A Dance With the Devil: A True Story of Marriage to a Psychopath by Barbara Bentley Page B
Authors: Barbara Bentley
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Bliss
The sun slipped lower and created intense orange splashes and purple streaks in the Mexico City sky, but I couldn’t enjoy its beauty. Not now. Not on this street, in the historic but run-down part of the city. Not in front of a locked, dilapidated colonial church, with John pounding on the heavy timber-and-iron front doors. No, definitely not now, with our religious wedding plans rapidly disintegrating right before my eyes, as our civil ceremony had done two months earlier in Tijuana.
It was déjà vu. I was miserable then. I was miserable now. Why had I let John talk me into joining him at the end of his business trip? We should have done this in the United States. As the tears welled up, I valiantly fought them back.
I craved a religious ceremony, a blessing from God, essential so I could feel truly married. I needed something more than a piece of paper with Spanish writing and vows in that crummy office in Tijuana. Even though I was no longer a practicing Catholic, God’s presence in my life was very important. Was this blessing worth it if it caused this much pain?
We were a ridiculous sight, a wedding party of eight, dressed in fancy clothes, standing around on a darkening street, whispering like conspirators. Adamo and Sophia, John’s Mexican business partners, agreed to stand up for us. They brought along their two children and two business associates when their last meeting of the day ran late.
“I don’t know what happened,” John said. “I called two days ago and made all the arrangements with the minister.”
“The lights are on inside the church,” Adamo said.
“I hear voices,” Sophia added. “Somebody’s in there.”
The lump in my throat kept me silent.
John started pounding again and yelling in Spanish. Adamo joined in. The doors didn’t open. They pounded harder. The ruckus attracted the locals and a young policeman walking his beat. He strutted up to John and demanded to know what was going on. I cringed. Policemen intimidate me, no matter what nationality.
John quickly explained. The policeman glanced at me, and a smile spread across his pockmarked face. I returned the smile and relaxed a little. He banged the ancient door with his night-stick and yelled, “ Policía! Abre la puerta! ” Nothing happened. He banged on the door again and repeated himself, even louder. Finally, the ancient door creaked and an old man with sparse white hair stuck his head out.
The policeman jabbered at him, and the door opened even wider. We shuffled in and the policeman went on his way. John continued to argue with the old man as the rest of the wedding party slid into the last pew and waited. The old man shook his head and shrugged his shoulders, then waddled across the chipped tile floor up the main aisle toward the vestibule.
“He’s going to get the minister,” John said. “We’ll have this straightened out in no time, and we’ll have our religious wedding.” He gave me one of his everything-is-going-to-be-all-right grins. It didn’t help.
The dimly lit church reeked of passing time, a time when the rich built what today’s poor could not maintain. Faded paint peeled from the ceiling. Votive candles flickered in bent iron holders, and ragged red curtains covered the carved confessional doorways. Disappointment crept over me, and I struggled to breathe. The walls closed in on me. I needed to get out of there at once. I needed fresh air. I needed to be alone.
I bolted outside and stood near the corner, under the dim street-light, and looked back at the old church. The wedding bouquet dangled sadly by my side. My free hand wiped away the river of tears that rolled down my cheeks. I was the crying bride, a pathetic vision dressed in a long-sleeved, floor-length ivory voile dress, with ivory lace at the collar, wrists, and hem. Men and women stared. Children stared. Dogs stared. I didn’t care.
I should have paid attention to the warning signs that appeared earlier in the day.
The sun slipped lower and created intense orange splashes and purple streaks in the Mexico City sky, but I couldn’t enjoy its beauty. Not now. Not on this street, in the historic but run-down part of the city. Not in front of a locked, dilapidated colonial church, with John pounding on the heavy timber-and-iron front doors. No, definitely not now, with our religious wedding plans rapidly disintegrating right before my eyes, as our civil ceremony had done two months earlier in Tijuana.
It was déjà vu. I was miserable then. I was miserable now. Why had I let John talk me into joining him at the end of his business trip? We should have done this in the United States. As the tears welled up, I valiantly fought them back.
I craved a religious ceremony, a blessing from God, essential so I could feel truly married. I needed something more than a piece of paper with Spanish writing and vows in that crummy office in Tijuana. Even though I was no longer a practicing Catholic, God’s presence in my life was very important. Was this blessing worth it if it caused this much pain?
We were a ridiculous sight, a wedding party of eight, dressed in fancy clothes, standing around on a darkening street, whispering like conspirators. Adamo and Sophia, John’s Mexican business partners, agreed to stand up for us. They brought along their two children and two business associates when their last meeting of the day ran late.
“I don’t know what happened,” John said. “I called two days ago and made all the arrangements with the minister.”
“The lights are on inside the church,” Adamo said.
“I hear voices,” Sophia added. “Somebody’s in there.”
The lump in my throat kept me silent.
John started pounding again and yelling in Spanish. Adamo joined in. The doors didn’t open. They pounded harder. The ruckus attracted the locals and a young policeman walking his beat. He strutted up to John and demanded to know what was going on. I cringed. Policemen intimidate me, no matter what nationality.
John quickly explained. The policeman glanced at me, and a smile spread across his pockmarked face. I returned the smile and relaxed a little. He banged the ancient door with his night-stick and yelled, “ Policía! Abre la puerta! ” Nothing happened. He banged on the door again and repeated himself, even louder. Finally, the ancient door creaked and an old man with sparse white hair stuck his head out.
The policeman jabbered at him, and the door opened even wider. We shuffled in and the policeman went on his way. John continued to argue with the old man as the rest of the wedding party slid into the last pew and waited. The old man shook his head and shrugged his shoulders, then waddled across the chipped tile floor up the main aisle toward the vestibule.
“He’s going to get the minister,” John said. “We’ll have this straightened out in no time, and we’ll have our religious wedding.” He gave me one of his everything-is-going-to-be-all-right grins. It didn’t help.
The dimly lit church reeked of passing time, a time when the rich built what today’s poor could not maintain. Faded paint peeled from the ceiling. Votive candles flickered in bent iron holders, and ragged red curtains covered the carved confessional doorways. Disappointment crept over me, and I struggled to breathe. The walls closed in on me. I needed to get out of there at once. I needed fresh air. I needed to be alone.
I bolted outside and stood near the corner, under the dim street-light, and looked back at the old church. The wedding bouquet dangled sadly by my side. My free hand wiped away the river of tears that rolled down my cheeks. I was the crying bride, a pathetic vision dressed in a long-sleeved, floor-length ivory voile dress, with ivory lace at the collar, wrists, and hem. Men and women stared. Children stared. Dogs stared. I didn’t care.
I should have paid attention to the warning signs that appeared earlier in the day.
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