A Dance With the Devil: A True Story of Marriage to a Psychopath

by Barbara Bentley

  I was so pleased that my friends seemed to look up to him. I wanted them to know more about him. Because they were all bridge buffs, I mentioned that John was a master bridge player.

  “Great,” Pam said. “Then we’ll have to have a bridge dinner sometime soon.”

  As John and I were the first to leave that night, I had no way of knowing until years later that after we’d gone, my friends discussed John and agreed that he was opinionated and had dominated the conversation. They were convinced John had a serious problem with exaggeration, that he was delusional. They could not understand my attraction to him and argued about whether one of them should talk to me about him. In the end, they agreed I’d probably dismiss their concerns and might even get angry. Because they valued my friendship, they agreed to accept John, exaggerated stories and all.

  While they were deciding that, I was deciding something too. Back in Antioch, we pulled up to my house and I invited John in for a brandy. The house was mine and I loved driving up to it and living in it . . . all two stories, three bedrooms, two-and-a-half baths, and double garage of it. It was a great satisfaction and a point of pride that I could reward myself with such a beautiful place after having worked hard for many years. I could control my life in a way that was visible to everyone.

  Despite the late hour, John didn’t hesitate to accept my offer for a drink, and soon it was apparent he wanted more. So did I. I took him by the hand and led him upstairs, sure it would be in our mutual best interest if I were to show how very much I cared for him. What better way to do that than to give him all of me? I asked him to stay the night.

  Looking back, I now realize that my invitation propelled me into the waiting arms of a cunning psychopath. How could that happen? I thought I was a strong adult, in control of my life, an intelligent woman attending Golden Gate University at night while maintaining a fulfilling career during the day. I owned a brand-new home and a slightly used sports car. At that time, what I didn’t recognize was that the exterior trappings I used to gauge success masked an inner void that made me vulnerable.

  I now see that my move “over the hill” five months earlier had been more traumatic than I had realized. It started on moving day, when my boyfriend of a year didn’t show up as promised and had called with a lame excuse that sounded the death knell to our relationship. I felt abandoned, and I silently grieved. That evening, as I climbed the stairs to bed, a surge of loneliness had swept over me, a loneliness brought on not only by my boyfriend’s desertion, but also because all of my family and friends remained fifteen miles on the “other side of the hill.” I felt as stranded and alone as if I had been on a deserted island. Several months later I’d had a jealous reaction to my friend Pam’s marriage even though I was definitely happy for her and George. In a convoluted sort of way, I once more felt abandoned, as if her marriage would end our friendship. It didn’t. When my busy schedule of a full-time job, college studies, and new-home decorating left no time for dating and perhaps finding a new love, I was ripe for the picking.

  That night, when I asked John into my house, I realize now that aligned circumstances made me emotionally needy. John recognized it the first night we met. Like a panther on the prowl, he picked up my scent, sized up his prey, and moved in for the kill. I was emotionally defenseless against his attack and fell for his dedicated attention.

  THREE

  The Courtship

  By the following week my emotions were so completely out of control that I was unable to concentrate on running my analytical lab. Me, the woman who practically invented the art of staying focused. John Perry was to blame. Ever since the night I invited him into my heart and my bed, I was blindsided. Now, for me, there was nothing else... only John.

  Snap out of it, I scolded myself time and time again. Pay attention to what you’re being paid to do. Mostly, I’d succeed. But fragments of our blossoming relationship kept interrupting my work with visions and memories . . . not all perfect, but at least hopeful. I could almost feel it . . . our bodies coming together, disappointment that our lovemaking had not been better, John’s attentiveness with his toupee askew, my belief that practice would make perfect. After all, his neck and back did cause him pain.

  John had stayed at my house for the next three days. During that time I believed I had learned all I needed to know. The man sharing my bed was a hero. During that first night, my fingers traced John’s scar, a hero’s scar. From the middle of his back his badge of honor stretched to the right down toward his waist, then traveled around to the middle of his chest. The first sight of it made me wince.

