A Dance With the Devil: A True Story of Marriage to a Psychopath (26 page)

John didn’t answer. I started the car and turned left out of the parking lot. “Is this the way to the cafeteria?” I asked.

“We’re not going to the cafeteria,” he said icily. “You have to have a reservation.” I tensed at the tone of his voice, fearing my quest would fail once more. “But if you insist, we can go to the bookstore. I need to pick up some supplies. Turn left at the next corner.” I did as I was told. It was not what I wanted to hear, but it was something. While in the bookstore, John pointed out the student coffee bar. “Sometimes, if my students need extra help, I meet with them there,” he said.

I was silent on the way home. John’s excuses infuriated me, while at the same time they snared me into acquiescence. No matter how hard I tried, John was able to worm his way out of proof of his teaching employment. My stomach growled from tension. Would this seesaw existence never end? My little voice worked hard to get me to pay attention, and I had tried to find more proof... but to no avail. John’s conniving made it hard to pin him down. I needed to find out what was going on and decided that I would have to play my hand with the cards I already held.

 

The next evening at the dinner table we got into another spat about finances. The vet bill stuck in my mind. Where was the money from Jason, or John’s inheritance? His stipend from the university didn’t keep up with his spending. The pressure intensified, and I got ready to play my first ace. “Who are you, John?” I was beginning to sound like a broken record, but something deep inside told me I had to continue asking the question.

“You damn well know who I am. I’ve told you, many times.”

“Oh, yes, your father started the Seabees.” I hoped he caught the sarcasm in my voice.

“Yes, you know he did. Why bring that up again?”

“Well, it seems strange . . . if you were his son, why weren’t you mentioned in his obituary?” John stiffened and was silent. His eyes glared at me, and I braced myself. “What do you mean by that?” he said. I explained what I found in the library.

“I want to see the articles,” he demanded.

I retrieved them from my office and threw them on the table. He quickly scanned them. “It’s an oversight that I wasn’t mentioned. I told you, I’m the black sheep of the family. My stepmother probably didn’t include any of dad’s first family, out of spite.”

“There’s always some excuse, isn’t there?”

“I can’t help it if there are errors in the article. Even some of my dad’s military history has been mixed up.”

I played my second ace. “Okay, what about the Medal of Honor? I bought a book listing the recipients from the Vietnam War. Guess what? You’re not in it!”

“Show me.”

I retrieved it from my office, and opened it to the P page in the appendix. John took the book and started scanning the list. “Jack Peterson isn’t mentioned.” He flipped through several pages. “Neither are George Ramsey or John Reese. This book has left out at least four of us.”

“Seems fishy to me,” I said.

John erupted. “How dare you question my Medal of Honor? Haven’t you seen me wear it? Haven’t we sat in the Medal of Honor stands?”

“Yes, John. And speaking of medals, where are your medals?” I was on a roll now and not about to give up. “They’ve been missing for over a year.”

John’s eyes narrowed. He pounded his right fist on the table. “I told you. The frame shop lost them.”

“Right. For such a distinguished, decorated military man, you don’t seem the least bit concerned about their disappearance.” I was ready to play my third ace. “I followed you this morning.”

“You what? How dare you!”

“I wanted to see where you go in the mornings when you leave the house in dress clothes, with your briefcase. The teaching stories don’t add up.”

“What did you find out?”

“I lost you at the stoplight on Ygnacio Valley Road, so I went to the BART parking lot where you said you park the car to catch the university shuttle to Davis. The car wasn’t there.”

“Well, Miss Smarty Pants, that’s because I had a special meeting with the professor in Berkeley, so I drove in. I really don’t like your insinuations.”

Tears trickled down my cheeks. “And I don’t like the lies,” I sniffed as I played my fourth ace. “I called Davis this morning and they couldn’t find any record of you on their teacher roster. I even tried to check out your family this afternoon. I called NASA, but Sonny Perry is not listed as an astronaut. I called Juilliard. They never had a Desiree Perry as a student. I called MIT. Sandy Perry was never a student. I called the Stanhope Hotel, but Lydia Perry doesn’t live there. None of your stories checked out.”

