“No. Hang on to the rail, it’s safer. If you slip, I can’t keep you from falling.”
He extended his arm once more and pleaded with his eyes.
“No,” I said. “If you can’t walk down, sit on your butt and slide down, one step at a time. You want to get to your seminar in one piece, don’t you?”
He cried out once more, asking for help. Against my better judgment, I let him put his right arm around my shoulders. “Put your left hand on the rail to support most of your weight,” I commanded.
I leaned against the wall for leverage. We took one step. John yelled in pain. His leg gave out under him. His weight pushed me from the back and I lost my footing. There was nothing for me to grab, and I tumbled down twelve steps. John fell right behind me. We lay motionless on the landing, a tangled mass of arms and legs, until we caught our breath. I struggled to get up, then limped down the last two steps to the foyer. “I told you it was dangerous,” I scolded. “When are you going to start listening to me? We’re lucky we weren’t killed.”
He crawled down the last two steps and sat up. “Are you okay?” He moaned.
“No broken bones, but the bruises will be colorful.”
“I can’t teach today,” he panted. “I’ll have to call the school and cancel.”
What could I say? We were both shaken, and he definitely looked the worse for wear. He struggled to his feet and limped into the kitchen to make his call. I clung to my desire to see him in the classroom. My plan would be delayed, that’s all. “Fine,” I called. “I’ll go to your next one. I have lots of vacation time coming.”
Denial gripped my soul. It’s easy to see that now, as I reflect on the most confusing and stressful time of my life, when reality blurred with fantasy. As a child I held Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny deep in my heart, but as I grew older and learned the truth, I transitioned from innocent child euphoria to adult understanding, while maintaining the spirit intended by society’s deception. But there was a part of me that couldn’t release my childhood fascination with fairy tales, especially with Prince Charming who would one day come and sweep me, a modern-day Cinderella, off my feet to live
happily ever after.
My Prince Charming was John. And when all was not peaceful in the castle, I could not—or would not—acknowledge the clues to his true identity. He was an evil wolf in sheep’s clothing who recognized my neediness—and when he cast his spell as only a psychopath can, with his undivided attention, gregarious and entertaining conversation, fascinating stories, and amazing credentials, I was trapped. Once I was mesmerized and under his control, John could roll lies off his tongue or perpetrate financial abuse so cleverly that I felt crazy for doubting him. I was inside the wolf’s den and could not find my way out.
With an insane sense of desperation, I continued to try to find ways to make this marriage work. In my mind, John was indispensable and vital to my life, vital to living
happily ever after
, even though it was not so at the time. I refused to awaken from my fractured fairy tale. My survival depended on my belief that one day my prince would make everything all right.
However, since the day the FBI had appeared at my door, I had become vaguely aware that something wasn’t quite kosher. An internal battle was taking place between my conscious and subconscious self. At a deep level, one part of me knew that something was amiss. But when suspicions emerged, the other part of me, desperate to make the marriage work, attacked the thoughts with the mighty tool—denial. Fortunately for me, my subconscious would not surrender, and it lay in wait, gaining strength and momentum. Unbeknownst to me, my biggest combat was yet to come.
EIGHTEEN
Suspicions
On a sunny, crisp Wednesday afternoon in mid-December, I pulled my car into the Queen of Heaven Catholic Cemetery. It had been a year full of John’s extreme crazymaking behavior and two months since my dad’s funeral. Earlier I had marked time for each special event following his death...the first time he missed his wedding anniversary, the first Thanksgiving without him. Today was the first birthday he didn’t live to see. I decided to bring flowers and talk with Dad about the strange events going on in my life. What a paradox. I felt safe talking with the dead but didn’t have the courage to share my fears with the living, who might have helped.
The deserted cemetery fit my mood. I placed the flowers on Dad’s grave and stood to avoid the wet grass. I started small. “Sorry John couldn’t get the Army bugler for your ceremony, Dad. There are some things even a retired rear admiral can’t accomplish.” It was just another of those small promises John made that never came through, and it had brought a pang to my heart. “I need your help, Dad. Things are a mess and I need you to straighten them out. I’m going to the library after this. Please guide me to what I need. Research was your strong point.”
