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

by Barbara Bentley

  “Can’t,” John replied. “I’m an old fart, and it’s too expensive. If we take it out on you it’s only fifty dollars a month.”

  “We don’t have an extra fifty dollars a month in our stretched budget,” I reminded him.

  We talked back and forth for several minutes. I could not understand John’s insistence. He bombarded me with reasons. I resisted. I would not tolerate his nonsense, and I didn’t care if we were playing out this little drama in front of a stranger. “We can’t afford it and that’s that,” I scolded. “Please continue, Kirsten.”

  “This is an equity loan. You can draw money against it. Do you want to require one or two signatures?” she asked, pushing a signature card toward us. “One,” John interjected immediately.

  “Two,” I countered. “It’s safer that way.”

  “Not really,” he returned. “What if you weren’t available and we needed money right away?”

  “Nothing would be that urgent.”

  John would not give up on this contentious point. He had lost the insurance issue, so he dug his heels in and would not surrender. His insistence wore me down. My head pounded. Butterflies danced in my stomach. I had begun to lose trust in John and was apprehensive about future financial abuse.

  “If we approve one signature and change our minds, can we make it two?” I asked.

  “The signature choice can be changed back to require two,” Kirsten confirmed.

  “In that case, make it one . . . for now.”

  After we signed the papers, I glared at John. “Remember, this is the last time we are doing this!”

  The following morning, I sat at my desk at work, mentally and physically exhausted. I hadn’t slept well the night before, racked with anxiety. It appeared John would never rein in his spending, and in nine years he had shown no remorse for his extravagance. The constant confrontations over his behavior had chipped away at my sanity and eroded my trust.

  Though I had agreed to only one signature for cash advances on the equity loan, it didn’t sit well with me. The nagging inner voice said that something was amiss. I listened, and reacted. I wanted to change our arrangement. I reached for the phone, but hesitated, feeling guilty for going behind John’s back. Both of our names were on the loan, so his one signature could wreak havoc. No, I had to change the permission to two signatures. I called Kirsten. “I’ve thought it over,” I said. “I want two signatures. I’ll feel more comfortable that way.”

  “No problem,” Kirsten said. “I’ll mail you a new signature card. You can both sign it, and John can bring it in when the loan is funded.”

  I hung up the phone, relieved that I’d had the courage to follow through on my convictions. Now I had to get John to sign the card. That might not be easy.

  In the middle of a cold, wet day in November, the weather mirrored my dismal mood. It was time to pay the monthly bills. I was filled with dread as I sat down at my desk to sort through the stack and decide which ones would get paid and which would not. It was difficult to concentrate on the task. My world was spinning out of control, and I was having a hard time holding on. My father had passed away a week after John and I signed the HFC loan papers, but I was allowed little time to grieve. Work responsibilities intervened; two business trips called me away. John continued to spend beyond our means. I felt I was going crazy, and I didn’t know what to do about it.

  I should have found some solace in the fact that John was teaching now. Several days before my father passed away, I was visiting Dad when John bounded into my parents’ kitchen with a big grin. He said he had just come from his class orientation at Davis, and he pointed to the UC Davis name tag attached to his tweed sport jacket. It had PROFESSOR JOHN PERRY hand-printed on it. John also showed us the UC Davis stamp on the inside covers of the books he had laid on the table. My dad was too far gone to care, but I was impressed, only because I appreciated the true significance of the evidence. It was critical to bridging our financial abyss.

  Today, as I sat in a state of inertia and dismay, I gazed at the photograph hanging on the wall above the desk, of my dad, mother, and me. I was holding a teddy bear, a lively five-year-old with black curly hair. My parents were young and smiling. It was a happy picture. I wished I could remember when it was taken.

  Snap out of it, Barbara, I told myself. Get to work. I reached for the bank statement and reconciled the checks that cleared. Next I analyzed the deposits and, to my dismay, discovered that the $920 weekly deposits for John’s university salary had been made at a teller machine in Berkeley, not as direct deposits. I made a mental note to ask John about it when he came in from Davis after his class.

