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

by Barbara Bentley

  “How do you feel?” John called out. I pushed the curtain apart. “I’m a little tired. I dread the long travel day tomorrow.”

  “I know just the thing,” John said. He stood, and winced as his knee almost caused him to fall. He rambled into the bedroom, dug around in his suitcase, and pulled out one of his medications. He twisted the lid and tapped two pills into his hand. “Here, take these,” he said. “They’ll help you sleep.”

  I pushed his hand away. “I don’t like pills, and I don’t take someone else’s prescription.”

  “I know what’s best for my gal,” he said, putting his free arm around my shoulder. “Do as the doctor says.”

  I resisted; John persisted, twisting his words to make sense out of the senseless. I opened my hand. He dropped the pink pills into it, and I went into the kitchen for a glass of water. He followed me and stood by until I swallowed them. “Good girl,” he said, taking the empty glass and setting it on the counter. “Now let’s go back in and visit with your grandpa until you feel relaxed.”

  Half an hour later, John said he needed to check his briefcase and make sure our tickets were there. He sauntered into the bedroom, grabbed the case, tossed it onto the bed, and clicked it open. The rest of us began to say our good-nights while he flipped through his papers. “Damn!” John yelled. “Damn!”

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “Goddamn it! What a stupid ass I am. Look what I found.” He withdrew a manila envelope and waved it in the air. “It’s our federal income tax forms and payments.”

  Fear and anger came over me. I am more afraid of the IRS than I am of the police. Though I had nothing to hide, stories of unwarranted audits with their scramble for receipts and devastating fines were enough to petrify me. “What do you mean?” I yelled as I stomped up to him and grabbed the envelope. “You told me you mailed them several weeks ago.”

  “I guess I forgot,” John said softly, hanging his head.

  “Forgot? You forgot? Then you lied? That doesn’t make sense. We always mail before the deadline.”

  I clutched the envelope, dropped onto the bed next to John’s open briefcase, and began thumbing through its contents. What else could he have forgotten to do? I found out. He hadn’t mailed the five legal-size envelopes, addressed and stamped by me. I grabbed them and shoved them toward John. “What about these?” I seethed. “You were to have mailed them, too.”

  In January we had met with our Long Beach friend and attorney. He agreed to do John’s will, but said John needed to provide exact details of accounts and property deeds. John said he would, but kept putting it off. When he didn’t take action, I did. We went to the library and found whatever addresses were needed in their collection of phone books. I typed the letters; John signed them and licked the envelopes. Here they were, two months later, lying in his briefcase. John made it very difficult for me to help him keep his promises. “This is a fine mess,” I wailed. “First the taxes, then the letters to help finalize your will.”

  “Hey,” John said, “I just remembered. Today is April fifteenth.”

  “So?”

  “We can drop off the envelope at the main post office. As long as it’s postmarked today, we’re safe.”

  “That’s right,” Meredith added. “I remember a newscast saying that because the fifteenth was on a Sunday, a postmark of the sixteenth would be accepted.”

  “Let’s go.” I snapped, slipping into my high heels because my sneakers were already packed. “The sooner we get it mailed, the sooner I’ll feel relieved and the sooner we can get to bed.”

  “You can’t drive,” John said.

  “Why not? I always drive.” I grabbed my coat and put it on over my nightgown; time was of the essence, and there was no reason for me to change as long as I had my coat.

  “The pills. You took the muscle relaxant,” Meredith reminded me.

  “I feel fine.”

  “Give me the car keys,” John commanded. “You’re on a business trip and you don’t need an accident on company time.”

  “I’m not on company time until tomorrow, when I’m on my way to the meeting.”

  “Give me the car keys. Now! Besides, you need to go with me to show me the way.”

  I grabbed my purse, retrieved the keys, and threw them at him. It wasn’t worth a fight at this hour. “Let’s go,” he said. “You can be copilot.”

  I reasoned that at least I would be with John to make sure the taxes got mailed. We got into the car. “Take a left, go over the tracks, then take another left,” I directed. “Then turn right on Ridgecrest.”

