The Devil in Pew Number Seven (2 page)

I willed myself to move.

My bare feet padded across the linoleum floor.

I was our family’s lifeline, our only connection to the outside world. While I hadn’t asked to be put in that position, I knew Daddy was depending on me. More than that, Daddy
needed
me to be strong. To act. To do what he was powerless to do. I could see that my daddy, a strong ex–Navy man, was incapable of the simplest movement. The man whom I loved more than life itself, whose massive arms daily swept me off my feet while swallowing me with an unmatched tenderness, couldn’t raise an arm to shoo a fly.

To see him so helpless frightened me.

Yes, Daddy was depending on
me
.

Conflicted at the sight of such vulnerability, I didn’t want to look at my daddy. Yet my love for him galvanized my resolve. I reached for the storm-door handle. Slow and steady, as if disarming a bomb, and allowing myself quick glances backward to monitor the threat level of a sudden ambush, I opened the storm door and stepped outside. With equal care, I nestled the metal door against its frame.

I had to run.

I shot out from under the carport, down the driveway, and turned right where concrete and asphalt met. The unthinkable events of the last five minutes replayed themselves like an endless-loop video in my mind. My eyes stung, painted with hot tears at the memory. Regardless of their age, no one should have to witness what I had just experienced in that house—let alone a seven-year-old girl. The fresh images of what had transpired moments ago mocked me with the fact that my worst fears had just come true.

I had to keep running.

Although I couldn’t see any activity through the curtains framing my bedroom window, that didn’t mean the gunman wasn’t keeping a sharp eye on the street. I hesitated, but only for a moment more. What
might
happen gave way to what
had
happened. I had to get help. Now, almost frantic to reach my destination, I redoubled my efforts.

I ran on.

To get help for Momma and Daddy. To escape the gunman. To get away from all the threatening letters, the sniper gunshots, the menacing midnight phone calls, the home invasions—and the devil who seemed to be behind so many of them.

But I’m getting ahead of the story.

Chapter 2

Once upon a Dream

The snow drifted.

Thick plumes of whiteness blanketed the frozen streets of Bogalusa. Layer upon layer of soft-packed snowflakes settled in near silence, forming a quilt of feathery ice crystals. This quaint Louisiana town, nestled against the border of Mississippi, a scant forty miles north of the Gulf of Mexico, resembled a winter wonderland worthy of Santa himself.

Traditional red and green Christmas garlands hung from front doors. For some, windows and rooflines sported strings of flickering lights. Families huddled together with cups of hot chocolate while children eyed brightly colored packages beneath tree limbs adorned with ornaments and candy canes. Each in his or her own way was celebrating the birth of Christ.

I did not witness these happenings.

However, at age twenty-seven, my mother, Ramona Welch, did. Although Christmas was usually a time of joy for her, this particular year, 1963, was especially hard on her soul. She was as miserable as if she were living during the Great Depression. Chief among reasons for her heavy heart was the unmistakable fact that most of her friends were married and she, for reasons known only to God, remained unwed. A lonely old maid, as she wrote in her journal.

In every other aspect of her life, things were going great. Her career as a bookkeeper paid well. Her boss loved Momma’s work ethic and sometimes flew her to New York to handle one of the company’s accounts. She had a closet full of clothes, a new car, and until this year, lots of friends. Momma was not melancholy by nature. On the contrary, she was as effervescent as a freshwater stream.

But while her peers lived in apartments or houses of their own, she was still living with her parents—as well as with her recently divorced younger sister and her sister’s four-year-old son. She longed for companionship, for independence, for someone to share the dreams of her life. For years she had prayed that she’d marry a preacher. That was the unmet desire of her heart.

Not that Momma wasn’t close to her family. She was. Every workday she traveled home during her lunch break to watch
As the World Turns
with her mother, a routine as regular as the rising of the sun. They had each other, but she didn’t have someone to call her own. Momma managed to mope through Christmas. Even with the new year fast approaching, bearing promises of new beginnings, Momma’s otherwise upbeat, unquenchable spirit remained frozen in the grip of the winter doldrums.

On New Year’s Eve, the snow fell again. For three solid days, a heavy snowstorm dumped a pale shroud of white flakes until the roads became impassable. Momma had been trapped at home, unable to celebrate New Year’s with old friends or coworkers. No shared fireworks. No colorful hats. No noisemakers. Midnight hugs and laughter were in short supply. She had to settle for watching Guy Lombardo and his band playing on television as the ball dropped in New York City.

As if to add insult, the blizzard crippled their phone service. A simple phone call to share the moment was out of the question. Momma never felt more isolated in her life. Needing to do something, anything, to take her mind off her loneliness, Momma, bundled up in mittens, boots, and a scarf, headed to the backyard to make her own company. Maybe she figured that, if God wouldn’t bring her a man, she’d just have to make one for herself.

Hours later, she had hand-fashioned a life-size snowman tall enough to match her five-foot-seven frame. Even as pictures were taken of Momma standing with her arms draped around her make-believe man, an avalanche of frosty emotions swept over her. This snow creation, no matter how perfectly crafted, could never melt the chill within.

She was a single adult in a world made for couples.

Two days later, on January 3, 1964, her snowman vanished, vanquished by unseasonably warm, coastal winds. In the wake of his abrupt departure, her longing for a man, one who wouldn’t melt with the snow, wash away with the rain, or disappear into the night, intensified.

The cold returned.

The first weekend of the New Year brought with it an intense gloom, thick as fog. Once again, Momma had nothing to do and no friends with whom to brighten her Saturday night. Living across the street from the Warren Street Church of God, an intimate community church where she had worshiped since childhood, she decided to practice several songs on the organ. To Momma, music was like a treasured gem, one she polished to a shine as often as possible.