  At the touch he remarked quite simply, “Vietnam. When I lost my lung.”

  I cuddled him all the tighter, deciding I would somehow erase his terrible memories of war, but each night, as he cried out from his nightmares, I realized that the experience of war ravages not only men’s bodies, but their souls, leaving even heroes like John raw with pain. As John thrashed about, I woke to hear him scream, “Zero Charlie! Zero Charlie! Plane going down!”

  In my caretaking mode and without any experience of dealing with a psychopath, I was sucked up into John’s stories, all of them. Why would I suspect them as lies? Didn’t he have the horrific scar that proved his courage under fire and a neck brace for the pain from the recent encounter with a baggage cart? Didn’t I see the myriad of pills he swallowed daily to alleviate the pain? Since then, I have learned that extracting pity is a major ploy of a person without conscience because it’s so easy to trap a victim who has compassion. John deftly played the pity game with me. His compelling stories kindled my empathy and love. I would learn much later that most of his tales were concoctions of his devious imagination wrapped around microscopic kernels of truth.

  Now in the lab, I ordered myself to concentrate on my work. I was supposed to be titrating samples, not dreaming about easing John’s pain. It was a losing battle. I wiped a tear from my eye, remembering John’s anguish while he explained his recurring, disturbing nightmares, each with its own name, each connected to one of his horrifying war experiences.

  “Zero Charlie took place during the Korean conflict,” he stammered through his own tears, “when my squadron was attacked. We were outnumbered and retreating.” His voice cracked. “I saw the enemy spitfire above Joe’s plane. He was my best friend. I kept yelling, ‘Zero Charlie, Zero Charlie’ . . . even after he blew up right in front of me.” His voice became a whisper. “I couldn’t save him. I always ask why . . . why him and not me? He was the one with a wife, three kids. I wasn’t married.”

  My lab phone rang, jolting me from my reverie. It was John, in Mexico City, calling during a break from his business meeting. How much better could it get?

  “Hey, guess what I found in my briefcase?” he said.

  “What?” I breathed, knowing full well what he had found. Before he left for the airport, I had slipped my snapshot portrait behind some of his papers.

  “I’ll never remove it from my briefcase,” he gushed. And he never did.

  “You honor me, sir.” This man of mine made me feel so special. I felt myself melt and glow with each word he spoke.

  “Ted won’t let up on me, you know,” he said. “Keeps chiding me about how worried he was when no one at work heard from me while I was over at your place.”

  I smiled, remembering those three glorious days. We were a perfect twosome, going to dinner, making awkward love, gushing about each other. It felt wonderful to be the center of someone’s attention, but not just someone. John was a war hero with a famous family, a celebrity of sorts, and I wanted more than those three days. I wanted to be around him all the time. I had known him for only a month, but he had penetrated my heart and added spice to my ordinary life.

  “I’ve got to come back down here in a couple of weeks,” John said.

  “Oh,” I said, unable to keep the disappointment out of my voice.

  “When I do, I want you to come with me.”

  “Go with you?” I loved to trave
l, to experience new places. I wanted to say yes with abandon, but I couldn’t. “Ship’s coming in,” I explained. “I have to analyze the incoming products. I’m sorry, John. No can do.”

  It was so typically me. I had a reputation as someone you could count on, especially here at work. This dependability started when I was ten and my parents began what I called their “second family,” three girls and a boy, spread out over the next nine years. I was the live-in babysitter, an immature third parent. But it was because of this dependability that I could afford nice clothes, a nice used car, and a nice home. My finances were stable, but I had to keep a close eye on my pocketbook. With care and prudence, my money situation was under control, and it was important to me to keep it that way.

  “Surely you’re due a vacation,” he argued. “No one’s indispensable. Find someone to cover for you.”

  “I can’t.”

  “C’mon, Barb, I want you with me. Please.”

  “I don’t know. I guess I could miss a few days of work, but I’ve got a final in my hazardous materials class.”

