A Dance With the Devil: A True Story of Marriage to a Psychopath (21 page)

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.

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 rainbow 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.”

The previous morning had been an eye-opener. After breakfast I insisted we go to the Dade County recorder’s office and look up the deed on John’s Ingraham Highway property. He resisted, but I did not give up. John finally relented, and I drove to the center of Miami. We were shocked when we pulled the records on his house and saw that John was not listed as the legal owner. To make matters worse, he didn’t recognize the name on the microfiche. His face reddened, and then he blew up. “I don’t believe it! They found a way to take my property away from me.”

“Let’s look up Grandfather Dannigan’s will,” I said, “so we know what we’re up against.” We went to the Hall of Records and ordered the will, but were told it would take four weeks to get it. We needed a shrewd lawyer.

“You’re right,” John said. “Something shady is going on, but I’ve been away from the area so long I don’t know a good lawyer.”

He grabbed the phone book from the end table drawer and flipped to the Yellow Pages. “I’ll call Randolf Harrington, the vice president of the Coconut Grove Bank, and ask him for a recommendation. He and his father have handled the family’s accounts for years. In fact, his father is the one who put everything in the trust for my grandpa. He’ll stand by me, I’m sure.”

Harrington wasn’t available, but his assistant recommended a Miami lawyer known for getting results—Gene Janofsky. John made the next call. “We have an appointment at nine a.m. tomorrow,” John said as he hung up the phone.

“Good. I can wear one of my new expensive suits. Obviously your grandmother isn’t going to see it.”

“Now don’t be catty.”

“Why not? I won’t get reimbursed by your grandmother, like you said.”

John immediately changed the subject. I never noticed that this was a recurring tactic in his war for my mind. “Let’s go play,” he said. “We’ll catch the tourist trolley outside and see the Miami sights.”

“We shouldn’t. We splurged yesterday with the spa treatments here at the hotel.”

John stretched over to the pile of brochures on the coffee table, retrieved one, and thrust it into my hand. “See for yourself... it’s not that expensive. It even stops at Vizcaya, the fancy Italian villa.”

I flipped through it. I did need the distraction. The gardens of Vizcaya and the grandeur of this unique home intrigued me. Still, I hesitated. So John pulled another enticement out of his arsenal. He knew I was curious about anything to do with his family, even if that person was now deceased, so he added a family tidbit. “After our tour, we can go to Miami Beach. I’ll show you the hospital my grandfather bought for my Aunt Dorothy when she became the Mother Superior of her religious order.”

I was hooked. The outing would give me more photographs to add to my bulging albums and pacify me until next morning and our meeting with Janofsky. Finally we would get what was rightfully John’s, and we would do it by invoking the law.

The next month passed with no improvement in John’s family situation or our financial crisis. We slipped back into our daily routines. I went to work each morning and John . . . well, I don’t know what John did while I was out of the house. Some days he just disappeared. He no longer had consulting jobs, or any prospects, and it was putting a strain on our relationship.

I was caught in a quagmire. No matter how much I cajoled, explained, budgeted, or planned, John refused to rein in his spending behavior or get a job. Mentally, dealing with John was like being trapped in a Chinese finger puzzle—the more I struggled to be released from our debt, the tighter the pressure held me. I was enmeshed in a financial mess with a husband who would not cooperate, and I could not find a permanent solution; not much different, I imagined, than living with an alcoholic or a compulsive gambler. I couldn’t walk away with an immense debt hanging over my head. Where would I go? How would I survive? How could I erase it without John coming through with some of his family money? I clung to this illogical prospect in order to save my life. I didn’t recognize at the time that my flawed thinking was the result of years of emotional and financial abuse from a psychopath. I would have had a mental meltdown except for the balance of a job I enjoyed, our socializing with family and friends, and John’s way of being helpful with chores around the house.