I bolted outside and stood near the corner, under the dim street-light, and looked back at the old church. The wedding bouquet dangled sadly by my side. My free hand wiped away the river of tears that rolled down my cheeks. I was the crying bride, a pathetic vision dressed in a long-sleeved, floor-length ivory voile dress, with ivory lace at the collar, wrists, and hem. Men and women stared. Children stared. Dogs stared. I didn’t care.
I should have paid attention to the warning signs that appeared earlier in the day. First, the hotel power went out. Then the flowers didn’t show up and we had to scramble to find a florist for last-minute bouquets and boutonnieres.
Sophia emerged from the church, followed by the rest of the party. John strode over and put his arm around me. He was not smiling. “I talked to the minister,” he said. “He’s had a change of heart about marrying us, so he called it off. He said he left a message at the hotel this morning.”
“If he did, we never got it. Why did he renege?”
John hugged me even tighter. It felt good to be in his arms. I relaxed into his chest.
“He said he had second thoughts about marrying a divorced woman.”
“What!” My body tensed and I withdrew from John’s caress. “How could he? We have the letter from the Concord pastor to cover that.”
I grabbed my purse from Sophia and dug around until I pulled out a tattered envelope. I slapped it into the air. “What about this? Doesn’t it count for anything?”
Before we left for this latest business trip to Mexico City, Sophia had cautioned us that we might need a letter from a minister in the States, giving an approval of why I, as a divorced person, should be married in a religious ceremony. Fortunately, we found the pastor of the First Presbyterian Church in Clayton. He understood why my first marriage had failed; my first husband’s infidelities had put a rift between us that could no longer be tolerated. So he wrote the letter.
“I told him about the letter,” John said. “He doesn’t care. He said he didn’t want to be party to a union made in sin.”
“Sin? I’m not sinful.” I paused to let the words sink in. “Oh my, it’s my fault we can’t do this in Mexico,” I wailed. “I feel like a fallen woman.”
The teachings of the Catholic Church, ingrained in me as a youngster, flooded my consciousness and produced big-time guilt. The Church had denied me access to the sacraments at home, so a church wedding was not possible there. Here, now, it was happening all over again.
I was inconsolable as we all piled into the two taxis that had been patiently waiting for our fiasco to finish. Back at the Hotel Chapultepec, as we gathered in the bar my dark mood continued to lay a pall of gloom on everyone. I decided to drown my sorrows in drink.
“I’ll have two double margaritas,” I said. “On the rocks.”
With drinks delivered, John raised his for a toast.
“To my bride,” he said as he smiled. He raised his glass again and toasted the two businessmen and Adamo, who were still with us. Finally, he looked at me. “We will have our religious ceremony before we go home.” He leaned down and kissed my salty, tear-stained lips. I drained my first drink without coming up for air.
“I want a picture of this moment,” I said. “Where’s my camera?” That’s me. No matter what’s happening in my life, I like to record it on film even if it’s not at the happiest of times, as it was now.
“Oh, my God.” John gasped. “You told me to take care of it. I set it down in the pew at the church. With all the commotion I forgot to pick it up. Be right back.”
He jumped up and ran outside for a taxi. Normally I would have been angry at such thoughtless treatment of one of my prized belongings. Now I just smiled, settled back into the caress of the soft bar chair, sipped my second drink, and slipped into oblivion, hoping that somewhere, sometime soon, we would create a happy memory of a religious ceremony in Mexico City.
Several days after we returned from Mexico City we hosted a party for our family and friends. What they expected as an afternoon Christmas party was, in fact, our wedding reception, planned discreetly so no one would feel obligated to bring a gift.
We had created the “Mexico City Wedding” story, and John regaled the guests with how we finally found an English-speaking minister who married us in the Union Evangelical Church. The ceremony appeased me. The church, in an upscale part of the city, had been romantically embellished with fresh pine Christmas wreaths, red bows, poinsettias, and tall white flickering candles.