  In the middle of town, near the post office, the traffic turned insane. John grabbed a parking spot from someone pulling out. I opened my door to get out. “Give me the damn envelopes,” John said. “You’re in your nightgown. You don’t want to give a show to the other late birds.”

  I handed them to him, slumped into my seat, and watched as he marched into the building. “Mission accomplished,” he said as he slid back into the driver’s seat. He rubbed his hands together. “It’s getting cold and wet out there.”

  It had started to drizzle. John put the car in gear, turned on the windshield wipers, and retraced our route. I stared at the passing dilapidated brick buildings. Only the mechanical sounds of the car broke the silence. The car turned left onto Ridgecrest Drive and quickly passed through the older, working-class neighborhood. When the road flattened out, John accelerated. I panicked. I braced my right foot on the floorboard and gripped the seat and the door rest. “Slow down,” I ordered. “You’re not used to driving this road.”

  “It’s a country road. It’s straight for at least a mile.”

  “The pavement is wet. Slow down!”

  He backed off, but as soon as we approached the creek bridge his foot got heavy again. “Slow down!” I yelled as we flew across the bridge. “Our left turn is just ahead. You won’t make it at this speed.”

  The right tires left the pavement and crunched on the gravel shoulder. “John, SLOW DOWN! What are you doing?”

  “There’s something wrong with the car. I can’t control it.”

  “Look out! There’s a telephone pole on my side.”

  John jerked the steering wheel hard to the right, toward the pole.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I screamed.

  “Can’t control it.”

  The car passed the pole, left the road, and crashed into a vacant field. We began to fishtail through the wet weeds. Low brush and saplings snapped under the weight of the car. We careened from tree to tree. Branches slapped the windshield. Glass shattered. I shielded my face with my arms, and a vision engulfed me. “Oh God, it’s the creek!” I yelled hysterically. “We’re headed for the swollen creek. We’re going to drown.”

  “Can’t control it,” John wailed.

  “Brake! Cut the engine! Do something!”

  Then it was over, as quickly as it had begun. The car came to an abrupt stop in a thicket, its headlights dancing on the broken branches. The mist had turned to rain. At first I was only aware of silence as I tried to gather my thoughts. Then I heard the hiss. “John, we’ve got to get out of here. The gasoline. It could explode.”

  “I don’t smell any, do you?”

  I sniffed. He was right, there was no gasoline smell, only the hissing sound from the steam that rose from the hot engine as it rested on the wet grass. My panic subsided and became anger. “Goddamn it, John. I told you to slow down. Now we’re stuck out here in a deserted field, with no one around.”

  “Help me,” he moaned. “I can’t move. Get help.”

  I grabbed my door handle and pushed, and met resistance. Then I felt an adrenaline rush. I thought my heart was going to burst right out of my chest. I couldn’t climb out the window; it was a gaping hole with jagged glass at the perimeter. I had to get the door open. I put my shoulder against the door frame, closed my eyes to protect them, and pushed. The door gave two inches.

  Tears welled in my eyes. Not
now, I thought. I scooted toward the middle of the car and levered my high-heeled feet against the door. On three, Barbara, I told myself. On three I pushed with all my might. The door yielded another three inches. I slid back and maneuvered my shoulder against the doorjamb. One more push and I had enough room to escape. “Don’t try to move, John.” I said. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  I squeezed out the narrow opening, pushed it shut, and struggled through the knee-high weeds toward the road. My high heels slipped through the wet grass and sank into the mud with each step. Brambles and stickers clawed at my bare legs. Damn it, he should have let me drive. For sure, I’ll never let him drive me again. Stupid, stupid, stupid!

  When I reached Ridgecrest, I frantically waved down the first passing car and was thankful it stopped. I doubted I had the energy to walk to Grandpa’s house, although it was only four blocks away.

  “Barbara, you look a fright!” Meredith gasped when I walked through the door.

