I moved to the edge of my seat, ready to call the whole thing off, to say we’d do it later, somewhere else. Out the window I could see we were entering a more affluent area. There were attractive shops, banks, restaurants, pharmacies, trees and benches, and strolling shoppers. I slumped back into my seat.
“Where’s the chapel?” I asked, scrutinizing each street we passed.
“I don’t know,” John said. “The police chief set everything up.”
John had used his Mexican friend in Los Angeles to facilitate getting a minister and a marriage license. The police chief was the go-between.
J.R. pulled into a parking place between two police cars and John hopped out. “Stay here while I go in,” he said. He disappeared up the steps, past guards armed with machine guns. Within minutes he was back in the car. “We missed the chief. He had an emergency and left his apologies.” John waved a tattered piece of paper. “But he did make the arrangements. Here’s where we need to go, J.R. Fast. He closes in ten minutes.”
John turned toward me. “It’s not the chapel like we thought. It’s the office of a justice of the peace.” He looked at the paper again. “Señor Pepe Sanchez.”
“What about the ring? And flowers?” I cried. “We were supposed to stop and get them before the ceremony.”
“Don’t have time. We’ll get them afterward.”
I cringed, and fought back the disappointment. Then, as if these developments weren’t enough, the car edged back into the industrial part of the city, and I grimaced at the poverty and blight that appeared once more out my window. My head began to swirl, my heart pounded, I felt queasy, and when the car stopped in front of a dilapidated former store, I just about passed out. John leaned over and whispered in my ear.
“Come on, Barbara. We love each other. That’s all that matters.” I bit my lip to hold back the tears. Thankfully, J.R. and Carrie kept looking away. Is it all that matters? I thought. Is love enough? If he loved me, why would he expect me to continually accept less than we had originally planned for our wedding? Looking back, I now see these words as a powerful tool of verbal abusers.
“No ring, no flowers, no nice chapel, no family, no friends, no police chief?” I moaned.
John took my hands in his. “I love you and soon we’ll be married, if that’s what you want.”
“Of course it’s what I want. But here? Like this? It takes away from everything I thought would be beautiful.”
“We can call it off,” John interjected sharply, sitting up straight in his best military way. “Real easy. But, you know, we’ll have put a lot of people out.”
“Okay, okay,” I relented. That responsible part of me reared up, ready to protect everyone’s feelings but my own. “Let’s do it.”
I climbed out of the backseat. A middle-aged man appeared in the store’s doorway, adjusting the collar of his multicolored, open-neck shirt. “Señor Perry?”
“Sí.” John extended his hand as he walked around the back of the car. “Señor Sanchez?”
“Sí.” the man answered, vigorously shaking John’s hand as he put one arm around him. The two became engrossed in a conversation in Spanish and disappeared into the storefront. I caught Carrie’s eye as we walked in behind them. I shrugged my shoulders and flashed a halfhearted smile. She gently squeezed my hand, as if to say everything would be fine. But when I looked around inside, there was no way she could erase the dismal setting. I viewed with distaste the dark paneled walls, the avocado open-weave drapes, the worn linoleum, the gray metal desk, the street noise, and the justice—who, it appeared, did not speak English.
“We have to fill out these papers,” John said, walking over to a small Formica table next to the front window. I sat down gingerly on one of the orange plastic chairs. John handed me the legal-size pages and sat down opposite me.
“Where’s that camera of yours?” J.R. said.
I felt in my purse as I read the papers in front of me.
“This is all in Spanish!” I exclaimed, handing the retrieved camera to J.R.
“Don’t worry,” John said. “All you have to do is sign here . . . and here... and here.”
If there’s one thing I try to be careful about, it’s signing any kind of legal document. I make sure I read every word. In this case, with my one semester of Spanish, I knew that was impossible. I could make out that it was a certificate of matrimony and that it had my name and my mother’s name typed into the text. I would just have to trust John that everything was on the up-and-up. I signed where directed.
