From Here To Eternity

“Out of the tree of life, I just picked a plum
You came along, and every thing’s starting to hum…
Still it’s a good bet, the best is yet to come.”

I can see myself, all of 4, perched on a kitchen chair listening to my mother sing along
with Frank Sinatra while waltzing with a broom stick. I’d harass her with questions. “Mommy, are you a good witch or a bad witch?”

“What do you think?” she’d ask, her flip flops snapping across the floor.

“Why are you dancing with a broom?”

“Because it dances a whole lot better than your father does.” Then I’d have to ask why Frank was picking plums.

“Because they’re his favorite fruit,” she’d say, as though they were the best of friends. Frank, unbeknownst to him, ruled our house. I think I was 12 before realizing he wasn’t a distant relative since on Christmas there was always a gift under the tree signed, “You better be good kid, or else. Love Frank.”

His albums were stacked reverently on one side of our RCA stereo console, a clunky
piece of furniture I’d stub my little toe on if I took the hall corner too fast. “Be careful,” my mother would shout, “you just made Frank skip.”

When other kids were reciting nursery rhymes I was belting out Bewitched, Bothered and
Bewildered that sounded more like bawit, bobbered and what’s the rest Mommy? while pretending to be a Copa girl, copying my mother, who did a wild imitation of one. She’d hike up her housedress, stand on her toes, then kick her legs high in the air with her arms stretched out as if she were the star of the show. She looked more like the star of a mental institution, but my dolls and I clapped anyway.

“If your father hadn’t come along, I’d a had some career,” she’d tell me repeatedly. “But here I am, all this talent wasted, making Jell-O.”

“But Mommy,” I’d say, “you gotta have high hopes, Frank said so.”

“You’re right kitten,” she’d answer, shaking her head. “We must remember Frank knows
best.” He didn’t always, I decided, at least not the Halloween when she made me dress up as one of the Fruit of the Loom cherries, swearing it was his idea. That was one time Frank definitely could have minded his own business. I remember being asked if I came with a set of briefs.

When I was in my 20s, working in London, my mother came to visit. From the second she stepped off the plane, all she could talk about was Madam Tussauds Wax Museum because apparently they had just unveiled a brand new Frank. Nothing else interested her, not even the Queen, who she said dressed like a Mormon. “It wouldn’t hurt if Liz showed a little shoulder once in a while,” she’d inform anyone who’d listen. She did mention The Tower of London hoping that they still had Anne Boelyn’s head. “They could have saved it,” she insisted, “salted her, you know, like a big cod.” I must admit, this piqued my curiosity too proving how well our family might have done in the funeral business.

Madam Tussauds is a very odd place. The point of visiting waxed replicas of the rich and
famous eluded me, but to keep peace, I agreed to go. I should have known when my mother asked Humphrey Bogart for a cigarette we were headed for trouble. Since Frank was nowhere to be found, I said, “Look Ma, there’s Tony Bennett, will you settle for him?”

“Absolutely not,” she said, quite insulted. “Frank has to be here somewhere.”

“I don’t get it Ma,” I finally said. “he’s wax for God’s sake.”

“He’s still Frank, and a wax Frank is better than no Frank – ya got it?”

“No, I don’t got it and you should have just gone to Vegas.”

“I would have, if you took that crash croupier’s course I was more than willing to pay for.” Rather than a doctor, she dreamed of her daughter becoming a dealer. How’s that for high hopes? She meandered over to Adolph Hitler displayed in a protective glass tube. “Get a loada him,” she said. “he even comes with his own carrying case.”

“That’s bullet proof Ma,” I said, “so nobody punches him in the nose.”

“That’s not nice,” she said, “what if he heard you.” Suddenly she spotted Frank. “There he is, there’s Frank.” She immediately put on fresh lipstick. “How do I look, I don’t want him to see that I’m jet-lagged.” That’s when I snapped.

“Why should he care…even a fake Frank doesn’t give a damn that you’re a little puffy.”

“Watch your mouth young lady, you’re still not too big to hit ya know,” she said, dragging me across the floor. “Why doesn’t Frank come with a case?” she said, appraising him like a prize bull.

“Let’s face it,” I said, “who’d have the nerve to mess with Frank, even a wax one.”

“That’s not the point, and why isn’t Jilly with him? He never goes anywhere without Jilly.”

“Ma, who’d come see a wax Jilly?” Jilly Rizzo, who owned a saloon in Manhattan, also acted as Frank’s occasional bodyguard. My mother was having none of this. Waxed Frank was in peril and she was going to do something about it.

“I want to see the manager,” she said. Before I could stop her, she accosted a well dressed man dusting off one of the Marx Brothers. “Excuse me,” she said, tossing me a little wink, “I’m a friend of Mr. Sinatra’s and I don’t think he’s being treated properly.” The man gazed at her with quiet contempt.

“I assure you Madam, Mr. Sinatra is in the best of hands.”

My mother, who wasn’t quite buying this said, “Look here buddy, we’re from the United States of America…remember us, we threw your tea in the harbor?” A crowd had begun to gather.

“Come on Ma, I think we should go.”

“Not so fast. I think Maud over here cares more about that German in a jar than his own guests.”

“Ma, just look at the care he’s taking with Harpo.”

“Yeah but What about Elvis and Jack Lemon?”

“We didn’t even see Jack Lemon.”

“That’s not the point. Nobody but Hitler comes with luggage, not even a briefcase. It just isn’t right!”

“MA, LET’S GO.” I tried aiming her towards the exit.

“I think that’s an excellent idea,” agreed the manager.

“Oh you do now,” snapped my mother, “wait till Frank hears about this…and stop shoving me Susannah.” By this time I was pushing her from behind like an obstinate cow.

“I demand a refund,” she hollered, bumping into Marie Antoinette. “We didn’t get to see Bob Hope.”

When Frank died on May 15, 1998, my mother was inconsolable. She placed round the
clock lilies on top of the stereo that hadn’t worked in years. She even stopped cooking, something I never thought I’d see. Picture Martha Stewart shuffling around with a take-out menu. It was only when she learned that The Best Is Yet To Come, the title of her favorite song, was inscribed on his tombstone at Desert Memorial Park in Palm Springs, did her gloom begin to lift.

Leave it to Frank…even from the grave, he knew just what to say. Did I mention that Jilly is buried there too?