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

by Barbara Bentley

  I was noncommittal. “I’m ready for another drink.”

  “I think you’re going to need it.”

  What was coming now, I wondered?

  John retrieved a large white envelope from under the bar and handed it to me, with an expectant grin. It was addressed, in formal script, to Admiral and Mrs. John F. Perry. The presidential seal adorned the left-hand corner.

  “We’ve been invited to attend the inauguration and inaugural ball for George Herbert Walker Bush!”

  “I’ll take that drink now,” I choked.

  The following month we exited the Capitol South Metro Station and looked for the Capitol. I still couldn’t believe I was going to attend the inauguration of the forty-first president of the United States, but the closer we got, the more real it felt. The excitement in the air was palpable. Crowds blocked the sidewalks and spilled out into the streets. Barricades blocked cars. Police directed confused pedestrians. The skies were gray, the chill wind invigorating, but at least it wasn’t raining or snowing. We had bundled up for the weather.

  “Our orange ticket says we are to enter by the Independence Avenue gate,” I said.

  “It’s this way, to the left,” Alec Baxter said.

  John and Alec were business associates, a relationship that had developed into a friendship. When I insisted that we couldn’t afford to accept the inaugural invitation, John worked it out so we could stay with the Baxters in McLean, Virginia. On the day of the inauguration, we had opted to get there by Metro and squeezed into a car with standing room only.

  We made our way to security, showed our tickets for the orange section, and eventually reached our seats. “John, how did you get such great seats?” Noreen Baxter asked.

  “I called up several Democratic congressmen. They get tickets, but since a Republican was being sworn in, I figured one of them wouldn’t want to go.”

  “At least we get to sit,” I said. “A lot of people are standing.” A man in the row ahead turned our way. “May I shake your hand, sir,” he said to John. “It’s an honor to meet someone who has won the Congressional Medal of Honor.” John fingered the medal hanging around his neck, said thanks, and offered his hand.

  “Do you see Calvin Coolidge?” I asked John.

  “In this crowd? You can’t be serious.”

  We had met Calvin Coolidge, his real name, on the red-eye flight from San Francisco, which we boarded with free mileage tickets. Calvin told us he was named after his distant cousin, the thirtieth president of the United States, and he explained that he was on his way to a luncheon hosted by the Calvin Coolidge Foundation at George Washington University. He asked if we would be interested in coming as his guests. History piled upon history. My life with John had exposed me to many new and exciting adventures, and now historical ones. Of course we said yes.

  The United States Marine Band started the program. I choked back tears as the president gave his oath. I felt goose bumps when he said, “A new breeze is blowing—and a nation refreshed by freedom stands ready to push on: There is new ground to be broken and new action to be taken.” Then it was over. The new president disappeared from the podium.

  “What now?” I yelled above the din of the band.

  “We have to make our way to the Medal of Honor stands for the inaugural parade,” John said.

  “That’ll be a problem,” Alec said. “Look at this crowd.”

  “You mean we’re going to have to walk fifteen blocks?” I complained.

  Three hundred thousand people crammed the streets, all inching their way toward Pennsylvania Avenue, unable to walk faster than a shuffle. I’d never seen anything like it, hoped never to do so again, and made a vow never to go to any event with a large crowd. We were squeezed and jostled. It was a nightmare, but we trudged on.

  By now the sun had come out, too weak to dispel the chill in the air. We braced ourselves against the cold. I looked at my watch. It would be a miracle if we got to the Medal of Honor stands before the parade started. When we reached Freedom Plaza, John checked us in.

  As we climbed to the top bench for the best view, John received more than one salute. I was proud of my man and proud of his Medal of Honor hanging around his neck. I didn’t notice whether anyone else was wearing one. We all did notice that the parade started an hour late.

  “We’re lucky we know the right guy.” Alec laughed. “This is perfect. We’ll be able to see the parade coming from the Capitol, and then it turns, right in front of us.”