  “Call the police and an ambulance. John is stuck in the field near the bridge. We had a car wreck.” My voice was stoic.

  It was after midnight by the time a cousin brought us home from the hospital, scraped, cut, and bruised, but not severely injured. Per the doctor’s instructions, I jumped into the shower to remove the glass fragments from my hair. Then I got on the phone and reported the accident to Avis, rebooked my flight, and arranged for an early shuttle service for Meredith and one for me later in the day. John dragged himself out of the recliner and staggered to the bathroom. I was hanging up the phone when he emerged, still unsteady on his feet. He caught himself on the dresser, his face contorted. He gasped for breath. “Must be the shot they gave me at the hospital,” he said in a hoarse voice. “Help me get to a chair.”

  I walked over and he put his right arm on my shoulder. I almost buckled under his weight. Fortunately, the recliner was only a few steps away. My anger vanished. John’s health needs once again triggered my caretaking self, and I pushed his behaviors into that little sack of things I chose to ignore.

  “You need to call and rebook your trip,” I said. “The agent told me I couldn’t do it.”

  “I don’t think I can go. Every bone in my body aches. I’ll have to cancel.”

  “What about the job interview?”

  “They’ll understand. I’ll reschedule. If it’s okay with Jonas, I’ll hang around here for a couple of days.”

  “Stay as long as you like,” Grandpa said.

  “Thanks,” John grinned. “You know, it’s a good thing for us that Barbara is on business. The company will pick up all the expenses.”

  “No, John,” I said coldly. “I told you. I’m not on business travel until tomorrow.”

  “I thought if you were injured they paid a premium, double your salary.”

  “That’s only if I die during business travel.”

  “Well it’s a good thing you didn’t die,” Meredith said.

  I got up and walked to the green curtain divider. “Let’s try to get some sleep,” I said. “I’ll call Uncle Stan in the morning. We have some errands to run, and I know he won’t mind ferrying us around.”

  We might as well not have gone to bed. None of us could fall asleep until it was almost time to get up. It was barely daylight when the shuttle whisked Meredith off to the Little Rock airport. I waited until eight before I called Uncle Stan. He came right over.

  I had the stops organized. First, the insurance office to file a claim, then the hospital to get copies of the emergency treatment records in order to exchange the airline tickets without a penalty. The wrecker yard was next. We had to retrieve the rental papers, and I wanted to take photos of the car, just in case we needed them later. I was relieved that the rain had stopped and left sunny skies for our errands.

  As we walked to the back of the wrecker yard and approached the car, my body tensed. I wasn’t prepared for the devastation. I drew a sharp breath and framed the first picture. The driver’s side door was smashed and off its hinges. Snap. Uncle Stan and John surveyed the damage. On both sides, major dents near the front tires bent inward. Glass was missing from the front seat doors. Snap. The windshield wipers were stuck in the full upright position. The car was covered in leaves and debris, as if the heavens had dropped brown-and-green snow. Snap. The front seat was covered with broken glass and twigs. Snap. Uncle Stan let out a long, slow whistle. “Lordy, it’s a miracle you’re both alive.”

  I looked at my watch. “We have one more stop to make,” I said. “Let’s go. My shuttle is picking me up at noon.”

  Uncle Stan drove down Ridgecrest and parked his truck just over the bridge, right before the telephone pole. Camera in hand, we approached the accident scene. Snap. Here are the tracks where the car left the road. Snap. Look at the broken trees. Snap. You can trace the tracks in the wet grass. Snap. Here’s where the car came to rest. Snap. Beyond the thicket, the water in the rain-swollen creek rushed around the rocks and surged near the top of the bank. I shivered. Then I picked up a piece of the bumper that was caught in the brambles.

  We walked back to where the car left the road. I examined the car tracks once more, closely. “Oh, my God.” I gasped. “If John had been over a couple more inches to the right, I would have been smashed into the telephone pole.”

  Later that afternoon, I walked up to the car rental desk at the Little Rock airport. “I’m returning my rental car,” I said.