John’s face reddened and he clenched his teeth. He put both hands on the table and pushed himself up. “You little sneak,” he hissed as he turned and marched out of the room.

My fear overtook my common sense, and I could no longer think rationally. The self-confidence I had so courageously mustered was still no match for John. But I was getting stronger.

“You have to help me believe in you,” I whispered as I wiped the tears from my eyes.

Looking back now, it seems unbelievable that I would have stayed in this marriage for so long, especially with a repeating pattern that is easy to recognize now, but that was indiscernible at the time. You had to be there. John was a psychopath—a master manipulator who made it seem reasonable and plausible at the time the abuse happened, and he abused when no one else was around to be able to validate my feelings. If I had told others, they wouldn’t have believed me anyway. He was too charming. He was the life of the party who went out of his way to help others.

During this time, verbal abuse wasn’t even discussed as domestic violence, and because I wasn’t physically beaten, I didn’t think I was a victim of domestic violence. Most important, the emotional trauma was not constant. It came in spurts. Most of the time we had a happy existence that appeared normal, integrated with a close-knit social support system of family, friends, and co-workers. I don’t feel embarrassed by my vulnerability at that time of my life. I now know that I stood no chance against John. Psychopaths are so clever that they can even disarm mental health professionals, who are trained to recognize and deal with their behavior.

So as strange as it sounds now, back then at the conscious level I still wanted the marriage to work. It was my subconscious that struggled to make me more aware and propelled me to try to find proof, any kind of proof, that John was who he said he was. Unfortunately I didn’t make a good poker player—I revealed my hand too soon. Even though I had four aces, I didn’t win the hand; instead, I set myself up for elimination from the tournament.

 

 

The next evening I sat alone in our special booth at La Cigale and sipped my aperitif. I remembered the first time we came here, when John spoke to me in French. I wondered if he’d do it again tonight. Right after lunch, John called me at work, all bubbly and excited. He told me to meet him at six o’clock at La Cigale for a celebration. He had wonderful news, hinting that it was about a contract with the government. He’d provide details later.

I looked at my wristwatch. He was late, but that was not unusual. I ordered another drink. It had not yet arrived when John breezed into the room, looking hassled and tired, but smiling. He threw his briefcase, Stetson hat, and Burberry raincoat onto the bench seat and slid into the booth.

“Sorry I’m late. Traffic from the city was a bear tonight, but my news is worth the wait.” I desperately wanted to hear good news, anything to ease my pain. My dream was to be the cheerful admiral’s wife, not the morose person I had become.

The waiter arrived with two drinks and a plate of escargot on his tray. “Ordered on my way in,” he said to my inquisitive look as the waiter set them on the table.

“What’s the news?”

“Let’s have a toast first,” John said, “to our financial destiny.” Our glasses clinked, and John went on to explain that he had gotten a call that morning from the Federal Government Contract Administration office in San Francisco about a special assignment.

“You said years ago you wouldn’t take on any more special assignments from the FGCA.”

“This one is different,” he said. “Low risk. No guns, bullets, or espionage.” He had been offered a job in Cairo, Egypt, for six months, as part of a team of specialists to design a peace strategy for the Middle East. They would also work in Beirut and Athens.

“The Gulf War is going on.” I gasped. “Egypt isn’t that far from the front.”

“The fighting’s not that close. Besides, I’ll be working with a prestigious group from places like Stanford University.”

“I don’t know. It sounds risky to me.”

“Well, I guess I can turn down the nine thousand dollars a month they’re willing to pay me, tax free, plus a fat per diem for expenses.”

I couldn’t believe our good fortune. It was like winning the lottery . . . the financial break I had prayed for. My plans to investigate John vanished. The waiter interrupted and we placed our order.