  “Not only that,” John said, “each band, float, car, whatever, will stop in front of the stand and salute us.”

  “Including the president?” I gasped.

  “Including the president,” John smiled.

  And, sure enough, everyone did. It was just as John had said it would be. I was impressed, and in my glory.

  The inaugural ball had sounded romantic and sophisticated. At eight p.m. we were almost there. Alec crossed the Theodore Roosevelt Bridge and followed the limousines to the drop-off point for the Kennedy Center.

  “I’ll be back at midnight,” he said.

  “I’ll try not to lose my glass slipper.” I laughed. “We wouldn’t want to find you in a pumpkin, turned into a mouse!”

  A young Marine opened my door and offered his white-gloved hand. My black-gloved hand accepted, and he helped me out of the car. I felt like Cinderella. My Prince Charming got out the other side and came around. “Love your dress and diamond necklace,” John whispered into my ear.

  “I feel like a princess, a beautiful but financially strapped princess.”

  John had insisted I needed diamonds for the ball. I had never worn anything but costume jewelry. I thought his suggestion outlandish, and I refused. In the end John got his way as he always did.

  “You’re dazzling,” he said. “The prettiest woman here.” I did feel elegant.

  We entered the Hall of States, checked in, and got our inaugural plate. “Most expensive plate I own,” I said, taking it out of its box. “I figure it’s worth almost five thousand dollars.”

  “How do you figure that?”

  “Do the math. It cost three hundred fifty dollars for our tickets to the ball. Add clothes and accessories and what do you get?”

  “A five-thousand-dollar plate.” John laughed.

  We made our way down the crowded hall to the Grand Foyer, and my notion of what the inaugural ball would look like vanished ... poof ... just like that. It was so disappointing. The Grand Foyer was as packed as the Metro car we rode in that morning. People in formal dress stood shoulder to shoulder, trying to find a spot to stand, holding their two-dollar-fifty-cent drinks in plastic cups. Tacky. I scanned the room and saw folding chairs in some areas cordoned off with ribbon. Each area had a paper ice bucket on a stand.

  “Let’s go this way,” I said. “My feet are already screaming from these dress shoes.” We maneuvered to the chairs, but immediately a Marine came over and asked to see our reservation. We didn’t have one. He explained that patrons had donated a couple of thousand dollars for the privilege of sitting on the bare, cold, folding chairs.

  I realized that the round tables with white cloths and candles I expected were only in my mind, as was waltzing around the dance floor with my prince. Not a chance. The dance floor was one small area at the end of the foyer, and it soon disappeared as the mass of standing bodies challenged the posted room limit. A military dance band was playing, but the music was lost in the buzz of conversation.

  We soon learned there were seven balls going on all over Washington, and the president would be visiting ours at the south end of the foyer. We were at the north end. My feet threatened to go on strike. “How are we going to get there, John? There must be a thousand people crammed in here. No one is moving.”

  “Take my hand, and don’t let go.”

  John wedged through the crowd, smiling and excusing himself as he did. It helped that he was so tall. It also helped that he was wearing his Medal of Honor. Like Moses parting th
e water, John’s medal was soon clearing a small path for us to squeeze through the mob. We arrived at the south end of the foyer and scoped out a spot, back by the windows overlooking the Potomac River. It wasn’t ideal, but it would do. At least we could hear the band assigned to this end of the room.

  An older gentleman, his chest festooned with medals, came over to John, extended his hand, and introduced himself. John shook it eagerly. “Sir, my mates and I served with President Bush in World War II, in his flight squadron,” he said. “We’re in that reserved roped-off area, next to the press stage. Some of us noticed you’re wearing the Medal of Honor. My mates and I would be honored if you’d join us.”

  I looked over. People there had elbow room; it was an oasis in a hot desert. And it was directly opposite where the president would be appearing, on one of the balconies to the concert hall. We immediately took him up on his offer.