“Smile,” J.R. said as he posed us for our first photograph in that dismal setting. I responded with one of my happiest grins, reflecting that, after all, this was my wedding day.
Señor Sanchez positioned us in front of the gray desk, the groom to his right, bride to his left. Well, at least something about today is traditional, I thought. John stood in true military form—back erect, chest out, chin up, his naval aviator’s wings pinned to his lapel. I was proud to be standing next to him, about to become his wife.
Without flowers or rings, John and I intertwined our hands. Señor Sanchez read, in Spanish, from a small, worn book. Soon he came to a part where he paused and nodded at John, who looked over at me lovingly and firmly pronounced, “I do.”
The Justice continued a bit, then paused and looked up at me. Figuring this was my part, I gazed up into John’s eyes and smiled, saying “I do.”
After more words, Señor Sanchez closed his book. He grinned and motioned for us to kiss. We didn’t unclasp our hands, no groom embracing his bride, no longing kiss, just a quick grazing of lips with me tiptoeing up to meet John’s, as if this contributed to the seriousness of the step we had just taken. We released our hands and turned toward J.R. and Carrie.
“Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Perry,” they chimed.
Mrs. Perry. The sound of that pleased me. Mrs. Perry.
“Now let’s go get a ring, and some flowers,” my husband said.
We left the ugly office and climbed into the backseat. I snuggled into John’s embrace. Mrs. Perry. What a beautiful sound. Disappointing as the wedding ceremony had been, I was Mrs. Perry. I was at last the admiral’s wife.
But at what cost, I now ask myself. What led me to accept such a dismal situation that was awful in every way? I believe deep inside I felt unlovable, and out of desperation and fear of rejection, I accepted marriage at any price. I needed John. I needed him to rescue me from the stark loneliness that existed before he came into my life. I was an intelligent woman who was emotionally insecure, and John knew just how to manipulate me to get what he wanted—I was his golden goose who would provide him with the lifestyle he wanted to live, the consummate goal of any card-carrying psychopath. So although the wedding was far from what I had wanted, I put aside my fairy-tale wishes and deferred to John’s plans—all with a smile on my face.
At a small jewelry store back in town I chose a petite, dark blue sapphire set in a twisted knot of gold. It was one of the few rings in our price range—inexpensive. John paid for it and slipped it into his pocket. A clock on the wall rang out five chimes.
“We have reservations at La Escondido for five thirty,” John said. “Let’s go, Cinderella.” He ushered me out the door. “We’ll get flowers at the restaurant.”
Despite the friendly banter in the car, I couldn’t help feeling lost. The events of the day kept running through my mind. I tried to push away thoughts of the distasteful building and the little man speaking in Spanish, but when we drove into an empty parking lot of the restaurant, I couldn’t help myself. “If this place is so popular, where are all the cars?”
We waited in the car, under a large portico covered with bright red bougainvillea, while John went inside. Several minutes later he bounced back to the car, grinning from ear to ear. “They open in ten minutes. We’re early, but they said for the bride and groom to come in and have a drink.” He winked at me.
I always try to make the best of a situation. So far,
today’s events made it a challenge. The event this evening was our wedding dinner. I was determined it would be okay.
On the way to our table, my positive attitude started paying off. We were in an upscale dinner club with burgundy leather-upholstered booths, flickering candles, white linen-covered tables, and fresh flowers. I needed this romantic ambience more than I realized.
“I asked to be near the band,” John grinned. “We want to have our wedding dance, don’t we? And I ordered us a bottle of champagne.”
The evening was looking up. Once we were settled with the champagne in our glasses, J.R. announced, “I believe it’s appropriate for the best man to give the first toast.”
“Oh, wait a minute,” I said, digging into my purse. Out came my camera and I set it on the table. “We must have our pictures.” We all chuckled and raised our glasses. Click, click.
