Lady Blue Eyes_ My Life With Frank - Barbara Sinatra [154]
Of all the awards Frank received, I think this one meant the most to him. Not only had it once been awarded to his friend John Wayne—the Duke—but it was vindication at last, as if he needed that. After all those years of vilification in the press, the fruitless FBI investigations and congressional hearings, the governing body of the United States of America had finally announced publicly that here was a man of the highest character. Sadly, Frank had been rushed back to Cedars-Sinai just before the medal was awarded and wasn’t well enough to go to Washington, but we watched the House’s vote on the bill and he wept unashamedly at the honor.
In a letter to President Clinton on Frank’s behalf, I wrote, “My husband has always been a staunch supporter of this country and is a proud American to his soul. Frank is fortunate to have known every President since his first visit to the White House when he met Franklin D. Roosevelt. He came to know and admire Mrs. Roosevelt to her passing … On concert tours he is a proud emissary of America.”
Bill Clinton wrote back to me expressing his pleasure at authorizing the honor and sent us the pen used to sign the act. “You have touched the lives of so many people over the years, Frank,” he wrote. “Warmest congratulations and best wishes.” (The two men were fond of each other, and Bill had even asked Frank’s advice once about the laryngitis that kept making him lose his voice.) The medal went into the glass display case with all the others my husband had received over the years. In typical style, he never showed it off, but it had a prominent place, and once or twice I found him staring at it with faraway eyes, as if the skinny kid from Hoboken could hardly believe that it was really his.
EIGHTEEN
At home with a few of our babies.
COURTESY OF THE AUTHOR
Put Your Dreams Away
It was an almost perfect day in Beverly Hills. On the sunny afternoon of Thursday, May 14, 1998, Frank and I sat out by the pool on the grounds of Foothill and had lunch together. He was in his wheelchair, and he didn’t finish his favorite food, a grilled cheese sandwich, but he was in good spirits and seemed fine.
In the previous few days he’d accepted visits from a few people, including his former road manager Tony O. They had shared a pizza. I was glad Frank had had more of an appetite that night, as he’d lost weight recently and I didn’t want him to lose his strength.
“Remember I’m going out tonight, darling,” I told him after our lunch together. “I’m having dinner with the Deutsches, but I won’t be late.”
“Oh, you still live here, do you?” he said, using one of his favorite one-liners if I’d been out more than usual. Another was “This place ain’t doing so good for a hotel!” whenever there was nobody around. The truth was that Frank insisted I go out and have fun whenever I received an invitation. “You go ahead,” he’d tell me. “I don’t want you sitting here all the time looking at me.” Apart from when I had to go to Palm Springs each spring and organize the charity golf tournament, I really didn’t leave him very often and never alone. If I did have to go out or away, I made sure he had twenty-four-hour nursing and usually arranged for a friend or relative to keep him company as well. That night, Armand and Harriet had insisted I take a break from Frank’s constant care. My spirits had plummeted in recent weeks as Frank became ever frailer and spoke openly about being tired of life. He was eighty-two; his further decline seemed inevitable, but I couldn’t even bear to think about it.
The Deutsches had invited me to dinner with some friends at Morton