  “At the university? That’s no big deal.”

  “It is because I’ve got an A riding on it.”

  “Negotiate it. Postpone the final.”

  “Can I do that?”

  “Sure. Hell, I did it lots of times, when I studied for my Ph.D. at Berkeley.”

  “A doctorate?”

  “Didn’t I tell you? I’ve just completed my thesis in psychology and only have some required student teaching to finish.” He explained that he had started a school for schizophrenics as research for his thesis. The program offered job training for clients to foster their independence and included typing classes and bird care. Incredibly, my brother had just been diagnosed as schizophrenic, but it didn’t seem appropriate to share this fact at this particular moment, on a long-distance call from Mexico.

  “John, you never cease to amaze me!” There was always something new, something exciting going on in his life. He was a true Renaissance man. “I don’t know, John. I don’t think I’d better.”

  “Honey,” he said, “I’ve already told my business associates down here about you. About how I met the woman I’m going to marry.”

  I gasped. Had he just mentioned the M-word? I wanted to embrace the words he’d spoken, but my conservative upbringing warned me to beware. No matter how much I wanted to be with him always, this was moving far too fast. All I could utter was, “We’ll see.”

  After ringing off, I called Western Union and sent John a telegram: “You light up my life. You give me hope to carry on.” Not exactly original, but it said exactly what I was feeling. From that moment on, I began counting the days until I would pick him up at the San Francisco International Airport, as he had requested, even though I’d have to use a vacation day to do it.

  Three days later, I easily spotted John in the baggage claim area. He was a vision to behold, the epitome of a man of the world, the best-looking man in the best-looking suit carrying the most handsome briefcase and garment bag. A shopping bag rested at his feet. As soon as he saw me, his face brightened in a loving smile. I felt so proud.

  By the time we crossed the Bay Bridge, John had already showered me with gifts, and such expensive gifts: an exquisitely embroidered blouse, a gold Mexican coin, and a handcrafted copper plate. I couldn’t believe my good fortune. He was spoiling me, and I had to admit to myself, I loved it.

  “Listen, John,” I said, “we’re making a stop first. I’m bringing you over to meet my parents.”

  “What? Now? Why?”

  “I think it’s time.” I explained this would be the best way, maybe the only way, for my parents to accept my decision to fly off to Mexico City with a near stranger.

  “Fair enough,” he said. “Bring ’em on. I can’t wait to meet them.”

  “But, John?”

  “Yes?”

  “Please, no mention of...” I sighed. “Well, please don’t mention anything about marriage. Okay?”

  He shrugged. “Sure.”

  Forty minutes later we pulled into my parents’ driveway in Concord. I led John through the back gate, through the garage, and into the family room.

  “Barbara!” Mom exclaimed testily when she and my father saw us. “What’s the matter with you? You know the back door is only for family.”

  Rather than say John would soon be family if things went as I expected, I introduced John as my new friend. Once we were all seated at the kitchen table, I quickly told them about John’s recent trip to Mexico City. I even ran out to the car to fetch the gifts he’d given me so that I could show them off.

  Yes, I was overanxious, but only because I hoped John and my parents would hit it off. I believed my family could not help but be impressed with the gifts and the man who had chosen them for me. When it appeared my folks had taken the bait, I casually said, “John is going to take me with him on his next trip to Mexico City in two weeks.”

  I braced myself, waiting for the floodgates of parental negativity to open. When they did, I prayed that John and I would withstand the surge and prevail in the end.

  We listened to their warnings about bad water, Montezuma’s revenge, and bandits. What about the language barrier? The cost, how could I afford it? I know my parents were concerned for their daughter’s safety, but more than that, I knew they wanted to protect my reputation.

  To each of their warnings, John countered with soothing words. We’d only drink bottled water; eat in the best restaurants; stay in a first-class hotel in the Zona Rosa, the most exclusive business area in the city. All costs would be covered by his expense account. He even went so far as to offer a religious appeal. We would visit the holy shrine of Our Lady of Guadalupe.

