A Dance With the Devil: A True Story of Marriage to a Psychopath by Barbara Bentley Page A

gold digger. It was absurd, of course. Each time I expressed how untrue, how unfair that was, John assured me that eventually they would come around.
    This night I determined to take matters into my own hands. From the bill I would get the phone numbers and call John’s family myself. The plan was sneaky and a little embarrassing, but it had to be done. If I could just meet his family, even by telephone, I’d change their minds. They’d come around and accept me as the woman who made John happy. John would be ecstatic, and love me all the more.
    Now I perused the bill closely, pen in hand, ready to put phone numbers into my address book. But there were no calls to Coconut Grove, Boston, Houston, or New York City . . . cities where he said his family lived. I was disappointed and confused. What about all the times John told me he’d called Sonny, or Grandmother Dannigan? I shook my head to clear my thoughts, and filed this in the things-to-discuss-with-John part of my brain, as I wrote the check for the amount due.
    I put that aside and opened my credit card statement. I couldn’t believe it was right. The card was at its limit. I scanned through it in disbelief. Most were restaurant charges. I grabbed the bill, ran downstairs, and inserted myself between John and the television set.
    “Hey, what gives?” he said, flashing a wide grin.
    “This . . . this!” I sputtered, shoving the bill into his hand. “John, you said you needed to use my credit card for one business lunch. One. But... but...” I could hardly get the words out. “Look at all the charges!”
    “No sweat,” he said, tossing the bill on the coffee table.
    “No sweat? You haven’t paid your share of the expenses yet, and you misused my card. You stomped on my trust!”
    “Hey, wait a minute, Barbara. Let’s be fair. You never asked for it back, so I assumed it was okay to continue to use it.”
    He rambled on, rationalizing what he’d done, twisting my actions so they seemed wrong and elevating his into the right. He was a master of words, and his words made me dizzy. Then he said, “You’re getting to sound just like the gold digger my family says you are.”
    I gasped. If there was one thing I knew I was not, it was that. I had an excellent job and an education, owned a sports car, held two house mortgages . . . held my own. His words struck through me so deeply I felt fighting mad. “I want my card back. Now!”
    John stared at me. Scowling, he took out his wallet, yanked out the credit card, and threw it at my feet. “Goddamn Indian giver.” He stood and glared at me. “I didn’t realize this before, but you’re just like your mother.”
    “No, I am not!” My voice was loud and harsh and filled with fury, completely unlike the calm me, the controlled me, the rational, reasonable, responsible, let’s-talk-things-out me. As a child growing up with verbal abuse, I promised myself I would never yell in anger. No. I’d always talk things out calmly with my mate. Yet here I was, raising my voice, and I couldn’t stop. “I’m not like my mother,” I cried. “I just want to get the bills paid, and damn it, John, you’re not helping. You’re making it worse.”
    “I told you from day one, my commission checks are sporadic,” John barked as he stood up. “I cannot help that.” He shot me a look of disgust before he turned and strode toward the stairs.
    “Where are you going?”
    “To pack my bags. I can’t stand this anymore. I know when I’m not wanted or appreciated.”
    The bewilderment I felt from anger quickly dissipated into fear as I watched John turn and walk away from me. With each angry stomp of his foot up the stairs, my hidden fears grew, fears I would not fully understand until much later. The fear of loneliness, of financial abandonment, of another failed relationship, each of which in turn triggered a fear of social and parental embarrassment. It was more than I could bear. I decided right then that I would