Lady Blue Eyes_ My Life With Frank - Barbara Sinatra [158]
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 casket 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