My Life as a Brahman Impersonator

I was recently triggered by a fellow conspiracy nut who sent me this:

When business partner Betsy Salmen Sterck and I ran Archives Inc. (1984-94), Fred Dymond, who would become my second ex-husband, was our accountant. My first husband’s nephew George Dunbar* worked for us. George referred Fred to Betsy and me. Fred and George were drinking buddies at Bruno’s, a New Orleans uptown frat-boy hangout.

Frederick Irvin Dymond, Jr. was eight years younger than me. Like all Dymond men, Fred is a basso profondo. (That voice makes me weak.) Fred was also polished, witty, charismatic, and audacious. Fred’s father Irvin was famous for securing Clay Shaw’s acquittal in the one and only JFK assassination trial.

I married Fred in 1994 after my divorce from Parker Dinkins in 1989. Parker, scion of a family which enjoys the great anonymity that comes with great wealth, was an heir to King Cotton and a municipal bond fortune. When I started dating Fred in 1992, Parker and his second wife Debora Tremont were perfecting the art of vexatious litigation — against me. A fever blister popped up whenever I got a letter from Parker’s lawyer. That ended abruptly once Fred, scion of a famous defense attorney, entered the picture.

Parker deeply regretted marrying a poor girl — me — in 1972 when he was young, dumb, and full of cum. He had enjoyed live-action role-playing poverty, but had had enough fun after seven or eight years. For a long time, my ambition and poor-girl skillset dovetailed nicely with his Republican stinginess.

I was a disappointment to Parker. Were I coming of age today, I might have tattoos and piercings to camouflage the heart of a compliant Mormon wife. It came as a blow to my carefully crafted image as a sexual giant to learn Parker started cheating within months of our wedding. My unimaginative way to defend my ego was the isolated revenge poke. Once I became a mother after eight years of marriage, the core values kicked in. Parker and I might have been more successful in this day of bespoke identities. Our kinky friend Stephen once gleefully asked, “Parker’s kinky too, isn’t he?” Looking back, I realize had I been able to view kinkiness as liberally as did Stephen and his wife, my marriage would have lasted.

While I blinked, Parker often advised newlyweds the first few years of marriage are a power struggle. With our combination of social connections, resourcefulness, and talent, I wanted to leave my mark on New Orleans. Parker’s mark had been secured at birth into a superior caste. Further, he scorned long-term planning for his loved ones as marketing hype for rubes. What we managed to acquire together was all entangled with separate property. By that point I had many reasons to lack confidence in our future together. Whenever I expressed worry or tried to make plans for myself, he’d say, “You’re fine as long as you’re with me. All I have to do is wait for people to die.” I took it personally and felt degraded. He was vengeful, and because he could, he left me destitute with two children, seven and five.

In 1987, things happened fast. Mr. Dinkins, Parker’s father, went into a nursing home. Parker quit his job at the bank and moved in allegedly to oversee Mr. Dinkins’ country estate across the lake. Parker’s brother called to ask what’s going on. I told him Parker was not living at home, and I liked it that way. Mr. Dinkins died. Parker never worked for a paycheck again. In Louisiana at the time, the child-support formula was based on wages, not wealth. Archives Inc. was going broke, and I couldn’t pay myself. My two kids and I lived on $750 a month child support and a stable-turned-apartment I rented out for $350 a month. Though I got the house across the lake, I could barely keep the lights on. Meanwhile, Parker married a woman with whom he’d been involved for years, at least since our second child was an infant.

I’d seen all the signs. Mean as a snake. Long mysterious absences. No sex. His explanation? “I can’t get turned on to a mother.” How could I learn what forces were shaping my life? I was tied down with babies and too scornful of Jerry-Springer-style ickiness to have him tailed. Then came the gaslighting. “You should have an affair,” he said. “It’ll be good for you.” He had the lover all picked out — a sailing buddy from New Orleans toney artsy set. An affair? Arranged by the cuck? I began to hate him from that moment.

After Parker had extricated himself from our marriage for cheap, he quickly married Debora. Debora? His assistant at the bank? How did I miss that? Parker claimed to have met Debora through the résumé she sent him around the time we moved across the lake for a bank job and a new sailboat. Our youngest was a year old; our oldest was three at the time. The faithful Debby commuted from New Orleans to arrive at our house across the lake at 5:00 a.m. so they could drive together to the bank. Later Parker told me Debby had once worked in a New Orleans bank with the man who hired him. Coinky-dink! Another brother-in-law told me Debora once babysat the Dunbar children. Small world!

It didn’t take long to figure out Parker’s and Debby’s relationship preceded Parker’s and mine. Further, I had suspected she was sweet on my husband when they worked together. However, I had no idea how potent her charms were for a man like Parker. That is, until I ran into a director from the bank where they both worked. When I told him Parker married Debora, he did a spit take and started laughing.

“Debora? Parker married Debora?”

“What’s so funny?” I asked.

“Debora Tremont has more money than she can count in a year,” he howled.

Why funny? You see, this gentleman was chatting up the statuesque babe who was Parker’s ex-wife [moi] while he conjured the image of the Jolene who took her man away. Debby is 4-feet 8-inches and is — as a friend charitably put it — sweet, but very plain. I liked Debby and still do. Blinded by narcissism, I had not suspected a thing.

Fast forward to 1992. I’d volunteered to write and design the campaign material for a successful candidate for the state legislature. My candidate had only seen me out socially with girlfriends. She insisted I attend the inauguration with a man. I didn’t know any available men, except my accountant, Fred. What I thought I knew about Fred was he was divorced, had two young sons, was in treatment, and going to meetings. “He’s good looking,” I thought, “and he’s had therapy. That’s a plus.” I asked Fred to escort me to Gov. Edwin Edwards’ third inaugural ball. Fred was a perfect gentleman. Thus, a disappointment.

A bit later Betsy and I were chatting with Chilly, another Dunbar Debby babysat. When Fred’s name came up, Betsy — being helpful — asked Chilly, “Does Fred have a girlfriend?” 

“Girlfriend?” Chilly said. “Fred’s married.”

I called Fred and asked, “You’re married? What the heck? When did you get married?”

“A couple months ago,” he said. “I thought I told you. I wear a ring.”

“You did not, and you do not,” I said. “Women notice stuff like that. I would never have asked you to the inauguration. Why did you agree?” 

Fred mumbled something unconvincing about his wife off skiing and our business relationship. Within days, Fred announced he was separated. 

“That was quick,” I laughed. “I guess I don’t need to give you a wedding present.” 

Shortly thereafter, I got my mojo back and Fred moved in with my kids and me. More important than the machismo and sexy voice Fred brought into my life was the protection from lawfare I enjoyed being Irvin Dymond’s daughter-in-law.

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*George Dunbar is the nephew of George Dunbar, the artist.

Technically, I was married to Parker and then Fred a combined thirty-three years. I rarely think of Fred, but Parker, because we had children, left a mark on me. It’s permanent. A tattoo.

Lydia, the woman who once saved my life, said Parker never loved me.