My little voice inside had grown bolder and louder. I paid attention and decided to investigate John. I was going behind his back, but I had to do it to save my marriage. Too much had transpired over the years, and over the past six months the drama had intensified. My trust in John was eroding. I didn’t suspect another woman, but I sensed something was amiss. I wanted the truth. Hadn’t I told John when we first met that honesty was the most important thing to me? Hadn’t he assured me it was important to him, too? I didn’t have the money to hire a private investigator, and the Internet was in its infancy, so I chose the main branch of the county library in which to do my research. I took a half day of vacation for my clandestine quest. The serenity of the cemetery calmed my apprehensions and feelings of dishonesty.
The library was down the hill from the cemetery. Briefcase in hand, I walked in and immediately felt overwhelmed. I stopped at the checkout desk, but the clerk was clueless. I headed past the empty research desk, turned right, and entered a room ringed with metal bookcases. Tables and cubbyhole booths filled the center of the room, divided by a waist-high metal bookcase with three shelves bulging with thick tomes. As I stood in the doorway, looking puzzled, a woman pushing a cart half full of books offered to help me.
“I’m looking for information on Rear Admiral John Perry, who started the Seabees in World War II.”
“Hmmm. You might find something in
The National Encyclopedia of American Biography.
It’s over here.” She led me to shelves in the middle of the room and pointed to the index, a red leather volume on the bottom shelf. I pulled the thick volume out, took a seat at the closest cubicle, opened my briefcase, and set out a pad of paper and a pen. Limited sunlight shone through small windows. I wished for more brightness to warm the chill in my bones.
I fanned the pages until I got to the P names, and ran my finger along the columns until I found
Perry.
There were three listings: John F., manufacturer; John J., congressman; and—I sucked in my breath—John R., naval officer. I scribbled the volume and page number on my scratch paper, replaced the index, and pulled out volume 43. Back in my seat, I zeroed in on page 461, and stared in amazement. There was a photograph, and it looked like my John!
I started reading. Facts that John had spouted for years were in the article...Waco...Rensselaer...Seabees...Great Lakes Naval Training Station. It had to be true. This was John’s father. He had served in Great Lakes from 1930 to 1933, spanning the time when John said his mother had died and been buried there.
I pondered each piece of information detailed in the career of this distinguished man. I heaved a heavy sigh as I turned the page and found the 1934 marriage to his stepmother, Janette, listed, as was his half sister, Lydia, and his father’s death from a heart attack in 1955. Facts that John had told me over and over again were true.
I began to feel like a traitor until it occurred to me there was no mention of a previous marriage, or children. I reread the article from beginning to end. Nothing. It was as if John did not exist. I was confused. So much of what he told me was in the biography; why not John, or his mother and siblings, even if they were dead by the time his dad passed away? I grabbed the book and found the photocopier.
Now that I had an exact date of death for John’s dad, what was my next move?
Ask the expert,
my dad whispered in my ear. I walked up to the lady at the periodicals desk. “I have a death date of September 25, 1955, for a John Richard Perry. Can you help me find his obituary?”
She directed me to the card catalog in the back. I soon returned with a triumphant smile and asked for the microfiche reading machine. It didn’t take me long to find the obituary. JOHN PERRY DEAD; FOUNDED SEABEES. As grainy as it was, the accompanying photograph also closely resembled John. The article was short and to the point, listing only his widow, Janette. No daughter. No deceased first wife. No sons, living or dead. I photocopied this, as well.
I thanked the research assistant and went back into the main part of the library. What else could I look up? Something about John that would be easy to find. Oh, yes, the Congressional Medal of Honor. There must be a book about the brave men who risked and mostly lost their lives in the service of their country. I attacked the main card catalog and found a book on Congressional Medal of Honor winners from the Vietnam War. That’s when John said he had earned his medal. I pulled the book and took it to a chair near the copier.