Musically gifted and able to play a number of instruments by ear, Momma could make a piano, accordion, guitar, and saxophone sing. Those around her would often dance as she serenaded them with song. Whether playing a hymn, a folk ditty, or the boogie-woogie, she was the life of the party. Recognizing her talent, the pastor had asked her to serve as their organist.

Momma headed out the door with her energetic four-year-old nephew, Stevie, in tow. Much to Momma’s dismay, her mother had asked—as a favor to her sister—for this spirited child to accompany her. Rather than sing the blues in protest, Momma figured she’d just have to drown out Stevie’s cacophony of sound with the organ. That’s all there was to it.

With no plans of meeting anyone, she wore a run-of-the-mill blouse, an ordinary skirt, loafers, and a scarf. Her long locks of chestnut brown hair were rolled tight in the clutches of twelve pink curlers. She made her way across the street, slipped into the vacant building, and cranked up the organ. With the exception of Stevie running between the pews, she was alone in her private sanctuary of song.

That’s when the side door opened.

That’s when he walked in.

A stranger.

The most handsome man she had ever laid eyes on.

The unknown guest paused just inside the sanctuary door, Bible in hand, standing tall. His shoulders, broad and sturdy, appeared as if they could carry the weight of the world without breaking a sweat. His brown eyes sparkled like perfectly matched quartz gemstones. He glanced around the room and then settled on the source of the music.

Struck by his unexpected appearance, Momma lifted her fingers from the keyboard as if the keys had suddenly become hot to the touch. The music stopped and was instantly replaced by a chorus of questions. Who could this man be? Where was he from? What was he doing here, of all unlikely places? Had he been listening to her playing through the door? If so, for how long?

More to point, was he married? If he didn’t have a wife, what kind of first impression was she making with her hair wrapped up in neat rows of pink rollers? Her face, with its otherwise fair complexion, flushed beet red at the thought and then reddened even more as a new reality dawned on her: What if this visitor, this perfect specimen of a man who’d just walked into her world, was single and assumed little Stevie was her child? Would he dismiss her out of hand as being married? Would he, like her snowman, vanish in the night just as quickly as he had materialized?

With long, smooth strides he spanned the distance between them. Momma rose from the organ, flattening out her skirt as she stood. Nothing could be done to conceal the rollers sitting atop her head, drawing attention like a lighthouse beacon. He offered his hand in greeting. She took it. Rather, his mitt-size hand engulfed her petite fingers, yet with care, as if handling a rare, delicate flower.

The newcomer introduced himself as evangelist Robert Nichols, from Mobile, Alabama. His smile, as wide as the Mississippi River, seemed to brighten the room as if a drape had been pulled back, admitting the morning sun. The fact that it was night only served to heighten the winsome beam he projected as he spoke. Robert explained that he would be holding revival services at the church starting the next day and continuing for a month of Sundays.

This was news.

This was exciting news, though she wondered why she hadn’t heard he was coming. After all, she was the church organist, and her father was the choir director. Surely news of a revival would have found its way to her. Nevertheless, she was delighted, especially when she noticed Robert wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. At the thought, her heart fluttered inside her chest like a butterfly trying to escape. Dare she believe he might be the one she’d been praying for?

They chatted for several delightful minutes. The private exchange would have been perfect had it not been for Stevie’s high-energy distraction. It was to be Robert’s second revival series after leaving the Navy—those years in the military explained the confidence and strength he displayed. The first two weeks, Robert explained, were designed for the church members and would be followed by two weeks of messages for those outside the church family whom he hoped the regulars would invite in.

Before he excused himself, Momma offhandedly let him know that the impetuous child running circles around them was her nephew, Stevie, not her child. She, of course, wasn’t married—for the record. After saying good-bye and giving her another firm handshake, Robert turned and left her standing there with her heart beating faster than she thought possible. He would be coming back. Tomorrow. For a revival.

She’d see him for four weeks—without rollers.

For the first time in ages, she floated home.

* * *

In spite of her best efforts to remain calm, Momma couldn’t hide her excitement as she told her parents about the unexpected visitor. Her mother was quick to encourage Momma’s hope that Robert might just be the guy for her, the answer to a decade of prayers. Like two schoolgirls comparing notes on the playground, they talked at length about Robert. Her dad, however, frowned during the whole discussion. Rather than launch into a lengthy discourse, his opinion was reduced to three words.

“Ramona, forget it.”

During the first two weeks of the revival, it seemed her dad had been the more realistic of her parents. Robert was there to preach, not to date. His heart was burdened for the impact of the gospel message on those filling the pews. Although he was polite, Momma felt largely ignored. Night after night, Robert preached until his pressed white shirt was soaked around the collar. Riveted to her seat, she hung on to every word as if each syllable were a treasure. If, by chance, Robert made eye contact, her face glowed pinkish red as if a sunlamp had been turned on.

After services, her smile still beaming as if she were privy to a secret joy, Momma lingered with the crowd, hoping for a turn to express how much she got out of the message. Robert maintained a polite, professional distance. If Robert had feelings for Ramona, he managed to keep them close to his vest, causing Momma to wonder whether her feelings for him were a one-way street.

Maybe he was seeing a girl back home. If not, why didn’t he warm to her? He was single. She was single. Both were of marrying age. Was there something undesirable about her? Maybe he would notice her if she were to dress more like her sister, Sue—the flashy dresser in the family. After years of practice, Sue knew how to use makeup to her advantage. But slathering on mascara and wearing hoop earrings that jingled when she walked wasn’t Ramona’s style.