JFK Jr., George, & Me by Matt Berman

Author:Matt Berman
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Gallery Books

6.

MARTY, WHAT ARE YA THINKIN’?

We pulled up to the mammoth wooden gates of Barbra’s house. There didn’t seem to be a button for guests or an intercom box anywhere, so John got out of the car and shouted into the trees, “Hello? Anybody home?” We heard the click of a latch releasing, and the gate opened automatically.

Situated high on a cliff overlooking the Pacific, the house was huge and designed to feel like an idyllic American home, with picket fences, pointed gables, and bright white clapboard siding. There was a meandering flagstone path leading to an arched front entrance, where I saw a tiny, pale figure in the doorway. Carolyn’s warning, “She’ll eat you alive,” echoed in my head. As we walked down the path, John whispered, “Remember, we have dinner plans at nine o’clock.” He wanted to be sure he didn’t get tied up all night.

Funny Girl was leaning against the doorframe with her arms folded and a familiar, wry, half-smile on her face. “John, what a young staff you have,” she said in her best Dolly Levi voice. She was wearing white cotton from head to toe, a pair of stretchy pants, and a sort of Flashdance -style off-the-shoulder top. She was dewy and freshly moisturized, her hair artfully mussed. She looked so perfectly casual that it must have taken some time to achieve the look. I had the feeling she hadn’t been editing a movie all afternoon.

I always loved What’s Up, Doc? and The Owl and the Pussycat when they were on television, and I always defended Guilty, the album she did with Barry Gibb, to all my music-snob friends. I saw The Way We Were with my parents at the Ridgeway Theater, and my dad told me not to laugh at my mom when she cried at the end. I had rented all of her movies the week before in New York— all of them, even Yentl and Nuts. There was no mistaking who was standing in front of us, but her features seemed to be a miniature version of Barbra Streisand. Her eyes were cooler, foxlike and piercing, not the loveable eye-rolling Fanny Brice I was hoping for. She looked really good at fifty-five years old. John kissed her on the cheek and introduced me. After shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries, she offered us a tour of her house. She spoke in a dramatic way, emphasizing every syllable and punctuating occasionally with a Brooklyn-inflected “You know what I mean?”

The house was traditional in style but Hollywood in proportion. It was filled with colonial-style antiques and folk art, with girly touches here and there. There was an antique teddy bear sitting on a lace doily on a spooled rocker. She summed up her style emphatically. “I just like American things.” Sunlight streamed into massive rooms packed with treasures. In the dining room she stopped and flashed a finger over her shoulder at a huge painting. “Hey, John, you know what that is? It’s a Hopper, ” she said, strongly emphasizing the H.

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