A Dance With the Devil: A True Story of Marriage to a Psychopath (3 page)

We were all silent for a moment while John leaned across the table to fix himself a plate of appetizers.

“No disrespect intended,” I heard myself say, “but war is always horrible. I believe we had no business being in Vietnam.”

John smiled and began to lay out the usual arguments about the importance of fighting communism, but eventually admitted the war had taken its toll on him. “I still have nightmares about the kids I wasn’t able to save,” he said solemnly. He told us he had to shoot one of his own men who had fallen into a camouflaged, bamboo-stake-filled pit. Debbie gasped and I shuddered. “He begged me to shoot him,” John explained. “When you’re in the service, you go where duty calls and you do what you have to do.”

I looked away, not caring to hear any more war stories. That didn’t faze John, who seemed to relish talking about it. If I had only known then what I know now . . . that most servicemen don’t like to talk about their war experiences. But I didn’t. So, despite my disinterest in the topic, I found myself listening.

He said he’d been in three wars. He’d lied about his age in order to enlist during World War II, and, at sixteen, joined one of the first Navy SEAL units for underwater demolition. “I was a naval aviator in the Korean War. Got shot down once but landed in the water.” He smiled, remembering. “After two tours in the Blue Angels, I went to Vietnam and was given command of the Black Boats, small and swift. They went up the river into North Vietnam. It was dangerous duty. Very dangerous.”

It was clear he loved to talk about the military, about his experiences. “It’s in the blood,” he commented. “I’m tenth-generation Navy. Did you know that, Ted?”

Before Ted could answer, John was already into the topic of a film from the 1940s, starring John Wayne. It was the story of John’s father and how he had started the Seabees.

“Because Dad was story consultant on the set,” John said, “I got to meet John Wayne. Matter of fact, the Duke and I got to be real good friends.”

After offering some inside gossip about the Duke, he joined Ted back in the kitchen to rustle up another round of drinks. Debbie immediately pumped me for my reaction to her guest. I conceded the man was certainly interesting. “But,” I cautioned her, “if you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking, forget it. He’s almost as old as my mother.”

“Maybe he
is
too old for you.” Debbie stood, announced that she was going into the kitchen to put on the finishing touches, and started out of the room. Over her shoulder she added, “Or maybe he’s not.”

“Not?”

“Too old for you. Maybe he’s not.”

With everyone settled back in the living room, the conversation turned to family. I shared that I didn’t have any children from my first marriage but I did have three sisters and a brother, all younger than me. The two youngest sisters were still at home; the one closest to me (ten years younger) was married and lived in Washington, and my brother had recently been discharged from the Marines. I joked that my parents had two families. I was the first, and when I was old enough to be the live-in babysitter, the rest started popping out. We all laughed.

Ted and Debbie had grown children from their first marriages, and they brought us up-to-date with the latest news of who was where and doing what. Then it was John’s turn. I had to try to not let my mouth fall open as he wove a fascinating story.

When John was a young officer he married Sara Brimstone against her father’s wishes, because she was from old money and John was not. Together they had had a girl, Sandy, and a boy, Sonny. When John returned early from a long deployment, he found Sara in bed with another man. They divorced. He fought for custody of the children and won. Whenever duty called John to the sea or sky, his Grandmother Dannigan watched the children in Coconut Grove, Florida.

Then John met Cindy Shirrow, an airline stewardess. They married and had one daughter, Estelle Desiree. In less than a year Cindy was killed in an automobile accident. John was in Vietnam when it happened, and his grandmother took one more child under her wing.

John’s fourth child came into his family through his father, who had adopted Francesca, the daughter of a faithful servant. When John’s father died, John assumed the responsibility. It was the right thing to do, he said.

John saw to it that his children were well taken care of as they grew into adults. When he was home he lived with them in his house in Coconut Grove. When he was away, Grandmother Dannigan and her servants continued to care for them. John made sure they went to the best schools, and all appeared to be successful. Sandy was married and going to MIT, Sonny was at NASA’s astronaut school, Desiree was at Juilliard, and Francesca was at Florida International University and living with John’s Grandma Dannigan.

Just when we thought he was finished, John hung his head. “We’re not very close now. I guess I was away too much when they were growing up. I feel like the black sheep of the family.”

