She always wanted to perform cabaret. So she did: Little Edie sings at Reno Sweeney.

Little Edie sings at Reno Sweeney

On the evening of January 1, 1978, I went to Reno Sweeney, the renowned Greenwich Village cabaret, to see Edith Bouvier Beale perform. It was the culmination of a series of events that began a few months before. (This all took place after the publicity concerning the Board of Health raid on the house, after the movie, after the death of Big Edie, and after most of the cats were gone.)

Edie was a friend. I used to visit and spend time at Grey Gardens. There was no pretense about Grey Gardens being anything but a ramshackle old mansion with raccoons in the attic. Frank Newbold remembers Edie greeting him at the door with a can of Raid to ward off the fleas that were endemic in the house. I used to carry my own can of flea spray to protect my ankles.

Edie is an intelligent woman and we used to have interesting conversations about her family and about East Hampton history, and we used to look at the extensive collection of old letters and diaries and photographs of the Bouviers. She had always wanted to be in show business and felt frustrated that she had not been able to pursue a career while caring for her invalid mother. (Her favorite cats were named “Sonny” and “Cher”.) Then one day she told me that an agent had phoned her about performing at a nightclub.

I didn’t know what to think. Edie was odd and reclusive, in some ways a prisoner of her past and of her house, living on memories and grocery deliveries from Dreesen’s. Jacqueline and Lee arranged for her bills to be paid. I used to bring her things, and Mr. Onassis used to send packages. Once, Edie wanted to send a thank-you note to him for some big boxes from Bergdorf’s, and in her own form of encryption, to keep it from preying eyes, she wrote in tiny letters on a tiny sheet in a tiny envelope. But when she took it to the post office, the postmaster told her it was below minimal size for mailing.

Edie was also outgoing, garrulous with the few people she saw on a regular basis, and with the occasional stranger who crossed her life. She liked going out, although she did not seem to have many opportunities, and I sometimes took her to dinners and to parties. People liked her—she was, I thought, a natural storyteller and entertainer. She responded unconventionally, but fetchingly, to people in a room or at a table, and people reacted to her.

I could picture her with an audience, but I could not picture her in the hard and possibly cruel world of New York cabarets. So, with mixed feelings, I found myself driving her into New York one day for an audition at Reno Sweeney. Edie sang, did a little soft shoe, then we all talked. The management at the club seemed sincere to me. I didn’t expect them to be listening to an unusual middle-aged lady just for her singing abilities—we all knew the score—but I wanted to feel that they weren’t interested only in exploiting the family connections. And I left thinking that in these strange circumstances it was about as good a situation as one could expect.

Edie called Jackie to tell her. Jackie’s response, as related to me, was that she preferred Edie avoid publicity and not perform, but if it were something so important to Edie, she would certainly not stand in the way. It was, I thought, a wise and kind answer.

On her opening night, Edie sang—familiar songs like “Tea for Two” and “As Time Goes By”, and two songs she had composed, one of which she said was written for me. She danced a little—that was her real talent, she used to tell me. She answered questions and chatted with the audience. It went well. People genuinely liked her. Jackie sent her a note. Lee sent flowers.

Edie said “This is something I’ve been planning since I was 19 years old—I’m just going to have a ball.” She did, and so did everyone in the room.