The Devil in Pew Number Seven (13 page)

Leaning hard on the curves, Mr. Watts rocketed into the night way too fast for my racing heart. While Daddy sometimes drove to town with a lead foot, he never traveled as recklessly as this. Although the car windows remained closed, my hair blew into my face as if they had been open, allowing gusts of the night-chilled air to whip my long, chestnut brown tresses into a frenzy.

Driving hard around a bend, still climbing, higher, faster, my chauffeur from hell let go of the wheel. Without warning, Mr. Watts and Bud Sellers opened their car doors in unison and jumped out of the car. Only then did I comprehend the danger awaiting me. With no time to escape, the car became airborne. I sailed over the edge of a cliff, trapped within the metal casket. I tried to cry out, but no sounds escaped from my parched throat.

Now falling like deadweight, I plunged earthward. Like a meteorite ensnared in the earth’s gravitational pull, the collision was unavoidable. Panic bored a hole through my chest. Upon impact the car exploded into a ball of fire.

I screamed until my lungs burned.

Terrified and now fully awake, beads of sweat clung to my forehead. Thankful to be alive, I shot upright, yanked off the covers that, like shackles, held me to the bed, then ran to get Momma. I hesitated only long enough just inside my bedroom to make sure Mr. Watts wasn’t still standing next to the kitchen door as he had been in my dream.

Face wet with tears, I fell into Momma’s arms.

* * *

Living with the threats and harassment that produced this nightmare was no simple task. Daddy and Momma tried to comfort me with the words of Proverbs 23:18: “For surely there is an end; and thine expectation shall not be cut off.” I believe they meant well. And yet in spite of the Scripture, it was terrifying to anticipate going to bed each night. Closing my eyes, I prayed that all would be well in the morning.

Some nights I achieved peace. Other nights were disturbed by the sound of gunshots, explosions, and police lights splashing red bursts of light against my windowpane.

Living with the uncertainty of what any given night would bring has had a lasting impact on my life. Years later, as a teenager, I had to feed on the Word of God if I was to have any hope of resting at night.

I placed the words of Proverbs 3:24-26 on a sticky note over my bed:

When you lie down, you will not be afraid; when you lie down, your sleep will be sweet. Have no fear of sudden disaster or of the ruin that overtakes the wicked, for the L
ORD
will be your confidence. (
NIV
)

I’d read those words slowly, deliberately, marinating in its truth until I could savor the meaning within my soul. I’d pray and beg my heavenly Father to be true to His promises.

Only then did I have the strength to close my eyes.

The Lord was, and is, my refuge and my hiding place.

* * *

In the midst of this turmoil, the arrival of my baby brother was a gift from God. Of course, there was the marvel of a new life in our home, complete with a fresh array of smells that tickled my nose—the baby powder, baby oil, and baby bubble bath. To watch Momma snuggle him, bathe him, feed him, and bundle him up in a feather-soft, blue “keeper” for the night was better than watching TV. And Daniel’s presence in the home had a way of taking our minds off the sociopath living across the street.

I’ve heard people say that the first child is a gift to the parents and the second child is a gift to the first child. This was true of my brother. For the first five years of my life I basked in my parents’ love. In some ways I had been spoiled rotten. After all, I was their miracle baby and, as such, enjoyed extraordinary treatment.

I remember how Daddy, with a twinkle in his eye, signaled that he was ready to steal me away to the nearby market for a coveted candy run. There, surrounded by mountains of sugary delights, he encouraged me to fill a brown lunch bag with all of my favorite treats. On the way home, sitting side by side in the front seat of the family car, I’d dig into the bag and unwrap my treasures, one by one, while he told me how much he loved his princess.

Likewise, Momma thrived on brushing my hair, sometimes gathering it into pigtails, other times arranging it with the flair of a seasoned hairstylist. Before sending me on my way, she’d place a colorful bow atop my head as if finishing off a Christmas present. When she wasn’t dressing me up, doll-like, she’d make time to sew a gorgeous outfit for one of my dolls with the care of a custom tailor.

