A Dance With the Devil: A True Story of Marriage to a Psychopath (12 page)

“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?”

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.

“I think you’re right,” John said, moving in closer. “It says FREDDY, KITTY, AND JACK on the brass plate. He looks similar to the clown in our painting.”

“But a lot more expensive,” I gulped. “It’s eighty-five thousand dollars.”

We continued strolling through the gallery. “I like this one of Clem Kadiddlehopper,” John said, pointing to one of the few non-clown paintings in the room. Red had created a treasure trove of characters, and Clem was his bumbling hayseed.

“Look closer, John. It almost looks like a self-portrait of Red. And it’s
only
seventy-five thousand. Gee, let’s buy three.” I laughed.

We rejoined Francine and Patrick. They had fallen in love with a large colored-pencil sketch of a hobo and were overwhelmed when Isaac said that because they were our friends, they could get the same deal we had for our airplane napkin . . . pay some down and make installment payments.

“We’ve seen a couple of oils we’d like to get,” John said.

I almost choked. “Oh, you mean the eighty-five-thousand-dollar Freddy and the seventy-five-thousand-dollar Clem? Sure, John, we’ll write the check today. We have some spare cash around.”

“I know it sounds crazy, but I think I figured out a way we can manage it. I’ve already spoken to Isaac about it.”

In any marriage, there will be times when one spouse goes off the deep end and wants something ridiculously extravagant—a $75,000 painting, for example. That’s when the other spouse needs to be the anchor, maintain sanity, and get a firm hold on the checkbook. That was my job. However, if the sane spouse weakens, even for a moment, there’s bound to be trouble. I tried to be the anchor now, but the admiral was off and away, creating his convoluted financial scheme. “I’ll ask Jeremy, the CEO of Gemina, to lease the paintings from us. With that money we can make the payments and later buy out the lease. I can even ask my grandmother for an advance on my inheritance, if need be.”

“You mean the grandmother I’ve never met or talked to?”

“Don’t be nasty. Let’s go talk with Isaac.” John grabbed my arm and led me toward the office. When we were out of sight of Francine and Patrick, I planted my feet and refused to move any farther. “I love the paintings, John. You know I do, but we’re still struggling with our finances.”

“Let me worry about that. You obviously have not purchased fine art before. It’s an investment that will appreciate. Even if we can’t afford to keep it, we won’t lose any money. We can resell and make a profit.” That made sense, sort of. I wasn’t a wealthy woman from the art gallery set. What did I know? John was the one who had purchased fine art before. Maybe there was no danger in an art lease; Gemina would be responsible if something went wrong. When we found Isaac, I reluctantly followed the two men into the office.

We emerged triumphant. Gemina agreed to the lease. The preliminary papers were signed. Final arrangements would not be made until we got home because Gemina wanted an independent appraisal before the paintings were shipped. I must admit I was excited. Two beautiful Red Skelton oil paintings would hang in our home. Not for a while, but someday.

Isaac called out to a distinguished gentleman with thinning gray hair, wearing a light blue blazer. He came over and Isaac introduced him as the gallery owner.

“They purchased two Skelton oils,” Isaac said, smiling.

It sounded impressive and made me feel I was running in a different circle now, a higher one, and it wasn’t even going to cost me any money. That was a good thing. It was enough of a struggle to get some money ahead to pay toward the napkin painting we already had.

The gallery owner enthusiastically shook our hands and said he had just received a call that Mr. Skelton was on his way up. We hurried off to find Francine and Patrick, and all of us positioned ourselves so we would get a clear view of the comedy master.

Red came in with a Hawaiian bodyguard on each side. They seemed to be holding him up as they escorted him to his director’s chair. Once settled, Red started telling jokes. His distinct voice thrilled me. He was only ten feet away. It was the closest I had ever been to a celebrity. I swallowed past the lump in my throat and fought back happy tears.

The gallery owner announced, “If you have purchased a Skelton painting you need to find it now, bring it with you, and get in line to meet Red Skelton.” People scurried about. I went one way, John another, and Francine and Patrick another. We regrouped with our paintings in hand, snaked our way forward, and finally made it to the head of the line.

Francine and Patrick went up first. She stood to Red’s left and both of them held the painting. I snapped a photo with my new, purse-size 35-mm camera bought specifically for this occasion.