Something stirred inside me. I wanted to rush over and put my arms around him and tell him it was all right, he had done his best. But I had just met this charming man, and that would have been too presumptuous. Instead I meekly said, “I’m so sorry.”

Later, at the dinner table, Debbie sat John opposite me. He immediately reached up, ripped at the Velcro, and removed the blue-foam neck brace, saying the doctor recommended he wear it only when his pain was excruciating.
Hmmm . . . looks even better,
I thought. Ted poured the wine, and John lifted his glass.

“A toast,” John said. “Here’s to the breezes that blow women’s chemises past their kneeses.” Even I laughed at that.

I looked around at the beautifully, evenly set table and realized I was fully lulled into the spirit of Debbie’s dinner party. The meal, as always, was exceptional. Wine was plentiful. John, throughout the meal, was completely captivating. He complimented Debbie’s culinary talents, offered lighthearted jokes, and filled the hours that passed with more of his fascinating stories.
A real charmer, this one,
I thought,
who knows all the right moves.

As the evening wore on, I learned even more about him. Before coming to Vestico as a consultant he was with the Federal Government Contract Administration. The FDA and the CIA, he explained, used the service. He was sent on missions into sensitive areas where it was, as he put it, “best for U.S. government presence to remain unknown.”

Before the night was over, he told us he’d been born in Turrialba and that he spoke Spanish fluently, having first learned it as a child living with his mother’s family in Costa Rica. That was why, he explained, most of his missions took him to Central America.

I interjected that I was a genuine California girl and that I had lived my whole life in one county—from being born and raised in Pittsburg to settling in Concord during my first marriage to migrating to Antioch for affordable housing after my divorce, all within a twenty-mile radius. “For a world traveler like you it must sound dead boring,” I said.

“I envy you.” John sighed. “As a child I moved around a lot because my dad was in the Navy; then I enlisted and the rest is history.”

“My parents still live in Concord,” I added, as if that tacked on some allure to my story. “They moved to California in World War II when Dad’s unit was stationed at Camp Stoneman. The weather appealed to them, so they stayed after Dad was discharged.”

John added that was exactly why he had settled in the Bay Area, and then he was off on another story. To me, this dinner guest of Debbie’s was a regular James Bond. As difficult as it was becoming for me to keep my eyelids from drooping, I wanted to hear every word of the story he was telling about a mission in Panama City.

He and another operative, he said, had rented adjoining offices. They were close to completing their mission of forcing a drug cartel out of Colombia. One day, after lunch, John was at his desk in his office when he heard his partner’s office door open. John expected to hear his partner’s footsteps, but instead, he heard the loud rattle of machine-gun fire. Instinctively, he hit the deck, scrambled under his desk, held his breath, and waited. The office door opened, and a strange voice said something about “getting the other one next time.”

Minutes later John learned his partner had been killed instantly. That might just as easily have happened to John, I thought, realizing that in real life, this James Bond stuff was horrifyingly brutal. As though reading my thoughts, John looked directly at me when he said, “That’s when I realized I was getting too old for that line of work. It was time to call it quits.”

I sighed deeply. “And it’s definitely time for
me
to call it quits now,” I announced. “It’s nearly midnight.”

While Debbie and Ted waved to me from the porch, John escorted me to my car, surprising me with his rapt attention. After I was behind the wheel, he asked me to wait while he walked over to his own car. He returned with a paper bag.

“I wish I had something more to give you,” he said, “but this croissant is from a special bakery in San Francisco. I know you’ll like it.” He grinned. “A special pastry for a special gal.”

It was an odd, but interesting, gesture. I thanked him for the croissant and drove away. On the way home I reflected on the entertaining evening and my introduction to an articulate, witty, and amusing man who had impressive credentials and exciting stories, a man who went out of his way to focus his charm and attention on me. But also
an older man,
I reminded myself. Parked in my garage, I grabbed my purse and the paper bag. What was it about me, I wondered, that made this man decide I was “special”? Although I had certainly learned a great deal about him, what exactly had he learned about me?