  “Where did you park it?” the attendant asked.

  “Right here.”

  I placed a piece of bumper on the counter. The attendant’s jaw dropped and her eyes grew wide. Leave it to me. Even in an almost tragic event, I had found some humor. What I hadn’t found were the hints blowing in the deceitful wind: John’s medicating me, his insistence on driving, and his calculation of how much he would get if I died on a business trip. As we crashed through the brush it never entered my mind that the car wreck was anything but an accident. It would take ten more months for the truth to emerge.

  SIXTEEN

  The Sinking

  Two months later, on a warm June afternoon in Coral Gables, we crossed the lobby of the Biltmore Hotel, an immense edifice that exuded elegance and old money way beyond the Perry budget. In the elevator on the way to our room, I mentioned the cost to John. He just laughed. “We have to stay here. It’s part of my plan to pry money from my grandmother.”

  John had sucked me into another plan. He chose the right moment to spring it on me, a moment when I was vulnerable and grateful to him for his care and concern of my father, whose illness had put him in a wheelchair. We had treated my parents, sister, and nephew to a weekend escape to see the Monterey Bay Aquarium. John took charge of the wheelchair and pushed my dad around the undulating kelp forest and next to the tidal pool, never complaining. When we got home, John proclaimed that he would force the issue of his inheritance with his family. It was music to my ears. We were in desperate need of money again, same old story of credit card debt. The New York job never materialized and John wasn’t working, yet he continued to refuse to press his cousin for money. I lived in a crazymaking world that swirled around me like a tempestuous storm. I knew stress intimately. It was my middle name.

  One day John told me his grandmother had agreed to meet with us. He insisted I buy three tailored outfits so I would look my best for this occasion. I had to ignore the $1,000 charge. It was part of the plan.

  Now in Coral Gables, I gazed out our seventh-floor window at the sparkling Olympic-size swimming pool. It was like John to pick a grand place like this. In spite of my misgivings, I was excited by the ambience, and as usual tried to see the best in every situation.

  In the distance, dark gray clouds moved in from the horizon and lightning crackled across the dark skies. The little kid in me was entranced, and I didn’t leave the window. The storm moved on as fast as it had blown in. In its wake it left a glowing rainbow stretched across the landscape. “Look, John,” I said, “maybe it’s a sign. The end of the rainb
ow is touching down right outside the hotel.”

  John joined me at the window, placed his fingers on my shoulders, and gently massaged. I melted into his touch.

  “Maybe it means your family is finally going to come through.”

  “I don’t know. They’ve done a pretty good job ignoring us so far on this trip.”

  He was right. The original plan called for John’s family to join us in Key West for a holiday. We booked three double rooms at Eaton Lodge, an 1886 mansion with tropical gardens and white wicker Southern ambience. We arrived on Saturday, but his family didn’t. I was furious when we had to pay for the unused rooms for the first night on our extended credit card. It wasn’t right. I insisted we cancel their remaining nights.

  When the family didn’t show, John revised the plan. He figured if they wouldn’t come to us, we’d go to them. He called the Biltmore. We flew back to Miami. Now we were in Coral Gables, right next door to Coconut Grove and his grandmother. “Maybe you should try calling your grandmother again,” I suggested.

  He released his grip and sat down on the floral couch, next to the phone. I went into the bathroom to freshen up as he dialed. Through the open door, I heard him ask for his grandmother, first in English, then Spanish. “Crap!” he said as he slammed down the receiver. I peeked around the corner. “She’s not there, or at least that’s what the maid says. I think she’s trying to renege on her promise.”

  I bristled, then marched into the sitting area and folded my arms over my chest. “John, it doesn’t make sense. You called down to the front desk and retrieved messages from your cousins, so why can’t you connect with them, or your grandmother?”

  “I don’t know. It’s my family. They aren’t always logical about their actions, especially when it comes to us.”

  “This is our second day here. It’s lawyer time. From what we found out yesterday, the sooner you see one, the better.”