  Next I grabbed the bills and realized the MasterCard statements were missing. I checked John’s desk. No luck. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Dear God, help me. What is going on?

  A sixth sense propelled me through the house, into the garage, and to the garbage can. I had never in my life considered rummaging through my garbage and felt I was operating by remote control. I pulled the trash out, piece by piece, and threw it on the ground, getting angrier and dirtier by the minute. Halfway down my persistence was rewarded. There were the missing statements, torn in half, buried where John believed they’d never be seen again.

  Back inside, I cleaned them and taped them together as best I could. The first statement showed that on my first business trip after Dad passed away, John had charged $1,500 at a store in San Jose, on the same day he said he was in Davis, seventy miles away, giving one of his seminars. The next statement revealed that on my second business trip, John charged $1,000 for a hairpiece and $600 for his collectible David Winter cottages. I had put my foot down and said no more cottages. He already had more than $4,000 worth displayed in his office. We could no longer afford such indulgences, as if we ever could in the first place.

  I stood up and paced, trying to keep a level head. Two more corners of the puzzle had appeared, and I began subconsciously to lay them out. If he had purchased those collectibles and they were not displayed in his office, where were they? I scurried from closet to closet and climbed into the attic over the living room, but found nothing. I looked in the liquor room, the garage cabinets, the pool house. No luck anywhere. There was only one place left: the attic above the bedrooms. I pulled the folding steps down and climbed up. I surveyed the darkness with a flashlight, back and forth, farther and farther. At the far corner, the light beam landed on a black garbage bag. I untied it, and there they were.

  I grabbed the black garbage bag and set it in the entry hall, along with the taped credit card statements and deposit slips. About an hour later John sauntered in, professorially dressed, with his naval academy tie and brown tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbow, carrying his Hartmann briefcase. When he saw the accusatory pile, he froze. Unlike other altercations, this time I sat stoic on the living room couch; the book I had been reading lay in my lap. Let him talk his way out of this one, I thought.

  And that’s just what he did. For each statement, for each question, he came up with a plausible explanation. He could sweet-talk the birds out of the trees, or in this case, an irate wife out of her anger. He was depressed when I went away on my business trips, so he bought compulsively. He knew it was wrong, but he couldn’t help himself. It was a sickness. His one class was canceled, so he went to San Jose. Once more I backed down. What I didn’t realize at the time was that I was up against a seasoned psychopath who knew how to manipulate the conversation. There was no way I would ever win. But I gave it my best attempt.

  “Look, we can work this out,” I pleaded, slipping back into my pattern. “But you have to help me. I can’t do it alone. You said you had a contract, but I’ve never seen it. Doesn’t it make sense that I would wonder?”

  I believed that if I could see proof that John was teaching, everything would be okay. I wanted something tangible and wouldn’t let it go. John took me into his office and extracted a paper from his metal file cabinet.

  “Here�
�s a copy of my contract,” he said.

  I looked it over. It was a letter from the assistant vice chancellor, with the title DEPARTMENT OF PSYCHOLOGY located under the UC Berkeley letterhead. It did indeed have a schedule of classes, a time limit, and a pay scale. What it didn’t have was the name of the assistant vice chancellor or his signature, nor the date the letter was written. I didn’t notice at the time that the word Psychology was of a different font and size. Another corner piece of the puzzle passed unnoticed. “The original is on file at the university,” John said when I questioned him about the signature and date.

  I tried to believe him, but I yearned for more. The letter had not totally convinced me, so I came up with a plan. “I want to go with you to your next seminar,” I said. “I’d like to see my professor in action.”

  “It’s a week from today, and you’ll be working.”

  “No problem. I’ll use a vacation day. It will be fun.”

  “Okay. Just hope you’re not disappointed,” he said. “Now let’s have a glass of wine.”