The Infatuation

The following week, I kept busy with my normal routine. During the day I analyzed samples at Excelsior. In the evening I either drove to San Francisco to attend classes to earn my bachelor’s degree or spread out my textbooks at home on the dining room table to study. Despite my hectic lifestyle I often found myself absorbed with thoughts of Debbie’s dinner party and John Perry. With friends I found myself joking about the blind date I’d had with an older man who turned out to be a most singular individual. Spicing up the normal chitchat my friends and I typically exchanged, I went ahead and relayed some of the stories John told about himself, about the famous people he knew, the escapades he’d participated in, and the historical events he’d witnessed. As far as I could tell, my friends appeared as captivated as I had been.

Naturally, I assumed my family would be captivated too. After finishing an early dinner, I had a few minutes to spare before leaving for my evening class. Comfortably seated on my kitchen bar stool, I took time out to call my parents.

My mother hadn’t yet gotten over my move away from Concord, where my family and friends lived, nor had she gotten over the divorce that forced my move. Bryan, my first husband, had been unfaithful throughout our thirteen-year marriage, and when I mustered the courage to assuage my Catholic guilt, I divorced him. Bryan remained in the Concord house, and we put it on the market. I stayed with my friend Pam for almost a year until I could afford a home of my own in Antioch. The move to Antioch triggered something in my mother. She had always expected me to be “there” for her, so as I dialed her number I prepared myself for a few negative remarks and guilt trips about “abandoning the family,” but I didn’t expect the rest.

Mom answered the phone, and as soon as I greeted her, she said, “Hold on,” and put the phone down. I could hear her walk off, and then a door closed. It seemed to take forever.

When she was back on the line, I asked, “Why do you always do that?”

“Do what?”

“You know, make me wait while you go turn down the TV, or put on a robe, or whatever else you do. Couldn’t you at least say hello first?”

“I don’t want flies in the house, Barbara.”

“Flies?”

“I was in the garage, doing laundry, when you called. I had to close the door.”

“Well, it’s irritating to be put on hold, that’s all. Oh, never mind. I called to tell you I was at Debbie’s the other night for dinner, and you’ll never guess who she set me up with—someone from a famous family.”

“This is silly. Just tell me. You know I don’t like guessing games.”

“I met John, the son of Admiral Perry! The Admiral Perry who started the Seabees in World War II.”

Without skipping a beat, she said, “Your dad, you know, was a sergeant in the Army Air Corps in World War II.” It never failed. At the very mention of World War II, Mom would bring up Dad.

“Yes, I know, Mom. I know. But I wasn’t talking about Dad. I was talking about John. Captain John Perry. He’s Admiral John Richard Perry’s son, and great-grandson, by the way, of the Admiral Peary who went to the North Pole. Now that I think of it, John is an admiral, too. He was promoted when he retired.”

“Well, your father served proudly even if he didn’t get stationed overseas,” she said. Why she felt the need to be defensive or competitive about that, I’ll never know.

“Dad certainly did his part, Mom,” I said, hoping to appease her. “John did, too. He was a Navy SEAL in that war.”

“World War II? What are you saying? How old a man is he?”

I told her.

“What in heaven’s name could Debbie have been thinking? A man only two years younger than your mother!”

“What Debbie was thinking, Mom, was that she needed a fourth for dinner. That’s all. She wasn’t making a match. Look, I’m only mentioning this to you because he was such an interesting man, really special and nice. He’s not only straightforward, he’s also kind and generous. I was lucky to meet him, that’s all.”

“I don’t think you should see him again. He’s much too old for you.”

Here we go,
I thought. “Well, you don’t have to worry about it, Mom. He didn’t ask for my phone number.” I knew that even if he had, and even if he’d been the “right” age for me, it wouldn’t have mattered. Mom and Dad both would have automatically spoken negatively about him. The fact that I was thirty-five and quite capable of deciding for myself what was or was not in my best interest would never occur to them. They were still stuck back in time, still worried about me getting in with the wrong crowd, and if they could get away with it, even now, they would restrict me from dating anyone at all, as they had done for two endless years when I was in high school. It wasn’t my fault that a jealous schoolmate called them and told them I got pregnant at a party, when all I had done was some passionate kissing. Going overboard with discipline was their style, so there was no point in arguing with her. Still, it was impossible to hold back entirely.