His Way_ The Unauthorized Biography of Frank Sinatra - Kitty Kelley [55]
No one enjoyed Frank’s success more than Dolly Sinatra. As the mother of the most famous singer in the country, she now reigned supreme in Hoboken. Her husband was promoted to captain in the fire department, and she became the biggest celebrity in town. Every time a ribbon had to be cut to open a new music store, Dolly was there, swathed in the silver fox furs that Frank had given her. Hoboken Night at Yankee Stadium saw Dolly sitting in the best boxes drinking beer and eating hot dogs that somebody else always paid for.
“Everybody fussed over her once Frank made it big,” said Minnie Cardinale, who had dipped chocolates with Mrs. Sinatra in Hoboken.
“It got so that she never paid her bills anymore,” said Connie Cappadona, an interior designer Dolly hired to decorate her house.
Even the Catholics who had once shunned her because of her abortion business now came around and made her head of the Rosary Society at St. Ann’s.
Dolly kept a supply of Frank’s autographed photos on hand, and every time the delivery boy from the drugstore rang the doorbell, she poked her head out and said, “Do you want a lousy tip or a beautiful picture of my son?” The youngster always took the picture of Frank.
In addition to the silver fox furs and Miami Beach vacations that Frank paid for, Dolly and Marty Sinatra received money from their son on a regular basis. Firemen in Hoboken still remember the one-hundred-dollar check that arrived every Monday from Sinatra Enterprises.
In the tumultuous years since leaving Tommy Dorsey, Frank had become the most exciting entertainer in the country and swamped Bob Eberly, Dick Haymes, Perry Como, and Bing Crosby in Downbeats 1943 year-end poll of the most popular singers. No other singer had the battalions of devoted fans that Frank had. His teenage jumpers and screamers sent him hundreds of hand-knit sweaters, wrote hate letters to critical reviewers, and plastered lipstick kisses on his home in Hasbrouck Heights. They even wrote poetry to his three-year-old daughter, Nancy Sandra:
You’d probably laugh as little girls do,
And smile and act rather shy,
If you knew that the man whom you call Dad,
Is the one making us sigh.
Frank had touched the innocent sexual buddings of adolescent America as no one else before him. The shrewd machinations of George Evans gave the young girls license to express themselves by moaning and swooning and yelling. He made it a fad to scream hysterically and to faint in the aisles, and by doing so the bobby-soxers became part of the show. He capitalized on the boy-crazy stage that all young girls go through and gave them Frankie as their romantic idol, their Prince Charming who would kiss them and caress them with his songs.
All their girlish yearnings became centered on this fragile young singer who talked to them as if they were equals, sharing details of his family, and telling them about Big Nancy and Little Nancy and the baby who was expected soon. (“I want a boy so we can name him Frankie,” he said, “but if it’s a girl, we’ll name her Frances.”) They listened raptly to the words of his songs and responded when he seemed vulnerable.
When he sang about nobody loving him, the little girls shrieked with anguish, “Are you kiddin’, Frankie?” “We love you. We love you.” When he closed his eyes and sang sadly, “I’ll Never Walk Alone,” a youngster, nearly moved to tears, shouted, “I’ll walk wid ya, Frankie. Honest. I’ll walk wid ya.” They wanted to hug and kiss this man who became the personification of their fathers, uncles, brothers, and the kind of man they dreamed of marrying.