A Dance With the Devil: A True Story of Marriage to a Psychopath by Barbara Bentley
Authors: Barbara Bentley
Ads: Link
fairy tale.
Back home, in real life, things were pretty fantastic as well. John was spending more and more time at my house. When he suggested moving in permanently, he made it seem not just a welcome idea, but an obvious one. Not only would we be together as much as we wished, but “with me around all the time,” he said, “your life will be as grand as it deserves to be.”
As tempting and right as the idea sounded, something held me back. I didn’t say yes.
As though to prove his point, one afternoon John showed up with a twenty-four-by-twenty-eight-inch, $8,000 lithograph from the Collier Art Gallery in Los Angeles. He informed me of the details as he hung the art above my fireplace.
“No, no, no!” I cried out. “I can’t have that here. My insurance doesn’t cover such expensive art.”
He waved away my reaction. “Nothing’s going to happen to this, Barbara. Come here and take a close look at this Zapatista, the bold lines, the color, the passion!” I did. I stood beside him and had to admit that what I was examining was stunning and unusual, like John. “It is an exciting piece,” I agreed, “but I don’t see how. . . .”
“Think about it. When I move in, the painting is protected, you’re protected. Now that Jenna’s no longer renting I’ll help with the expenses. Who can argue with that?”
Bingo! He called my winning number. After I agreed to his plan, he fixed us a drink, remarking offhandedly that he would soon be improving my liquor cabinet, as well. “Grocery store brands,” he said, “just don’t cut it.”
John moved in the next day. He didn’t come with much. He brought his clothes, some furniture for the room that would serve as his office for consulting work, the hospital bed he said the doctor had prescribed for his back and neck issues, and most wonderful of all, his golden retriever, Gobi. When I expressed surprise at how little he’d brought with him, he said he had decided to leave most of his furnishings behind for his cousin, Jason Green, to use over in John’s Danville house.
“You’re so good-hearted, John,” I said. He gave a no-big-deal kind of shrug. Then we turned our attention to our newly integrated family: me and my two cats, John and his dog.
The next six weeks provided plenty of ups and downs, as they probably do for any couple that comes together to work through the awkward period when candlelight and stardust meld into the unexciting routines of daily life. It wasn’t easy. I knew it would take work and time to achieve a full level of comfort. Yes, I assured myself, we just needed time.
But it wasn’t long before time became my adversary. One evening, as I sat at the oak desk in my upstairs study, I looked at the pile of bills before me and shuddered. Before John had come on the scene, I considered bill paying a dull but not unpleasant routine. Bills came in . . . checks went out promptly in full or at least with minimum amounts due. It was a practical matter, not an emotional one. Now bill paying had become pure torture. Decisions about who would get paid and who would not were getting harder and harder to make. There wasn’t enough money to cover them all. Tonight was no exception.
I picked up the phone bill and felt a ripple of anticipation as I ripped open the envelope. The telephone bill held special significance. I’d been waiting, even longing for it, because it would list all the calls John made to his family, calls that hadn’t appeared on previous bills.
I had come to think of those as “phantom calls” because John always made them when I was either away at class, at Mass, at work, or at the grocery store. It hurt that John would wait until I was gone before he’d call to speak with his family. Even though I explained many times how I yearned to connect, to talk with them, he continued to make the calls while I was away. When I finally got him to tell me why, the reason hurt even more. His family, he said, believed me to be a
Back home, in real life, things were pretty fantastic as well. John was spending more and more time at my house. When he suggested moving in permanently, he made it seem not just a welcome idea, but an obvious one. Not only would we be together as much as we wished, but “with me around all the time,” he said, “your life will be as grand as it deserves to be.”
As tempting and right as the idea sounded, something held me back. I didn’t say yes.
As though to prove his point, one afternoon John showed up with a twenty-four-by-twenty-eight-inch, $8,000 lithograph from the Collier Art Gallery in Los Angeles. He informed me of the details as he hung the art above my fireplace.
“No, no, no!” I cried out. “I can’t have that here. My insurance doesn’t cover such expensive art.”
He waved away my reaction. “Nothing’s going to happen to this, Barbara. Come here and take a close look at this Zapatista, the bold lines, the color, the passion!” I did. I stood beside him and had to admit that what I was examining was stunning and unusual, like John. “It is an exciting piece,” I agreed, “but I don’t see how. . . .”
“Think about it. When I move in, the painting is protected, you’re protected. Now that Jenna’s no longer renting I’ll help with the expenses. Who can argue with that?”
Bingo! He called my winning number. After I agreed to his plan, he fixed us a drink, remarking offhandedly that he would soon be improving my liquor cabinet, as well. “Grocery store brands,” he said, “just don’t cut it.”
John moved in the next day. He didn’t come with much. He brought his clothes, some furniture for the room that would serve as his office for consulting work, the hospital bed he said the doctor had prescribed for his back and neck issues, and most wonderful of all, his golden retriever, Gobi. When I expressed surprise at how little he’d brought with him, he said he had decided to leave most of his furnishings behind for his cousin, Jason Green, to use over in John’s Danville house.
“You’re so good-hearted, John,” I said. He gave a no-big-deal kind of shrug. Then we turned our attention to our newly integrated family: me and my two cats, John and his dog.
The next six weeks provided plenty of ups and downs, as they probably do for any couple that comes together to work through the awkward period when candlelight and stardust meld into the unexciting routines of daily life. It wasn’t easy. I knew it would take work and time to achieve a full level of comfort. Yes, I assured myself, we just needed time.
But it wasn’t long before time became my adversary. One evening, as I sat at the oak desk in my upstairs study, I looked at the pile of bills before me and shuddered. Before John had come on the scene, I considered bill paying a dull but not unpleasant routine. Bills came in . . . checks went out promptly in full or at least with minimum amounts due. It was a practical matter, not an emotional one. Now bill paying had become pure torture. Decisions about who would get paid and who would not were getting harder and harder to make. There wasn’t enough money to cover them all. Tonight was no exception.
I picked up the phone bill and felt a ripple of anticipation as I ripped open the envelope. The telephone bill held special significance. I’d been waiting, even longing for it, because it would list all the calls John made to his family, calls that hadn’t appeared on previous bills.
I had come to think of those as “phantom calls” because John always made them when I was either away at class, at Mass, at work, or at the grocery store. It hurt that John would wait until I was gone before he’d call to speak with his family. Even though I explained many times how I yearned to connect, to talk with them, he continued to make the calls while I was away. When I finally got him to tell me why, the reason hurt even more. His family, he said, believed me to be a
Similar Books
