John’s health worried me. One minute he seemed fine; the next, his leg would give out and he’d be on the floor in pain. I recall that one afternoon while he was on the stairs, his leg gave out, he tumbled down, and we spent the night at the hospital. After that, I watched him carefully. If he started to fall, I wanted to be around to catch him.
One day in spring, John and I set out for a picnic he’d planned as a surprise. I love surprises and enjoy driving, so I started out in a wonderful mood as I sat at the wheel of John’s huge sixteen-passenger van.
The van came into my life not too long after John moved in. John said he’d gotten it for his school for schizophrenics, to help while he was gathering material for his thesis. He had turned control of the school over to someone else, but he would still pick students up and deliver them for their training program. I knew it was important to him . . . so important that I had agreed to finance it despite my better judgment. I knew my finances were already in trouble, but John pleaded that the lease was up and he couldn’t afford to buy it. In a flood of words he talked me into buying the van for him, saying it could be in my name, and he’d make the payments on my credit union loan.
As much as I enjoyed the van for outings like this, the refinancing was a sore subject. I hadn’t discussed it with anyone, and I didn’t care to think about it now. Gobi, in the backseat beside the picnic basket, let out a bark, and John directed me west on the Delta Highway.
I had been taught at an early age that it is shameful to share feelings. In our family we didn’t discuss personal problems. Our mantra was “Keep it to yourself,” so this secret had to be mine alone. I also learned that love was rewarded only if I was a perfect little girl. Now I was that perfect little girl for John. I got him the van he wanted, and for that, he rewarded me with his love. For his love I was willing to stuff my apprehensions about the refinancing into my sack of secrets. It was what I had been trained to do, and I did it well. I would do whatever was necessary to make our relationship work.
“The van is great,” I said, smiling, wanting to convince John, and trying to convince myself. “It’s an adventure just driving this thing, and you know how much I love adventures. Like our last Caribbean trip.”
He grinned and directed me north on I-680, across the Benicia Bridge, to a scenic overlook of the Suisun Bay. “I want to show you something special,” he said, leading me up the path to the picnic table. “Look . . . out there.”
He pointed to the Mothball Fleet, the floating graveyard of World War II ships tethered together, waiting their turn to become scrap iron.
“I’ve seen them all my life, John.”
“Not the big one, out front. That’s the Glomar Explorer.”
“The big boat? The one all by itself?”
“It’s not a boat, Barb, it’s a ship. How many times do I have to tell you they’re ships?”
Flipping the red-checkered tablecloth out over the table, I said, “All right, all right. I stand corrected.” We laughed.
As I set up our first course of chilled Chardonnay, Sonoma Jack cheese, and fresh strawberries, I could see by the gleam in John’s eye that he was off in another world, reliving his own adventures. He began to share them with me as he opened the wine and poured it into the Austrian crystal wineglasses. He told me the CIA had asked him to command that ship back in the seventies, when they wanted to recover the Russian nuclear submarine that had sunk seven hundred miles off the coast of Hawaii.
“Did you?”
He shook his head. “Told them no. After my experience in Panama, I wasn’t up for any more dangerous assignments.”
I remembered the gory Panama story from the night we first met. The retelling of his exploits never ceased to amaze me. His financial irresponsibility never ceased to amaze me either. Although I knew this was hardly the time, and as much as I hated having to do it, I realized I had to get him back to the present and our financial situation. I couldn’t handle this problem alone. I needed his help.
He poured me another glass of wine. I took a sip, and casually asked, “Any word about your latest commission check?” I paused before going on. “They’ve put you off for five months now, and things are getting pretty tight.”
“I know. I know,” he said, hanging his head. “I’m sorry. Just can’t get Vestico to break loose. But I started looking around for some other funds. You know, like you suggested.”
My ears perked up. Maybe I had finally gotten through to him and he was going to come through soon after all. “And?”
“And my cousin, Jason Green, is going to buy my Danville house for two hundred thousand dollars.”