  A week later, on the day of the seminar, John woke up complaining that he didn’t feel well. He lay in bed while I took my shower and dressed. “Come on. You just need to get up and get going,” I said.

  He groaned and sat up on the edge of the bed. I jokingly grabbed his arm and pretended to pull him up. “You’ll feel fine once you take a shower.”

  “I had a bad night. My head is pounding.”

  “Some extra Motrin should do the trick. Plus you’ll get to rest on the way up to Davis. You have your own personal chauffeur today.”

  He stood up and wobbled and almost fell down. “Since you’re ready,” he said weakly, “you may want to see the report I wrote for your brother’s doctor. It’s about your family. Look on my desk. Can you type it up for me so I can mail it?”

  He straggled into the bathroom and I went into his office. The notes lay in plain sight. I read some of it. He had interviewed my sister from Washington. It was interesting, but his psychology jargon was hard for me to understand.

  Twenty minutes later John came into the office, picked up his briefcase, and announced that he was ready to go. “I still don’t feel well,” he said as he wobbled to the top landing of the stairs. I followed right behind him. He stopped at the top of the stairs. “Help me,” he moaned. “I don’t think I can get down the stairs.” He leaned against the corner of the wall and extended his left arm toward me. “Let me lean on you.”

  Normally I would have braced up against John and helped him as much as I could. But today, deep inside, my inner voice rallied and took control of my lips.

  “No. Hang on to the rail, it’s safer. If you slip, I can’t keep you from falling.”

  He extended his arm once more and pleaded with his eyes.

  “No,” I said. “If you can’t walk down, sit on your butt and slide down, one step at a time. You want to get to your seminar in one piece, don’t you?”

  He cried out once more, asking for help. Against my better judgment, I let him put his right arm around my shoulders. “Put your left hand on the rail to support most of your weight,” I commanded.

  I leaned against the wall for leverage. We took one step. John yelled in pain. His leg gave out under him. His weight pushed me from the back and I lost my footing. There was nothing for me to grab, and I tumbled down twelve steps. John fell right behind me. We lay motionless on the landing, a tangled mass of arms and legs, until we caught our breath. I struggled to get up, then limped down the last two steps to the foyer. “I told you it was dangerous,” I scolded. “When are you going to start listening to me? We’re lucky we weren’t killed.”

  He crawled down the last two steps and sat up. “Are you okay?” He moaned.

  “No broken bones, but the bruises will be colorful.”

  “I can’t teach today,” he panted. “I’ll have to call the school and cancel.”

  What could I say? We were both shaken, and he definitely looked the worse for wear. He struggled to his feet and limped into the kitchen to make his call. I clung to my desire to see him in the classroom. My plan would be delayed, that’s all. “Fine,” I called. “I’ll go to your next one. I have lots of vacation time coming.”

  Denial gripped my soul. It’s easy to see that now, as I reflect on the most confusing and stressful time of my life, when reality blurred with fantasy. As a child I held Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny deep in my heart, but as I grew older and learned the truth, I transitioned from innocent child euphoria to adult understanding, while maintaining the spirit intended by society’s deception. But there was a part of me that couldn’t release my childhood fascination with fairy tales, especially with Prince Charming who would one day come and sweep me, a modern-day Cinderella, off my feet to live happily ever after.

  My Prince Charming was John. And when all was not peaceful in the castle, I could not—or would not—acknowledge the clues to his true identity. He was an evil wolf in sheep’s clothing who recognized my neediness—and when he cast his spell as only a psychopath can, with his undivided attention, gregarious and entertaining conversation, fascinating stories, and amazing credentials, I was trapped. Once I was mesmerized and under his control, John could roll lies off his tongue or perpetrate financial abuse so cleverly that I felt crazy for doubting him. I was inside the wolf’s den and could not find my way out.