  Inside the area, we made our way to the edge of the press stage and leaned out, but the view was not much better. How was I going to get good photographs standing behind people a lot taller than I? I examined the stage. There was some room next to a man in a gray pin-striped suit, who was intently watching the crowd. I concluded he was Secret Service. I’m not shy, no matter who’s around. I nudged John. “I’m going to get up on the stage,” I said.

  “You’re what? Don’t be silly. They won’t let you.”

  “Watch me. All they can do is tell me to get down.” I hiked up my gown and John gave me a boost. The man in the suit bent over and offered his hand. I climbed onto the stage. He smiled. I smiled. We chatted. I was right; he was a Secret Service agent. John handed me my camera. No one asked me to get down.

  The trumpets in the orchestra blared. A hush swept over the crowd. Charlton Heston walked out to the center of the balcony and said a few words, and when he introduced the new president and his wife, the orchestra played “Hail to the Chief.” George and Barbara Bush appeared. George said a few words, then called for Bob and Dolores Hope and Neil Bush and his wife to join him on stage.

  I was starstruck. It was all happening in a blur. I couldn’t take pictures fast enough. I fielded other cameras from the floor, offering to take pictures for those stuck without a view.

  Quickly, as fast as they appeared, the presidential party disappeared. They had other balls to attend, other speeches to give. Neil and his wife were left behind as the official hosts for the Kennedy Center Ball. I was transfixed by what I had just witnessed.

  Moments later, it got even better. Neil approached the press platform and climbed up on it to give an interview with a newspaper reporter. “John, get our program out. Now! Get his autograph.”

  When the reporter was finished, Neil jumped back down. John approached him. Neil signed. It seemed the thing to do, even if he wasn’t an important dignitary.

  Later, in the car, as Alec drove along the George Washington Parkway, I looked across the Potomac River. The lights from the Kennedy Center danced on the water; the chandeliers glistened through the windows. I was proud to be part of this historic day.

  “It was interesting,” I told Noreen when we arrived home, “but not what I had imagined and I definitely would never do it again. It’s too political. I’m not into politics. Let the lawmakers play their little games.”

  FOURTEEN

  The Storm

  Five months after the inaugural ball, I sat in the San Francisco International Airport at American Airlines gate 65 and waited for John to return from a two-week business trip in Europe. I was still the romantic, and in love. On a whim I bought a bouquet of white gladiolas and a Mylar balloon saying YOU’RE THE GREATEST. I was happy my man was coming home, and I had insisted on picking him up.

  John’s business was going strong. He held contracts with well-known companies and several smaller businesses as well; he was finally bringing in enough money to cover his expenses and make a meager salary. But I was disturbed. The $200,000 payment Jason had promised to John, the one we had been awaiting for more than seven years, did not arrive in February, nor in March, April, or May. I was beside myself. I begged and pleaded, but John refused to press his cousin for the money. By June I insisted that John meet with Jason before he left on his business trip. John relented, but by his departure date, he had yet to see him. “I can never get hold of Jason,” he said. “I’ll do it when I get back from Spain.”

  I made a mental note to make sure he did.

  “Hey, good-lookin’, what’s this?” John said as he emerged from the gate. I handed him the bouquet and balloon and took his briefcase. He flashed a sexy grin.

  “I missed you,” I said. It was true. He was my other half, and the house was empty without him. He was my best friend, my partner, my travel buddy. We had many happy memories, as long as bill paying wasn’t part of them. Stretching on tiptoes, I kissed him passionately.

  Back home, John made our favorite drinks and we settled on the deck outside, overlooking the swimming pool. I was just about to ask him when he planned to meet with his cousin when he surprised me with a delicious diversion.

  “How about celebrating your birthday in Lyon, France, with Bruce and Laura Wenden?” John said. “And don’t bring up the money issue. Bruce is paying. Part of the time it will be business.”