John held up my left hand to show off the ring he had slipped on my finger at the religious ceremony. I thought the ring, with its semiprecious green stones, looked far too masculine. But because John’s cousin had supposedly made it, I kept my thoughts to myself.
“This marriage is bound to last,” John said with a twinkle in his eye. “We’ve been married three times now.”
That brought the house down with laughter. We ate Chinese food brought from San Francisco, cut a large three-tiered wedding cake, and watched George and Ted blow out candles on a joint birthday cake. After the last guests shuffled out the door, I grabbed the bag with the mail that had accumulated while we were gone. With all the last-minute preparations for the party, it was my first opportunity to look at it.
“Here, give me that,” John said. “You relax while I sort.”
I sat on the brick hearth, next to the crackling fire, and watched John quickly creating piles on the coffee table. Bills, advertisements, Christmas cards, and . . . six returned wedding announcements. We had sent them out in the middle of November to announce our Tijuana wedding. I reached over, quickly grabbed the pile, and read the names of John’s children, his grandmother, and his sister beneath the NO SUCH PERSON AT THIS ADDRESS stamp. Pain pinched my face into a frown.
“John, what happened? Did you get all the addresses wrong?” He got up from the couch, sat down beside me on the hearth, and grabbed the envelopes from my trembling hands.
“No, the addresses are fine.” He sighed. “Yesterday I briefly scratched through the mail. When I saw the envelopes, I called my grandmother. It’s the same old story. She said the whole family is upset about us getting married. You know, the you’re-a-gold-digger-and-out-of-my-class routine.”
I shook my head. “I wish they were here, John, to assess the situation fairly. Why can’t they accept me the way my family and friends have accepted you?”
He shrugged his broad shoulders. What could he say that hadn’t been said before during one of our why-don’t-they-like-me conversations? But we were married now. Why couldn’t they be happy for us? I knew I must be missing something, but I couldn’t imagine what. Perhaps I feared the truth, afraid it might change the happiness I thought I had found, or that it would irrevocably change my relationship with John. I could not take that chance. So I let it alone to gnaw away slowly at my peace of mind.
John placed his hands on my shoulders and looked me in the eye. “Someday, they will know the wonderful person that you are. We’ll just have to be patient.”
Three weeks later we left for Hawaii to enjoy our delayed honeymoon. We flew first class, and it got even better when we checked into the recently renovated Moana Hotel, one of the first hotels on Waikiki Beach. The hotel looked like its original image on the black-and-white postcards in the lobby. It didn’t have air conditioning, but we didn’t need it. We were in love, glowing with that everything-is-wonderful aura of newlyweds, despite our ages. The ceiling paddle fans stirred the tropical ocean breeze. It was deliciously romantic.
On Sunday afternoon we strolled down the beach boulevard, hand in hand, drifting in and out of gift shops and art galleries. At the window of the Center Art Gallery we paused. “Oh, look at the original Red Skelton painting,” I said. “Let’s go inside. I love Red’s clowns.”
Red Skelton was a comedic icon of the twentieth century. He started his vaudeville career in 1928 and eventually carried his talent into movie theaters and television. When my dad finally broke down and got a TV set
in 1957, the family would gather in front of it and watch Red deliver good, clean comedy. It set the standard for comedy for the next twenty years.
We were barely two steps inside the gallery door when a tall, thin man with curly gray hair approached. His open shirt revealed several gold chains around his neck. He introduced himself as Isaac Rosen, a customer representative there. When John introduced himself as “Admiral Perry,” Isaac’s eyes lit up, his smile got even wider, and he vigorously shook John’s hand. I felt like a fish being circled by a shark. I wanted to escape.
“We were looking at the Skelton oil in the window,” John said.
“Good choice,” Isaac said. “It’s a real bargain at sixty thousand dollars.”
I moved in close to John and poked his ribs with my elbow.
“Well, it’s a little out of our price range,” I said, laughing. John started to speak, and I let my elbow do the talking once more.