I jumped to my feet. “That’s great! When do you get the money?” I didn’t want to sound like a gold digger, but the bills were beginning to resemble the listing Titanic. I was desperate to straighten out the mess, to keep us afloat, to get us back on an even keel.
“In seven years.”
“Excuse me? What was that?” I slumped back on the picnic bench, shocked. How could you sell a house and not get any money for seven years?
John explained that Jason couldn’t afford to get a loan, couldn’t make payments. In seven years he’d pay the money in one lump sum. John was not going to charge Jason interest, only taxes and upkeep. Unbelievable! My body tensed and my head pounded as I watched my hopes drift out with the breeze across the bay. We both fell silent.
John eventually spoke. “You sure know how to ruin my surprises, don’t you?”
Surprises? More? I held my breath. John fumbled around in his billfold, pulled out a folded piece of paper, and handed it to me.
“Grandmother Dannigan came through,” he said. “Take a look. It’s a five-thousand-dollar cashier’s check.” Before I could wonder why she hadn’t sent a personal check, he continued. “She gave one to each of my cousins as well.” He waited until I read the check. “But you’re right. We need a long-range plan. So I put one together.”
Almost afraid to hear it, I asked softly, “What is the plan?”
He told me we could rent the Antioch house where we were now living and move over the hill to my larger home in Concord, which was in a better neighborhood. The Concord house, for which I was still paying my share of the mortgage payments, wasn’t selling. Until it did, I wouldn’t get my portion of the sale. Unfortunately, it didn’t show well because my ex-husband, Bryan, was camping out in it like a squatter. “A little paint, better furniture, and it should sell right away,” John pointed out. “That would remove a large financial drain on you, don’t you see?”
I did see, and the more John talked, the more it made sense, except for one thing. “Why is it always me who bails us out?” I asked.
“Because you’re so good at it.”
Despite his teasing, I felt my despair lift. I relaxed and began to set out the fried chicken and potato salad. “I’ll call Bryan tomorrow.”
“That’s my girl,” John said. He poured me another glass of wine. Sipping it, I could picture my desk, and the bills getting paid that night.
FIVE
The Proposal
I paid the movers, closed the double doors, and turned back into the two-story foyer. Here I was again, back home in Concord. I called out for John.
“I’m back in the bar. Almost got the liquor put away,” he said.
He’s so cute, I thought, happy as a lark. But nothing could dissipate the cloud of desperation that hung over my head. Fervently I hoped our plan would work. It just had to!
“The movers are gone,” I yelled back. “Let Gobi and the cats out of the sewing room.”
I slipped off my shoes. The cool dark oak parquet floor refreshed my aching feet. If only it could refresh my aching soul. I turned right and sat down heavily on the step of the sunken living room. I was exhausted, not so much from the physical activity of packing and moving, but from the mental strain. Stirred emotions surfaced, bringing up the memory of problems I hadn’t bargained for. Initially, Bryan had accepted our moving plan, but ev
erything went downhill from there. John’s commission checks continued to be delayed, and Bryan asked for an additional two months. All this stretched out our move-in date and aggravated our financial situation. The stress took its toll on my body. I had fainted at the annual blood drive at work.
“You have an extra heartbeat,” the doctor told me afterward. “Been under any stress lately?”
“Not really,” I said. How could I divulge my secrets to a stranger? How could I reveal my worry about strained finances, Bryan’s delays, John’s family? No, I couldn’t tell. I had become a master of denial. Besides, this was a private matter, and I was sure I could find a way to handle it myself.
Sitting there on the living room step, though, I was engulfed in the pain I had experienced in this room, this house I had helped build over seven long years, and the pain of my failed marriage. I hugged my knees to my chest and sighed. In this room I had made one of the most important decisions of my life, a hard, lifesaving decision. My eyes brimmed with tears at the memory.