  How could I say no? I had the travel bug, and John continued to make my travel dreams come true. The previous year we had connected with London friends for three days in Paris, then took a day trip by train to Dijon and toured Burgundy’s charming towns, wineries, and cobblestone lanes. Next, we’d flown to Malaga and driven through Granada, Cordoba, and Toledo before ending up in Madrid. There John had donned his Navy dress whites and Medal of Honor for a visit to the American embassy while he sent me off to the Museo Nacional del Prado to enjoy the art of El Greco, Goya, Rubens, Titian, Rembrandt, and others. Say travel and I’m ready to pack.

  “Here’s to more of France and Spain,” I said, holding my drink in the air. John’s glass clinked into mine. I looked at my watch. “We’re expected at the Rammells’ in about twenty minutes for dinner. I can’t wait to tell them about our next trip.” I decided to wait until another time to press John on the overdue loan situation with his cousin.

  I’ve always considered myself an intelligent woman. My university diploma and long-term employment attested to it. But somewhere along the way, my emotional needs blindsided me. I developed flawed thinking when it came to John. My naïveté, gullibility, and neediness allowed me to compromise, to reach erroneous conclusions, to subjugate my very soul to make him happy and make him stay in my life. I convinced myself that John could change his spend-thrift ways. When he didn’t, I told myself everything would be fine when we paid off the mortgages with the sale of John’s house, or with the advancement on John’s inheritance. This was my focus. He was so convincing that I came to accept as true whatever he said. It was a situation the French call a folie à deux ... a folly in which two people participate, one person (John) setting up a false reality, and the other (me) joining him in it. I had been dancing with the devil for eight years.

  I should have walked out, but love bound me and fear paralyzed me. I was happy at work, but with each successive mile on the ride home I would slip deeper and deeper into depression. By the time I pulled into the driveway, I would be exhausted, wondering what twist of fate would be revealed that evening to complicate my life further.

  It didn’t help that our beloved dog Gidget had died in September from an aggressive brain cancer and that my father’s health had rapidly declined from August to October, with two shunt surgeries and a stroke that left him an invalid, in a wheelchair, dependent on my mother and sister Julie to hoist him in and out of bed and feed and bathe him. I could see fear and shame in his eyes when he could no longer shift himself onto the toilet, and his frustration manifested itself into clamping his teeth into the arms of his caretakers. My father was but a shell of his former self. This compounded my gloom.

  The one bright spot during this time was the a
cquisition of a female golden retriever puppy. Devastated at the loss of Gidget, we did not plan to bring another puppy into our household, especially since Gobi was a geriatric nine years old. But the vet convinced us that a puppy would keep Gobi active and prolong his life, so several weeks later, John and I chose a wiggling pile of soft blond fur that we christened Gaby. We bonded with the puppy immediately. This was during one of my father’s hospital stays, and on the way back home with Gaby, we pulled into the hospital parking lot. I emptied my large purse, stuffed the fluffy pup inside, and with the bag held snuggly under my arms, John and I snuck through the lobby and up the elevator to my father’s room. There, I closed the privacy curtain and placed Gaby next to him on the bed. The smile on my father’s face was worth the effort.

  One afternoon, at the start of December, I pulled into the garage and noted that John’s car was not there. Inside the house I found a note attached to the refrigerator. “Have an emergency trip to San Jose. Back late this afternoon.”

  I started the teakettle and was pulling out a tea bag when the doorbell rang. I clicked the security lock and opened the door about five inches. Two stern-looking faces peered at me.

  “Can I help you?” I asked.

  “FBI, ma’am,” the taller one said as he flashed his badge and handed me two business cards. My hand trembled. The cards looked official enough, but I still didn’t open the door. “We’re looking for Mr. Perry. Is he home?”

  “No.”

  The shorter agent reached into his jacket, pulled out a white legal-size envelope, and thrust it through the crack. “We have something for him. Will you accept it?”

  I’ve always felt in awe of and inferior to the police. Now the FBI was at my door. I was nervous, confused, and evasive as my heart pounded in my chest.

  “No. You’ll have to come back another day.”