“Let me show you some of his pastels,” Isaac said without skipping a beat. We walked farther into the opulent gallery, past several more of Skelton’s original oils, to a side room. “Here’s one he did on an airplane napkin last year, his hobo clown. It’s only seventy-five hundred.”
I gulped, embarrassed to say even that was more than we could afford. Unfazed, John jumped right in. “Not bad,” he said, as I discreetly elbowed his side once more. He ignored my signal. “It really is unique, and what a fantastic story, being on the napkin and all.”
John put his arm around my shoulders and gave me a loving squeeze. “Barbara, it would look great in the living room. Just think, you’d own an original Red Skelton.”
I tried to graciously decline by alluding to the fact that we were newlyweds, struggling to make ends meet. Of course I couldn’t tell Isaac the truth, that the credit cards were once more near their limits and we hardly had enough cash to cover the minimum payments. John’s commission check was late again. It was going to be a stretch to pay for the honeymoon. At least the airline tickets were almost free, from the deal offered when we had flown to San Diego the previous October. Isaac wasn’t listening, or he was ignoring me.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “You can put fifteen hundred down and make payments as you can. We’ll mail it to you when it’s paid off.”
“That’s my man,” John said, “someone who thinks on his feet. We can swing that.”
I grimaced and slowly drew in my breath. Isaac caught the sign.
“I’ll leave you two alone,” he said. “I’ll be in the office when you’re ready.”
We stood there in the Center Art Gallery, whispering about our financial situation. I tried to convince John that the grand theft charges settlement had strained our finances. No luck. He tried to convince me we could swing the payments. I tried to make John understand it was because of the grand theft fiasco that Vestico was delaying his checks, as he had been telling me for six months. John countered that he had a new position with Gemina and that his checks would start coming in from his sales there.
I turned my back to him. I was getting nowhere and worried the discussion would end badly, with him raising his voice and threatening to leave me again. Where was that independent woman I once was? Fear crept in like the fog and clouded my vision. Perhaps more frightening was that John’s twisted persuasions sounded more and more logical. I relented. I reached into my purse, turned around, and handed John my credit card.
“You won’t be sorry,” John said, giving me a loving pat on my butt.
While we sat in the office signing papers, John shared several of his favorite escapade stories. Soon he started to brag to Isaac about the next part of our honeymoon, on Molokai. “I’m going to show Barbara my beach,” he said.
My jaw dropped. “What beach?”
“A little surprise I was keeping until we got over there.”
“You have beach property on Molokai?” Isaac perked up, “with a view of Oahu? Very nice.” He leaned forward in his chair and rested his arms on the desk. “Tell me more.”
John sat back in the tropical rattan chair, stretched his legs out with ankles crossed, and with exaggerated hand gestures expounded on his “Father Purchasing the Molokai Beach” story. He told us that his father, Rear Admiral Perry, purchased it when he was stationed in Hawaii, right before Pearl Harbor. At that time only someone with native Hawaiian blood could buy property and his blood was one-eighth Hawaiian. (I never did quite understand how.) When his dad passed away, John inherited the beach and his sister, Lydia, inherited another property.
“This is the first time I heard that story,” I said.
“Well, I can’t tell you everything, now can I?” John smirked.
“Wow, our own beach. We could build a retirement house, with a huge front porch. Can’t you just see it?” I said, and widened my hands. “On one side of the porch, John, you can write your life story and on the other I could do my painting, all to the sound of the waves crashing on the beach.” I could hardly sit still thinking about it. It was a dream I would hold on to tightly.
“You need to write a book, Admiral,” Isaac said. “It sounds like you’ve lived a very rich, colorful life.”
“Yeah, a lot of people tell me that,” John said, folding his hands on his stomach.
“Hmm. Maybe I could add something to your book,” Isaac said. “Why not come back on Easter weekend and meet Red Skelton? He’ll be here for a special gallery show.”
“Meet Red Skelton?” I stuttered. I couldn’t believe my ears. A famous celebrity; someone I admired. Reality quickly jerked me back. “We’d love to, but....”