“Here now, what’s this?” John said as he stepped into the living room and sat down beside me. Tenderly he lifted my chin with one finger as he wiped away the tears. “Today is a happy day. Why the sad face?”
My emotional dam burst. I buried my head in John’s chest and sobbed. I sobbed about the way Bryan’s affairs had loomed over our marriage, even as I labored to make it work. I was a good little Catholic girl clinging to my vows. Divorce was a sin, unmentionable. But no matter what I did for him, Bryan’s demons couldn’t be exorcised. The schism between us magnified and opened up a chasm neither of us could bridge.
I struggled with the words as I told John how Bryan had slowly distanced himself from me, emotionally and sexually, about how our marriage turned platonic. We became business partners, cordial to each other, but apathetic, and always busy. Busy finishing the house, busy building our cabin in the Sierra foothills, busy doing anything, everything to keep from communicating.
I sat up and looked into John’s blue eyes and continued.
“Intimacy vanished. Evaporated. The void devoured me. One day I put a cassette into the tape deck, turned the receiver to full volume, and sat right here, where we are now, as Donna Summers blared ‘Enough Is Enough.’ As I listened to the throbbing beat something happened. I joined in, defiantly belting out the words, as loud as I could. ‘Enough Is Enough!’ It boosted my courage. ‘Enough Is Enough!’ I stood and firmly planted my feet. ‘Enough Is Enough!’ I’m getting a divorce.”
“Whew,” John said. “Some pretty strong emotions got stirred up, didn’t they?” I nodded as he gave me a warm smile.
“What say we try to get rid of them,” he beamed. “Let’s plan a party.”
I love a party as much as anyone, but my mouth fell open at John’s suggestion. “A party? We’re not even settled in yet, and there’s so much to do, to get the house ready to sell.”
“I don’t mean right away,” he countered. “I was thinking about a barbecue and swim party on Labor Day weekend. That’s a month away. This house is perfect for parties, so spacious and well laid out. It’d be a shame to let a holiday go by without one.”
John bubbled over like a little boy with a new toy. He wanted to show off his new house and share his good fortune with our friends, to show them a good time. His enthusiasm was contagious, and I couldn’t resist.
“I’ll even do all the cooking,” he bribed, enveloping me in a bear hug.
“Okay, okay. I give in.” I laughed. “We won’t be here long, so we may as well have one big, blowout party.”
We chatted about whom we’d ask, what we’d serve, getting sillier and sillier as we concocted the lists. Tired as I was, it felt good to plan something joyful together. I had no idea that John had a plan of his own, a long-term plan that was about to unfold.
“You know, this is a great house,” John said.
“Of course it is. I built it. Remember?” I teased, jutting out my chest in exaggerated pride.
“No, no, I’m serious,” he continued. “It’s too bad we have to sell it after we fix it up.”
I started to respond, but he held his index finger to my mouth. “Shush. Before you comment, I have something important to say. Wait. I need some stuff from the kitchen first.”
He struggled to get to his feet, holding on to one of the decorative poles separating the living room from the foyer, and winced.
“Damn back and neck!” he exclaimed as he shuffled off to the kitchen.
This man of mine, I mused...so mysterious, so loving, so full of surprises, and in such constant pain. It tugged at my heartstrings. I heard him ramble about, open the refrigerator, move some boxes, then a distinct pop.
“Need any help?”
“No, thanks. I have everything under control.” John walked back through the foyer holding a bottle of champagne and two paper cups. At his side Gobi padded along, head raised, sniffing for a handout.
“Well, almost under control. I couldn’t find the champagne glasses, so these will have to do.” He handed me the bottle and paper cups, then hunkered down beside me. Peaches and Patches scampered into the room, investigating their new digs.
“Here, let me pour,” he said, taking the bottle as I held the cups for him. He set the bottle down between us and raised his paper cup.
“I’ve always told you my time with you has been the happiest of my life,” he said, “and I really meant it. So here’s to the woman who has made me the happiest man alive.”
