. In fact, I’m going to get your license number. There’s something wrong with all this.” I looked at the plate then but noticed it had a piece of paper taped over it. I moved forward as if to rip the paper off, but I didn’t have time because the man grabbed my arm and loomed over me suddenly.
“Give me your purse!”
“You can’t have it!” I cried. “Go away!” He jerked it off my arm anyway and pushed me aside. Shaken, I turned to see that Jolene was at the door of the house she’d run to, banging on it and ringing the bell. She yelled, “For God’s sake, Barbara, come on in here!”
Instead I turned to see what had happened to our men. George was throwing punches at a guy who was trying to rip his Rolex from his wrist. My blood turned cold when I spotted Bobby lying facedown on the ground without his glasses as another robber bent over him, picking his pockets. My son’s glasses lay a few feet away. As soon as I saw that, my anger kicked in. Running at the attacker, I yelled, “You! Stop that! Stop that right now!”
Bobby saw me coming and groaned. “For God’s sakes, Mother, get out of here!” In the end, I think I scared the muggers off. They jumped in their car and sped away.
By this time Jolene had gotten an answer at the house, and a little old woman in curlers and a hairnet, dressed in an old robe and using a walker, let her in to call the police. I saw the woman briefly, but everything happened so fast and the police were there so quickly that there wasn’t time to thank her. The detectives separated the four of us in her driveway to take our statements while Jolene crawled around in the bushes trying to find the jewelry she’d thrown there when the men first struck. Fortunately, I hadn’t been wearing anything special that night.
Standing in the driveway, I watched Jolene’s antics as I talked to a couple of officers. When they found out who I was, they wanted me to give a press conference to publicize the attack, but I refused. I looked up and saw the owner of the house again, only this time she looked quite different. Her hair was combed back, she had makeup on, and she was beautifully dressed. She wandered up and asked, “Which one is Mrs. Sinatra?” She smiled and took my hand as if we’d just been introduced at a cocktail party. “How nice to meet you,” she said. “My husband once conducted an orchestra for your husband.” This was clearly the most exciting thing to happen to her in a while. I
couldn’t help but smile at her evident enthusiasm. I knew then that Frank was still watching over me somewhere, making sure that, whatever happened, I kept my sense of humor.
Once I got home, Bobby made sure I was settled in and safe before leaving with the promise to call in the morning. I went straight to bed and fell into a deep sleep but was woken an hour or so later by our house alarm clanging. Pulling on a robe, I ventured out of my room to be met by members of my staff, who assured me the police were on their way. Not again! I thought. The squad cars arrived quickly, and officers with dogs searched the house and the grounds but couldn’t find anything suspicious, so after a lot of fuss, we all went back to bed. The next morning, though, our gardener disturbed a young man who’d slept in a storage compartment in our garage and came running out. They caught him as he tried to scale the fence. He must have been there all night.
From that moment on, I soured on the Foothill house I’d once fallen in love with. Suddenly, I didn’t want to live there anymore. It was too big. I felt too vulnerable living there alone, and without Frank, there didn’t seem much point. I felt like a change anyway. I needed to close some old doors and open some new ones. There were too many memories there for me to handle. Not long after the mugging, I put that house on the market and bought an apartment in Westwood, where I am very happy. It has great security, so I feel safe and protected. Around the same time, I decided that it would be nice to go back to Palm Springs for the winters.
To begin with, I rented the old Fred Wilson house in Thunderbird Heights, which was wonderful and had a tennis court but was too big for a place I was only going to use two or three months a year. I knew I needed to find something smaller and more practical. Frank and I had watched a condominium being built right across the street from where we used to live. I’d always teased him, saying, “Whichever one of us goes first, I’m going to have a place there.” The house I chose had plenty of space to hang Frank’s art and entertain friends. Better still, the children’s center was a five-minute drive away. Having given up our place in New York, I decided to divide my year equally between the beach, the desert, and the city, a routine I’ve been keeping up ever since.
Lady Blue Eyes Page 35