A Dance With the Devil: A True Story of Marriage to a Psychopath (20 page)

He put his arm around my shoulders and gave a gentle squeeze. Then he kissed me on the top of my head. I wanted everything to be all right. I was desperate. I felt I was slowly going crazy. So I made a plan.

“Okay, I’ll go with you when he comes.” I had to try to direct the outcome, to get John to finalize a commitment, even if getting him to commit was like trying to catch the wind. Somewhere deep inside me a little voice had rumbled, but I failed to follow through. Right now, once more, I felt in control. Or was it just the effervescence of the champagne? Either way, I chose to ignore the dark clouds that continued to swirl around our marriage.

In hindsight, I should have bolted from the hot tub and not looked back. I had given John plenty of chances to change, to prove his elusive stories, to come through with the money to sweep away our debt. Why would I stay? What anchored me to a situation where my exasperation made me feel like I was going crazy? I didn’t recognize at the time that I was a victim of domestic abuse or the mark of a psychopath. I believe now that it was the fear and shame of a domestic abuse victim combined with the psyche of a practicing codependent (me) who had the misfortune to hook up with a psychopath (John). Subconsciously I feared the unknown of what would happen to me if John were no longer available to help extricate us from our financial mess. With another divorce, I was ashamed my family and friends would see me as a second-time loser. I still believed in “happily ever after, until death do us part.” The challenge for me was to make it be happy, a burden many codependents carry. So that New Year’s Eve, while I was intent on moving our marriage forward, I failed to connect John’s lack of work with the FBI visit, and I placated my inner stirrings with getting a list of John’s elusive property. The approaching storm intensified, but I didn’t notice.

Deceitful Winds

Four months later, on Easter Sunday, we were in Hot Springs, Arkansas, at my grandfather’s house. By the time we finished dinner, dark ominous clouds had rolled over the setting sun and the crickets began their nightly serenade. “Looks like rain,” John announced as he scoured the last of the pans.

“Yup. I can feel it in my bones,” Grandpa Jonas added, “and sniff it in the air.”

“It can’t rain until tomorrow afternoon,” I said, as if I could control the weather. “We all have flights in the morning.”

I dried the dishes while my sister Meredith tidied up the table. I was sad and Meredith and Grandpa Jonas were, too. He sat hunched over the table, nursing his lukewarm cup of coffee, on this, the last night of our four-day visit. “It’s going to be mighty lonely,” Grandpa mourned. It had been three years since Grandma passed away.

“We’ll be back, Jonas. I promise,” John said, drying his hands. We all sat down and joined Grandpa.

“I just wish you had gone to the baths with us, Grandpa,” Meredith said, reaching over and giving his wrinkled hand a tender squeeze.

“Been here all my life and never saw a need to do it,” he drawled.

I had visited my mother’s family in Hot Springs many times, but had never soaked in the thermal waters of Bathhouse Row. This trip was different. I desperately needed the hot water and the massage. My soul ached more than my body, but I had hoped the distraction would take that pain away, too.

I had slipped into the New Year mentally exhausted. John was an enigma—a mysterious, somber, jobless man dedicated to sweepstakes and spending splurges ... a man who would not collect money due him. “I’ll do it my way,” he insisted over and over again when pressed for answers.

I would have lost my sanity had I not clung to my career. Only one person looked out for my work success and satisfaction. Me.
Want to go up the ladder, Barbara? Get a degree.
I planned and worked hard, holding down the job and going to school at night. I capitalized on my skills and determination, and it paid off with respect and new responsibilities. Four years after earning my bachelor’s degree, I had moved up the career ladder from an hourly lab technician to an exempt quality assurance coordinator.

The job stirred my imagination and sated my soul. Even better, it allowed me to travel. I tacked weekend stays onto business trips and drastically lowered the airfare. It was a win-win situation. I got to see the sights and my family, and the company got to save money. When a mid-April trip popped up, I called my sister Meredith in Santa Fe, New Mexico. Sixteen years younger than I, she had blossomed in her computer career. She agreed to spend Easter with me at Grandpa Jonas’s in Hot Springs, Arkansas.

Three days before I was to fly out, John announced he had great news. He had a job interview in New York, two days after Easter. So, per his logic, it only made sense that he go to Hot Springs with me.

I didn’t know if this was good news or bad. John desperately needed a job, but I had learned not to count on what he told me. Too often his promises vanished like a mirage in a desert, leaving my soul more parched than ever. I needed my space and would have preferred to go alone, but as always, John prevailed. My gloomy premonitions about his presence proved wrong. John’s spirits were up, and it spilled over into four adventurous days with Grandpa. Meredith’s antics and sharp wit provided a buffer. She kept us all laughing. On our last night we sat at the Formica kitchen table, bemoaning our next-day departure. I glanced at the old red clock above the stove. “We’d better get ready for bed or we won’t be able to rouse ourselves when the alarm rings at four a.m.”

“Why so early?” Meredith yawned.

“It’s my fault,” John said. “My flight leaves at six thirty in the morning. The shuttle for Little Rock is coming at five a.m.”

I went off to the bathroom, and the rest of the family settled in the living room. Grandpa Jonas stoked the wood-burning stove. “Going to be a cold one tonight,” Grandpa warned as he slid the floor-length curtain separating the living room from the bedroom across the antique iron rod.

I emerged and set my clothes out for the morning—black wool skirt, white knit top, black high heels. I dressed for success and when I arrived in Midland, Michigan, I wanted to look professional. Meredith went into the bathroom.

“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.