Recipients were listed with detailed explanations of their heroic deeds, but not alphabetically. That didn’t help. I didn’t want to read the whole book; I wanted a list of names. In the back, I found the appendix with a Register of Vietnam Medal of Honor Heroes. The men were identified alphabetically. I flipped through until I came to a page with listings from Monroe through Roark. My finger guided my eyes along the list...Penry...Perkins...Peters. I stopped. No Perry. I scanned from the beginning of the Ps to the end. Still no Perry. I grabbed my purse and fed change into the copy machine once more. Then, as an afterthought, I also copied the publication data. I would order my own book.
As I stuffed the copies into my briefcase, I glanced at the large clock behind the reception desk. It was almost four o’clock. There’d be no more research today. If I left now I’d get home at my regular time and that was absolutely necessary. I didn’t want to arouse John’s suspicions.
I walked back to my car, placed the briefcase on the front seat, and gave it a pat. My quest was successful, providing me with concrete facts . . . puzzle pieces I desperately needed to help me start putting together the whole, even though I still had no picture on the box to guide me.
My ultimate goal was to make things right between John and me. The documents I had just found would help me understand John’s mysterious self. Then and only then could I help us both. I was still caught up in the fairy tale. I couldn’t bear to let it go.
On the way home I decided I wouldn’t tell John what I had found. Not yet. I wanted to hold my aces until I could win the jackpot. I would fill out what I had already learned by calling people and places to find the truth about John’s autobiographical assertions.
Three weeks later John and I sat in a patient’s room at the University of California Veterinary School at Davis, each caught up in our own thoughts about the well-being of our cat Peaches. Eight days earlier her ears had suddenly swollen so severely that the tips had compressed and flattened. She constantly scratched at them. Our veterinarian was stumped and suggested we bring her to the university. Now, after two days of tests, we waited for the head veterinarian to bring her into the room. The door opened and he came in with our pathetic little kitty.
“We can’t figure out what caused this,” he said. “It might be some type of allergic reaction. We’re prescribing prednisone for the swelling. You can give it to her whenever her ears seem to bother her.” He handed Peaches to John. He cuddled her, being careful not to crush her sensitive ears. “There are still a couple of test results to come back,” the doctor continued. “We may have another prescription for her then.”
“Can you call it in to our local vet hospital?” John asked. “It would save us the forty-mile trip to get here and pick it up.”
“No problem. Stop at the desk on the way out and give the receptionist your vet’s name and phone number. You can also settle up with her.”
I looked at the bill for $330 the doctor handed me. “There must be some mistake, Doctor,” I said. “John is teaching here in the psychology department. He was told he could use the vet school services at no charge as part of his benefits.” The doctor looked at me, puzzled, and said he had never heard about the program. Now I was also perplexed. Well, maybe it was something new, and he had not been apprised of it yet.
We put Peaches in her carrier, thanked the doctor, and left. At the receptionist desk John wrote down our vet’s information, and I talked to the receptionist about the bill. She hadn’t heard about the benefit program, either. Reluctantly, I pulled out the checkbook. When we stepped outside, John broke into a furious tirade. “How dare the school not honor a promise! I’m going to talk to the dean about this. There will be hell to pay. I’ll get our three hundred thirty dollars back, mark my word.”
My heart ached at yet another strange happening, one of the many that had piled up over the last several months. My investigations had come to a screeching halt as I stumbled through the Christmas holidays. This unexpected bill got my mind back on track. I had to follow up on John’s teaching activities to prove he was actually involved at the school. We settled Peaches on the backseat and I slipped behind the wheel.
“John, since we’re here, let’s drop by your office and classroom. I’d like to see where you’re working, since I never made it up here after that fall down the stairs.” No matter how much I persisted, John found some excuse for us to go directly home: Peaches was in the car, the office would be locked, another class was using the room. “Well, let’s go to the professors’ cafeteria and have lunch.”