  Not even God that day could make it come out right.

  “You go ahead and do what you want, Barbara,” Mom grumbled, making it perfectly clear that she and my father did not approve.

  As usual, when it wasn’t worth the battle to change their minds, I changed the subject. I mentioned John’s distinguished family and his military career. This was a huge tactical error. Dad leaned forward, and the inquisition began.

  “Weren’t you a little young for World War II?” he asked.

  “I lied about my age,” John replied, “and went in against my dad’s wishes. When he found out what I’d done, he tried to move me into officer school, but it was too late. I was already a member of the first underwater demolition team.”

  “The one that became the SEALs?”

  “Yep.” John’s chest seemed to swell, and his eyes sparkled. “Not even my dad’s rank could get me out.”

  “Rank? Oh, right. Barbara told me you said your father was the rear admiral who started the Seabees.”

  “He was a commodore at the time,” John pointed out, “and made rear admiral at the end of the war.”

  I desperately wanted to find some way for these two men to come together on common ground, so I mentioned to John that my father was a lover of history, an avid reader, and a World War II buff. Mom, unhelpfully, took that moment to roll her eyes and mention that my father had only been stationed stateside. John didn’t seem to notice or care.

  “Well, sir, if you’re a history buff,” he said to Dad, “you probably know that my father was at the signing of the armistice with Japan, right there on the USS Missouri.”

  “Really?” Dad said. He stood, quickly crossed the room to the bookshelves, and pulled down a volume of the encyclopedia. He flipped through the pages and returned to us. “Here’s a picture of the signing,” he said. “It doesn’t say anything about Admiral, excuse me, Commodore Perry.” He handed the book to John.

  Mom and I came around to peer over John’s shoulder.

  “There!” John said. “That’s my dad.” He tapped one of the indistinguishable faces in the row behind the signatory table. I strained to see the face of his father but couldn’t make out any distinct features, and none of the attendees were identified in the caption beneath the ph
oto.

  “Guess we’ll just have to take your word for it,” my father sneered. I glared at him, but he was not looking my way.

  While my mother went into the kitchen to brew some coffee, my father continued to avoid my eyes and pursue his interrogation of John. “Tell me, John, based on your military exploits, why didn’t you settle someplace closer to a base, say, a base like Alameda?”

  John calmly replied, “Truth is, I never liked Navy social games. Not then. Not now.”

  John was fine, I thought, just fine. He was handling my father. I could breathe easy, knowing it was safe to leave the two of them to talk, so I excused myself to go into the kitchen to help Mom. John stood, excused himself, and asked for directions to the bathroom.

  As I turned toward the kitchen, I noticed my father returning the encyclopedia to the bookshelf. After replacing it, he quickly pulled out another volume. I stopped to observe him as he seemed to study one particular entry until he saw John saunter back into the room. Dad snapped the book closed and shoved it back onto the shelf without a word. What, I wondered, had he been so interested in, and why hadn’t he shared whatever it was with John?

  As Mom and I served coffee and cake, I tried to steer the conversation away from our previous topics, but my father continued to run the show, and the next wave of questions quickly ensued.

  “Barbara tells me your great-grandfather is Admiral Peary of North Pole fame. Why then, do you spell your name P-e-r-r-y instead of P-e-a-r-y?”

  Without hesitation John answered. “Simple. He’s my great-grandfather on my mother’s side of the family.” Winking at me, he added, “I’m a real Navy brat.”

  Dad leaned forward toward John. “Okay, then tell me this. If you’re so famous and can run in any social circle you want, what do you see in my daughter?”

  My lips parted, but I could not speak. My eyes stung with tears as I tried to make sense out of what had just taken place. Even John was speechless. What in the world was my father implying, that being the daughter of a blue-collar worker had forever cast me in a lower social stratum and that I, his own daughter, wasn’t good enough to be with this man . . . my hero, the country’s hero? I was humiliated and embarrassed, not just for myself and for John, but also for my father, for insulting a guest that way.