In spite of their lavish displays of love, I longed for a brother or a sister. And, while playing with friends was a treat, I now had a real live baby doll to smother with love. I took my responsibility as a big sister as seriously as if I had been assigned with the duty of protecting the crown jewels of England. I’m sure I drove Momma nuts asking to hold Danny a hundred times a day.

Our family was complete—Daddy had his princess, and Momma had her boy. Momma had always had a special place in her heart for little boys. When my cousin Eddie was born ten years before me, Momma looked forward to every trip to see her brother Ed and his wife, Shirley, in Baton Rouge. The sun rose and set on Eddie.

With Danny, Momma had a boy of her own.

After Daniel’s birth, Grandma Welch, Momma’s mother, came to stay with us for several weeks to help with Daniel, with me, and with whatever cooking and housecleaning needed to be done. I was enthralled with the parade of people stopping by, delivering meals, dropping off gifts, and cooing over Danny. I was so proud that they were coming to see “my” baby brother.

By the time June rolled around, Grandma was long gone, the visitors were fewer and farther between, and life felt as if it had finally settled down into a comfortable routine. Danny was sleeping through the night, and I, too, found sleep less elusive. I was beginning to rest at night because the last explosion to rock our home had been six months prior—an eternity. While thankful for the respite from the bombings, as far as I was concerned, six months were not long enough.

Never would have been better.

The Bible says that, in the spiritual realm there is an enemy, the devil who, like a lion, prowls about seeking someone to devour. You might say we had our own earthbound lion roving the streets of Sellerstown. During the night hours, this tormented creature was pacing, preparing, watching, and waiting for us to let our guard down. As we’d soon discover, on Saturday, June 28, 1975,
22
this cowardly lion would unleash his wrath upon us while we slept.

* * *

Under the half-opened eye of the watchful moon, with the clock approaching 1 a.m., a sniper pulled into Mr. Watts’s driveway. He parked, leaving the engine running to ensure a fast exit, then slipped out of the driver’s door, shotgun in hand. He took up his position beside the car and trained his rifle scope on the initial target. His instructions were simple: Shoot with speed and efficiency and make a clean getaway.

I don’t know how much he had been paid.

I don’t know how much he knew about his prey.

I doubt the gunman cared that he was about to take aim at the home of a pastor. This was business, after all. Nothing personal. Like a hired gun, he was there to do a job and then move on. The fact that a five-year-old girl and a four-month-old baby were home did nothing to prevent him from embarking on this act of senseless violence.

With just enough pressure to actuate the trigger, the automatic twelve-gauge shotgun launched its solid lead projectile into our faithful sentry, the mercury-vapor light in the backyard. The grounds around our house fell dark and, like a curtain of blackness, concealed the activity of the shooter.

Gun resting against his shoulder, Daddy’s car now in the crosshairs of his scope, the shooter fired his weapon four times in quick succession. Hot metal slugs ripped into our family car. Two shots flattened the rear tires, and two plowed into the driver’s side rear fender mere inches from the gas tank. By God’s grace, the munitions didn’t cause the fuel tank to explode. Had that happened, a fireball would have turned our home into an inferno.

It’s unknown whether the gunman paused to reload his gun or if he used another weapon. Either way, the shooting continued. With my bedroom the subject of his attack, the gunman unloaded his ammo in my direction as I slept. Bullets carrying the power to send me to an early grave plowed into the brick siding just outside the wall where the headboard of my bed rested.

He fired again.

This time his shots shattered my bedroom window. The bullets flew inches past my head before lodging in the closet between my room and my parents’ bedroom. The sound of breaking glass and the barking of a gun woke me with a jolt. Sitting upright in bed, blinking at the darkness, it took several long moments for my mind to transition from sleep to reality. Before I
knew
what was happening, I
felt
something was wrong, but what? Why did the feeling of dread hang in the air around me?

Why was my momma sobbing in her room?

Was something wrong with Danny?

Why had Daddy cried out, “Becky! Stay in your bed!”?

With a squint, aided by my closet night-light, I saw shards of glass strewn about the carpet. But was this unsettling tapestry of Momma’s tears, splintered glass, and warnings from my father real or imagined? Was I caught in the middle of another nightmare like the time Mr. Watts came to take me away? As if answering my musings, I heard the fear in Daddy’s voice as he repeated his plea, “Becky, don’t move! Stay down!”