I slipped back under John’s spell, wanting to believe that he and his stories were real, our financial woes would clear up, and all would be well. Yet I felt unsure. I reached across the table, caressed John’s hand, and looked directly at him. “But, dear, your health is declining.”

“I’ll take extra medication along with me and take it easy. Most of my work will be in meetings, not in the field.”

“I don’t know. I worry about your legs giving out and your headaches and . . .”

“One team member is a medical doctor.”

“What about your teaching job at the university?”

“My Berkeley professor said that world peace is more important. He’ll let me continue my program when I get back.”

“This is such a big step.”

“The project director, Jack Berger, said I could take you along for the first two weeks, all expenses paid. He figured you might have a problem with me going, so this way you can see where I’ll be working, and also some of the Egyptian sights.”

Egypt was a country I longed to see, with its mystique of pharaohs and pyramids and the Nile. My dream trip lay before me. I could not refuse. I took the bait and John reeled me in.

“How soon do you have to report?” I asked.

John explained that we had a choice, but the sooner the better. I opened my purse calendar to February. “I have a business meeting in Indianapolis on the fifth and sixth, and I’m going to visit Grandpa in Hot Springs on my way. What about the following weekend?”

We settled on Sunday, February 10. But even in the excitement of the moment, I felt nagging doubts. I wanted some proof this was real, because I had never been able to pin John down on much of anything. “I want to meet Jack Berger and see the contract.” John agreed.

Throughout the meal we discussed the finances. We would use an international bank because his salary check would be issued in Cairo. I figured out monthly payments for the credit cards. “Good news,” I beamed when the apple strudel and lemon tart arrived. “By the time you finish your assignment all the balances will be paid off. We’ll be debt free!”

 

 

The next three weeks passed in a blur of activity. As we prepared for the trip to Egypt, the pressure on me heightened. Not only did I have to maintain my work schedule, I also had to plan for the household and for John’s clothes for six months. I had other reasons for feeling apprehensive. The departure date was only two weeks away, and I still had not met Jack Berger, read a contract, or received airplane tickets.

John had set up a meeting at a restaurant in Orinda, but Berger and his wife had not shown. The diplomatic passports John said Berger would issue didn’t appear either. How could a passport be issued in only two days? “You’ve never dealt with the FGCA,” John said. To add to my stress, I had to report for jury duty and was picked for a two-day trial.

The following evening, John and I finished dinner and started to clean the kitchen. “What did you do at lunch today?” John asked. “Have lunch with another juror?”

I hesitated, and swallowed hard. Was this the time to share? Good as any, I decided. “No, I went to the county recorder’s office, down the street from the courthouse.”

“What?” John stood erect and stared at me.

“You heard me.” I slunk back into the breakfast room, sat down at the table, and reached for my glass of wine. John followed and sat down, too. He looked genuinely puzzled. “What would possess you to do that?” he asked.

“I figured that while you’re away I might be able to do something about getting Jason to pay what he owes you, so I looked up your Danville property.” I took a sip of wine to wet my dry throat.

“Let’s not get into that,” John said. “It’s my business and I’ll take care of it.”

“I found out something very interesting. Jason purchased the property, all right, almost twelve years ago, but according to the records, he didn’t purchase it from you.”

“Damn family! What have they done now to cheat me out of my property? When I get back from Cairo I’ll have to get it straightened out.”

“I don’t see how. . . .”

“There’s lots of ways to change legal documents. You don’t know the half of it.”

“Then I’ll call Jason and ask him about it.”

“Let it be, damn it! Don’t meddle in my business. You are definitely not to call Jason. I’ll get an attorney to meet with Jason and me.” John poured more wine into his empty glass and took a huge swig. He almost drained it.

“Speaking of attorneys, we have an appointment tomorrow with Tom Landers to do our wills. We need to write drafts tonight.” With the impending trip, I had felt it was prudent to update our wills, and John agreed. The attorney came highly recommended by George. I reached over for the manila folder, yellow legal pads, and pens that I had laid on the rattan étagère. “Maybe Tom will meet with Jason and me,” John mused.