“Here’s to Barbara and John—for richer, for poorer, in sickness and health, until death do them part.”
John and I intertwined our right arms and sipped from our glasses. The camera flashed. “Well, let’s not talk about the death part,” I grimaced. “That’s a long way off.”
John set his glass down and fumbled around in his coat pocket.
“I think you’ve waited long enough for this,” he said. “It’s time for the ring ceremony.” He took my left hand. “It’s a little out of sequence but, what the heck, better late than never.” He chuckled, amused at himself. I hadn’t had enough champagne yet to laugh, but I did manage a smile.
John spoke at length of his love for me, and finished by saying, “With this ring I thee wed.” He slipped the ring on my finger, and the camera flashed once more. I glowed. This time it wasn’t the champagne. I felt deeply loved by this man . . . my husband.
The restaurant quickly filled with well-dressed patrons enjoying themselves for a Saturday night on the town. When the flower girl approached us with her wicker basket, John picked out the two largest orchid corsages.
“A white one for the bride and a purple one for the matron of honor,” he grinned, laying them on the table. Once he had pinned my corsage on me, we put our heads together, forehead to forehead, looking into each other’s eyes and smiling, as only two people in love can do. The camera flashed and captured that moment forever. J.R. was doing a great job recording our special day. The band started playing the “Wedding March.” How did they know? John gave me a quizzical look, shrugged his shoulders, and smiled.
“A little bird must have told them,” he said. We stood, at the insistence of the bandleader, who announced that the next song would be for our wedding dance. As we twirled around the dance floor, my spirits lifted. The audience applauded. All eyes were on us. The earlier experiences of the day evaporated. I was the fairy-tale princess at the ball, and I had just married my prince.
Later, back in the bridal suite, I put on the white negligee Debbie had given me at the wedding shower. I posed, looking into the mirror above the fireplace, to show off the low-cut back. The camera flashed for the last time that evening.
I have always been tenacious. If something gets stuck in my mind I will not rest until it is sorted out, no matter how long it takes. What I kept looking for in my relationship with John was some proof, any proof that would validate his stories about himself or his absentee family. On the way back to the Los Angeles Airport we stopped at the mission in San Juan Capistrano, and I saw an opportunity to shed some light on at least one of John’s stories, the one I thought of as the “Three Arch Bay House” story. By now I had begun to name his stories. He had many, and he told them often.
As we walked around the inner courtyard of the mission, past the ancient cacti, making our way to the old bell tower to see the swallows, I hatched my plan.
“Isn’t your house at Three Arch Bay near here?” I asked, even though I had already checked out the map in the gas station when we filled up before leaving San Diego. “I think it’s a direct hop to the ocean from here, only a couple of miles.”
“Yeah,” John said. “It’s Spanish, just like this mission.” Without any more prompting, he reminisced once more about how his father had bought the land in the 1930s for next to nothing and built a home on the point with an unobstructed view of the ocean. He had barely moved in when Uncle Sam transferred him, so he leased the home to the Hollywood couple Anne Jeffreys and Bob Sterling, who still lived there.
“I’d love to see the house, John. Do you think we could go by it for just a minute?”
Without hesitation he replied, “What a great idea!”
If he didn’t own it, I would have expected him to stammer, to back-pedal, and to find some reason not to go to Three Arch Bay. When he didn’t, my spirits lifted. Finally, I was going to get some tangible proof that he was who he said he was, that he owned what he said he owned. I followed John’s instructions and turned where he directed, but we found the street closed off by a guarded wrought-iron gate.
“I didn’t know they put this up,” John said. “I guess we can’t go by the house.”
“Why not go up to the guard and tell him who you are?” I asked. “Tell him you own the big house on the point.”
“No.”
“Why not? It’s your house.”
“I’m not going to disturb the renters,” he said coldly. “Besides, I don’t have any proof with me. The guard won’t let us in without that.”