  With an insane sense of desperation, I continued to try to find ways to make this marriage work. In my mind, John was indispensable and vital to my life, vital to living happily ever after, even though it was not so at the time. I refused to awaken from my fractured fairy tale. My survival depended on my belief that one day my prince would make everything all right.

  However, since the day the FBI had appeared at my door, I had become vaguely aware that something wasn’t quite kosher. An internal battle was taking place between my conscious and subconscious self. At a deep level, one part of me knew that something was amiss. But when suspicions emerged, the other part of me, desperate to make the marriage work, attacked the thoughts with the mighty tool—denial. Fortunately for me, my subconscious would not surrender, and it lay in wait, gaining strength and momentum. Unbeknownst to me, my biggest combat was yet to come.

  EIGHTEEN

  Suspicions

  On a sunny, crisp Wednesday afternoon in mid-December, I pulled my car into the Queen of Heaven Catholic Cemetery. It had been a year full of John’s extreme crazymaking behavior and two months since my dad’s funeral. Earlier I had marked time for each special event following his death...the first time he missed his wedding anniversary, the first Thanksgiving without him. Today was the first birthday he didn’t live to see. I decided to bring flowers and talk with Dad about the strange events going on in my life. What a paradox. I felt safe talking with the dead but didn’t have the courage to share my fears with the living, who might have helped.

  The deserted cemetery fit my mood. I placed the flowers on Dad’s grave and stood to avoid the wet grass. I started small. “Sorry John couldn’t get the Army bugler for your ceremony, Dad. There are some things even a retired rear admiral can’t accomplish.” It was just another of those small promises John made that never came through, and it had brought a pang to my heart. “I need your help, Dad. Things are a mess and I need you to straighten them out. I’m going to the library after this. Please guide me to what I need. Research was your strong point.”

  My little voice inside had grown bolder and louder. I paid attention and decided to investigate John. I was going behind his back, but I had to do it to save my marriage. Too much had transpired over the years, and over the past six months the drama had intensified. My trust in John was eroding. I didn’t suspect another woman, but I sensed something was amiss. I wanted the truth. Hadn’t I told John when we first met that honesty was the most important thing to me? Hadn’t he assured me it was important to him, too? I didn’t have the money to hire a private investigator, and the Internet was in its infancy, so I chose the
main branch of the county library in which to do my research. I took a half day of vacation for my clandestine quest. The serenity of the cemetery calmed my apprehensions and feelings of dishonesty.

  The library was down the hill from the cemetery. Briefcase in hand, I walked in and immediately felt overwhelmed. I stopped at the checkout desk, but the clerk was clueless. I headed past the empty research desk, turned right, and entered a room ringed with metal bookcases. Tables and cubbyhole booths filled the center of the room, divided by a waist-high metal bookcase with three shelves bulging with thick tomes. As I stood in the doorway, looking puzzled, a woman pushing a cart half full of books offered to help me.

  “I’m looking for information on Rear Admiral John Perry, who started the Seabees in World War II.”

  “Hmmm. You might find something in The National Encyclopedia of American Biography. It’s over here.” She led me to shelves in the middle of the room and pointed to the index, a red leather volume on the bottom shelf. I pulled the thick volume out, took a seat at the closest cubicle, opened my briefcase, and set out a pad of paper and a pen. Limited sunlight shone through small windows. I wished for more brightness to warm the chill in my bones.

  I fanned the pages until I got to the P names, and ran my finger along the columns until I found Perry. There were three listings: John F., manufacturer; John J., congressman; and—I sucked in my breath—John R., naval officer. I scribbled the volume and page number on my scratch paper, replaced the index, and pulled out volume 43. Back in my seat, I zeroed in on page 461, and stared in amazement. There was a photograph, and it looked like my John!

  I started reading. Facts that John had spouted for years were in the article...Waco...Rensselaer...Seabees...Great Lakes Naval Training Station. It had to be true. This was John’s father. He had served in Great Lakes from 1930 to 1933, spanning the time when John said his mother had died and been buried there.