I’m thankful I had the sense to obey Daddy’s command. I don’t want to think what might have happened had I stood at that precise moment to seek the shelter of my parents’ bed, as I had done many nights before. My body could have been used to stop one of the bullets. Whether or not it was genuinely Mr. Watts’s intention to have us killed, or just shaken up, I can’t say for certain. I do know, however, it wouldn’t have taken much for one of us to have taken a bullet in the chest.

What if Momma had been awake, standing at the crib to change Danny’s diaper? Or sitting upright in bed feeding him a bottle? The shot through my window could have tunneled through the flimsy drywall and pierced her heart. What if Daddy had heard me stirring over the initial round of shots and entered my room to check on me? He, too, would have been seriously injured, if not killed outright.

Like a puzzle with a thousand pieces, I struggled to fit together into any meaningful order the troubling thoughts swirling in my mind. Why was Mr. Watts
still
targeting us? Night after night, we prayed that this man would have a change of heart. We begged God to take away his anger, to transform his mind by the power of the gospel message that Daddy preached Sunday after Sunday. After six months of relative calm, with a newborn baby under our roof, we thought maybe, just maybe, Mr. Watts had softened.

And now this unprovoked assault.

In a way, my shattered bedroom window got off easy. It could be replaced. The damage done to our nerves, however, was taking its toll. There would be no quick fixes. No magic pill. No simple solution that could easily mend the broken places in our spirits. To hear my momma crying, her sobs so deep they welled up from the depths of her soul, was almost too much for me to handle as I remained confined to my bed.

How I wanted to comfort her.

How I needed her to comfort me.

Tires squealed outside of my now-splintered window. The roar of an engine seemed to dissipate in the distance. I could only assume that whoever had done this to us had sped off. Daddy, however, watched from the living room window. He stood to the side to avoid harm during the last few shots and watched the gunman bolt from the scene.

At 1:20 a.m., surprised to find the telephone still operational, Daddy called the law and described what he had witnessed. He reported to Wayne Piver, a Columbus County police officer, that the parsonage had been the subject of yet another attack. A male assailant, whose features were unrecognizable in the dark, got into a two-tone light and dark car after he finished firing and raced away.

Patrolman Piver, joined by County Detective Alton Lennon, arrived on the scene and identified five of the spent shotgun shells still lying on the ground in Mr. Watts’s driveway. A number of bullet fragments were also extracted from under the carport. With two bullet holes marking his car, Daddy now had a daily reminder of the battle we were in. His devotion to the church came with a price, that much was clear.

But how far would these attacks go?

None of us knew this ambush was just the preamble.

* * *

Even though we might suffer from one of these sneak attacks on any given night, my parents were determined to keep life as normal as possible during the day. Daddy would go about his church business and sermon preparations while Momma cooked and cleaned without discussing the scary events in front of me. Speaking of cleaning, Momma loved a clean house. That’s an understatement. Momma declared our house a “dirt-free zone.” She waged a war on grime with the competence of an army general directing his troop into battle.

Aunt Pat says Momma would catch dust before it had a chance to settle on the table. Her utility room housed an arsenal of cleaning products; bottles of Clorox, an array of brooms and mops, and an assortment of towels awaited to be drafted into the good fight. Although she was petite, Momma applied enough elbow grease to keep her counters polished to a shine.

Momma had a peculiar habit of hand washing her turnip greens, mustard greens, and collard greens in the sink with a few drops of dishwashing liquid for good measure to loosen the dirt. After inspecting each leaf to ensure there were no hidden granules of earth stuck in a leafy fold, she’d run her greens through the rinse cycle in the washing machine.

She was especially thorough when it came to laundering Danny’s cloth diapers. Her routine was to wash Danny’s diapers in Clorox, then in Tide, and finally put them through an extra rinse cycle. By the time she was finished, a biohazard team couldn’t have done a better job disinfecting them. To save time, I’m surprised Momma didn’t use Pampers or some other brand of disposable diaper, which had recently become popular. Then again, Momma was a frugal pastor’s wife. She had to stretch her resources any way she could; old-fashioned cloth diapers made the most sense.