No matter how much I prodded and pleaded, he was adamant. We were not going into that development that day. I pulled the car around and headed up the coast. John must have sensed my disappointment.
“Pull off the road, right there,” he said pointing to a dirt turnoff. “We’ll be able to see the roof of the house from there.”
So to appease my need for something concrete, something tangible, I parked the car, and pulled out my camera. I took a picture of the house, or at least the roof of a house that I believed belonged to John and his sister, Lydia. I secretly wished John’s stories would not be so difficult to validate.
We continued up the coast, talking, as newlyweds do, of the future and all the great experiences ahead of us. “Just more thing,” I teased as we sat on the plane, its engines whirring, ready for takeoff. “Now that we’re married, you can get my spouse card so we can shop at the naval base commissary, and I can officially prove I’m the admiral’s wife.”
John grabbed my right hand and kissed it.
“Anything for my new bride,” John said as the plane lifted off from the runway, heading northward toward home and our new life together.
PART TWO
Patience
SEVEN
The Bliss
The sun slipped lower and created intense orange splashes and purple streaks in the Mexico City sky, but I couldn’t enjoy its beauty. Not now. Not on this street, in the historic but run-down part of the city. Not in front of a locked, dilapidated colonial church, with John pounding on the heavy timber-and-iron front doors. No, definitely not now, with our religious wedding plans rapidly disintegrating right before my eyes, as our civil ceremony had done two months earlier in Tijuana.
It was déjà vu. I was miserable then. I was miserable now. Why had I let John talk me into joining him at the end of his business trip? We should have done this in the United States. As the tears welled up, I valiantly fought them back.
I craved a religious ceremony, a blessing from God, essential so I could feel truly married. I needed something more than a piece of paper with Spanish writing and vows in that crummy office in Tijuana. Even though I was no longer a practicing Catholic, God’s presence in my life was very important. Was this blessing worth it if it caused this much pain?
We were a ridiculous sight, a wedding party of eight, dressed in fancy clothes, standing around on a darkening street, whispering like conspirators. Adamo and Sophia, John’s Mexican business partners, agreed to stand up for us. They brought along their two children and two business associates when their last meeting of the day ran late.
“I d
on’t know what happened,” John said. “I called two days ago and made all the arrangements with the minister.”
“The lights are on inside the church,” Adamo said.
“I hear voices,” Sophia added. “Somebody’s in there.”
The lump in my throat kept me silent.
John started pounding again and yelling in Spanish. Adamo joined in. The doors didn’t open. They pounded harder. The ruckus attracted the locals and a young policeman walking his beat. He strutted up to John and demanded to know what was going on. I cringed. Policemen intimidate me, no matter what nationality.
John quickly explained. The policeman glanced at me, and a smile spread across his pockmarked face. I returned the smile and relaxed a little. He banged the ancient door with his night-stick and yelled, “Policía! Abre la puerta!” Nothing happened. He banged on the door again and repeated himself, even louder. Finally, the ancient door creaked and an old man with sparse white hair stuck his head out.
The policeman jabbered at him, and the door opened even wider. We shuffled in and the policeman went on his way. John continued to argue with the old man as the rest of the wedding party slid into the last pew and waited. The old man shook his head and shrugged his shoulders, then waddled across the chipped tile floor up the main aisle toward the vestibule.
“He’s going to get the minister,” John said. “We’ll have this straightened out in no time, and we’ll have our religious wedding.” He gave me one of his everything-is-going-to-be-all-right grins. It didn’t help.
The dimly lit church reeked of passing time, a time when the rich built what today’s poor could not maintain. Faded paint peeled from the ceiling. Votive candles flickered in bent iron holders, and ragged red curtains covered the carved confessional doorways. Disappointment crept over me, and I struggled to breathe. The walls closed in on me. I needed to get out of there at once. I needed fresh air. I needed to be alone.
A Dance With the Devil: A True Story of Marriage to a Psychopath Page 8