I smiled and touched my paper cup to his. We both took a sip. Not to be outdone, I raised my cup. “And here’s to the man who lights up my life.” We both sipped once more, basking in the afternoon sunlight filtering in from the upper foyer window. Then, gently and with purpose, he reached over and took my right hand in his.
“You have made me very happy,” he said. “There’s only one thing that could make me happier. Would you be my wife? I want to marry you and spend the rest of my days with you.”
It was the declaration my heart had been aching to hear for the last six months. He wants me to be his wife. The admiral’s wife!
“I don’t know,” I blurted out, surprising even myself. I looked down at my hands, at my feet, everywhere but into John’s eyes. The proposal had caught me surprisingly off guard. Instead of triumphant joy, I tumbled into an abyss, lost in the world between good and bad, positive and negative, fighting my inner self for control of my boundaries.
What young woman in her right mind would give up sex for the rest of her life? Am I really happy? Isn’t this just like last time? But no, I argued with myself, unlike Bryan, John can’t help his health problems, can he? I was being unfair, judging him and projecting the hurt from my last relationship onto this one. It wasn’t that John didn’t want to make love. At least he wasn’t cheating. Besides, he showed his love in sweet gestures, in buying me presents, in cooking dinner, in rubbing my feet as we watched TV. He was definitely affectionate with me, and I enjoyed our time together.
My finances have never been so bad. I’m constantly stressed out and embarrassed by his habitual overspending. He’s too irresponsible. I countered these thoughts, too. Finances were strained at the moment, but John’s sizable checks, however erratic, did appear. He promised to get Vestico under control or find another consulting job. He’d already sold his house. I knew we could count on that money, even though it was seven years away. If things got really tight, there was always his inheritance, controlled by his grandmother. Surely she would help John out by advancing some of his share if he were facing a true financial hardship? Also, we planned to sell the Concord house and move back to Antioch. The finances could be handled.
What about his angry outbursts? How long before he hauls off and hits me? What about his threats to leave? I asked myself. Those concerns hadn’t reared their ugly head for some time. He hadn’t hurt our pets since the night with Peaches, and he’d never, ever hit me. If we were married, he wouldn’t be able to leave so easily. My whi
tewash brush was busy making everything clean and fresh. I was a woman in love.
How about John’s arrest? Oh, yes, the arrest. The month before our move, John was arrested and booked on felony grand theft, over four Remington Rand typewriters. I was devastated and scared. It had to have been a misunderstanding, otherwise Ted would not have put up his motorhome as bond. John’s explanation sounded reasonable. He had purchased the typewriters for his school for schizophrenics and was waiting for his stipend from the state to pay for them. A mistake. It was all a big mistake. He’d be able to get the charges dropped. I stopped asking questions and stuffed this in my sack of things to deal with later.
As boundaries disappeared, happy thoughts flooded in and I felt more pleasure than pain. Saturday nights were no longer lonely. Travel, one of my passions, was exciting and adventurous. Mexico. St. Croix. Where else might we go? Best of all, our relationships with my family and friends blossomed.
My denial and neediness worked overtime. All couples have issues to work through, I reasoned. Ours will be financial. I knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that I made John’s life better. He had said already that his time with me was the happiest in his life, and it would improve once we ironed out our difficulties. My resolve strengthened. I would get him reunited with his family. I would take care of him when he was sick. I would provide him with my family and new friends. I would get him to change his spending habits, to become financially responsible. If anybody could do it, it would be me. Yes, me. I could fix anything. I just had to put my mind to it.
For the second time in my life, sitting on that living room step, I made a major decision. Unlike the first time, I wasn’t feeling trapped, defiant, aching for something more. I was making a happy decision, positive, and invigorating. I felt in control of my future. I was charting a new course for my life’s journey. We had been together for more than a year, and I knew all I needed to know about him. I looked into John’s blue eyes.
A Dance With the Devil: A True Story of Marriage to a Psychopath Page 6