“I’d be honored if you’d stay with me,” Isaac said. “That way it’d save you some money, and we could get to know each other better. The house is only a restored cottage on Kahala Avenue, past Diamondhead, but the beach is just across the road.”
Did Isaac sense I was about to make another financial objection, or that my admiration of Red would win me over? He sweetened the offer and it worked.
“Wow, a chance to meet Red Skelton,” I giggled. “I’m a princess and this is my real-life fairy tale.”
“We accept,” John said. “It sounds like a fun weekend.”
As we left the office, I dug into my purse.
“Isaac, can you take a picture of us by our painting on our way out?”
EIGHT
Glitter
Three months later we were back in the Center Art Gallery, looking for our pastel on a napkin among all of Red’s art that hung on the walls of the upper floor. Meeting Red Skelton was only moments away. The stage was set. Two red canvas director’s chairs were in a corner. On one, the name RED SKELTON was printed in white, on the other, MRS. SKELTON.
I could hardly contain my excitement. “Do you think I look okay?” I asked John for at least the hundredth time.
I had fretted for months over what to wear to the two receptions at which we would meet Red Skelton. Frugality was part of my blue-collar upbringing. Ultimately, casting money concerns aside, I went to a store where I would not otherwise shop, a store that carried expensive clothes. Tonight I hoped my fancy black cocktail dress and gold accessories were appropriate.
“You’re the best looker here,” John said.
“You’re not bad yourself,” I replied, and I meant it. He was tall and erect, with a sophisticated and worldly air. Just looking at him stirred me, but today it also brought out my sympathy. John was wearing his neck brace once more, still suffering from the accident that happened before we met. Doctors weren’t able to help. Pain pills and the neck brace were his comforts. As he looked around, every now and then he would wince, and I could see that neither was helping today.
“I found it,” John said. “Over there, on the side wall.” We trotted over eagerly, like two little kids hurrying to get into Disneyland.
“Oh, my,” I said. “Look. There’s a card next to it that says FROM THE PRIVATE COLLECTION OF REAR ADMIRAL AND MRS. JOHN PERRY. It’s so . . . so . . .”
I could feel
tears trying to well in my eyes. I’m a very emotional person. I cry at weddings. I cry at funerals. I get choked up, whether it’s happy times or sad, and this was definitely one of the most exciting times of my life.
“I didn’t know we’d get public acknowledgment,” John said, putting his arm around my shoulders. “Tell me, aren’t you glad we put the money down to get it?”
I nodded in agreement as Isaac Rosen made his way over to us, smiling, the ultimate host. He was so nice to let us stay with him, and he went out of his way to make us feel special.
“Told you I had a little surprise,” he said. “I thought you might like the sign. By the way, your friends came in not long ago and asked for you. I think they’re still downstairs.” He excused himself to mingle with the other guests who might want to purchase something.
“Don’t forget, anything without a sign next to it is for sale,” he added with a smile. We started to go look for Francine and Patrick and discovered them as they walked off the elevator.
Pam had introduced me to Francine fourteen years earlier. They were childhood friends and best buds. When Francine married Patrick, they moved to Oahu. The day before, we had looked them up and bubbled on about the art show and meeting Red. It piqued their interest, so I called Isaac, and he seemed delighted to include them.
“Thanks again for the invite,” Francine said. “We don’t usually come down to Waikiki functions. They’re too touristy.”
We wandered around, sometimes together, sometimes separately, admiring the many clowns Red had painted. Happy clowns. Funny clowns. Sad clowns. Some detailed in brilliant colors, others more sedate with white backgrounds. Red’s imagination stirred me. It also stirred John. He halted in front of a large painting of a whimsical clown whose arms caressed a fluffy gray kitten and a wooden, red clown puppet.
“Looks like Freddy the Freeloader,” I said. “I love it.” Freddy was one of Red’s pantomime characters, a lovable hobo who always got lots of laughs.
A Dance With the Devil: A True Story of Marriage to a Psychopath Page 9