The Devil in Pew Number Seven

Chapter 1

Walking, Crawling, Dead or Alive

I ran.

My bare feet pounding the pavement were burning from the sunbaked asphalt. Each contact between flesh and blacktop provoked bursts of pain as if I were stepping on broken glass. The deserted country road, stretching into the horizon, felt as if it were conspiring against me. No matter how hard I pushed myself, the safe place I was desperate to reach eluded me.

Still, I ran.

Had a thousand angry hornets been in pursuit, I couldn’t have run any faster. Daddy’s instructions had been simple: I had to be a big girl, run down the street as fast as my legs could carry me, and get help. There was nothing complicated about his request. Except for the fact that I’d have to abandon my hiding place under the kitchen table and risk being seen by the armed madman who had barricaded himself with two hostages in my bedroom down the hall. I knew, however, that ignoring Daddy’s plea was out of the question.

And so I ran.

Even though Daddy struggled to appear brave, the anguish in his eyes spoke volumes. Splotches of blood stained his shirt just below his right shoulder. The inky redness was as real as the fear gnawing at the edges of my heart. I wanted to be a big girl for the sake of my daddy. I really did. But the fear and chaos now clouding the air squeezed my lungs until my breathing burned within my chest.

My best intentions to get help were neutralized, at least at first. I remained hunkered down, unable to move, surrounded by the wooden legs of six kitchen chairs. I had no illusions that a flimsy 6 x 4 foot table would keep me safe, yet I was reluctant to leave what little protection it afforded me.

In that space of indecision, I wondered how I might open the storm door without drawing attention to myself. One squeak from those crusty hinges was sure to announce my departure plans. Closing the door without a bang against the frame was equally important. The stealth of a burglar was needed, only I wasn’t the bad guy.

Making no more sound than a leaf falling from a tree, I inched my way out from under the table. I stood and then scanned the room, left to right. I felt watched, although I had no way of knowing for sure whether or not hostile eyes were studying my movements. I inhaled the distinct yet unfamiliar smell of sulfur lingering in the air, a calling card left behind from the repeated blasts of a gun.

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.

Rather, her beauty treatment amounted to the discreet application of pancake makeup. She preferred dresses with gathered skirts, most of which she and her mother handmade themselves, and the practicality of loafers. She had no use for gold necklaces or shiny rings. Applying clear nail polish was about as glitzy as she cared to venture into the world of cosmetics.

For two weeks she talked late into the night with her mother about the mystery of attracting a man, this man in particular. Would it be such a bad thing to spice up her image? Should she ask her sister if she could borrow one of her store-bought dresses? What about fixing her hair differently? How about a splash of perfume?

Although sympathetic to the war of emotions raging within Ramona, her mother had little use for such window dressing. In her heart of hearts, Momma knew that her mother, her best friend and coconspirator in love, was right. To put on a show would be to become someone she was not. No, there was nothing wrong with her appearance. Robert would have to be drawn to her vibrant spirit and inner, godly glow. That’s all there was to it.

Which is not to say Momma was unattractive. She wasn’t. Like a rose, hers was a classic beauty. Resolved to be the person God created her to be, refusing to apply so much as a layer of lipstick, she continued to trust and pray that the man who captivated her heart would one day accept her for who she was. Would that day ever come?

Maybe. Maybe not.

That decision was beyond her control.

The veil of uncertainty cloaking Robert’s feelings parted fifteen days after their initial meeting. As was his practice, Robert concluded the evening service with an altar call. After talking and praying with those who had come forward, he lingered as the attendees retraced their steps to the parking lot. Much to Momma’s surprise, Robert took her aside and, lowering his voice as if the room had been bugged, asked if she would like to go somewhere and get a cup of coffee.

These were the words she had yearned to hear. Her ears burned around the edges as he spoke. Did he have feelings for her after all? Could this be the beginning of something special? Of course she’d enjoy the pleasure of his company and said so—although she fought the temptation to appear too anxious. Desperation wasn’t attractive, no matter how nicely she was dressed. Escorting her outside, this young evangelist—her tall, handsome knight—held the car door as she gathered her dress and slipped inside the chariot.

He circled around the front of the hood and appeared at his door. This was no dream, no wishful thinking. At the sound of the engine roaring to life, she remembered to breathe. They navigated all too quickly the short distance to the Acme Café, a local hot spot in the heart of Bogalusa. If she could, she would have gladly arm wrestled with Father Time to slow down the clock for the night.

They were seated across from each other in an oversize, avocado green and orange booth. The butterflies in her heart fluttered with a renewed burst of energy when her feet accidentally brushed against his under the table. She hoped he didn’t think she was being forward. Given that each booth was outfitted with a personal coin-operated jukebox, and grateful for a chance to pull the focus from the unintentional physical contact, Momma fished a dime from her purse and selected a favorite tune, Danny Boy.

Waitresses buzzed from table to table, like bees scuttling between buds on a honeysuckle shrub, taking orders and refilling drinks. Considering Momma had been to the café many times before with friends, the harried pace and general pulse of the scene felt familiar but different. This time, rather than scan the faces in the room, Momma, feeling as charmed as Cinderella, gave her full attention to soaking in the view across the table.

Robert sipped coffee while Ramona drank in the moment.

For two weeks she had been early to every one of his revival services. Day by day she grew deeper in love with his heart, his boldness, and his voice of conviction. He was the real deal. A man of God. Sitting with her. Not only was he great looking up close, she found his gaze as warm and inviting as a spring day. She felt as if she could tell him anything—and yet she didn’t want to say too much.

It was just coffee, right? Or was it?

She could have listened for hours. And she did.

When the evening was over, she sailed home, buoyed by his request to meet again the next night after services. Sleep, of course, was out of the question. She’d keep the moon company while she replayed their conversation in her mind over and over until, at long last, her eyelids conceded. She drifted off to sleep with a smile still embossed on her face.

During their second coffee, she discovered they had more in common than she’d ever imagined. Both had been previously married—Ramona, at age twenty, to a hot-tempered, controlling man devoid of love and, on occasion, verbally abusive. When he hit her the first time, that was the last straw. The short-lived marriage was annulled.

Robert, too, had married young while serving in the Navy. He had fallen in love with his commanding officer’s daughter. Enthralled with this woman, Robert was quick to tattoo her name on his left arm. Not long into the marriage, he left for a tour of duty with his ship. Upon his return, the young serviceman learned she had abandoned him. A Dear John letter on the kitchen table announced that she was leaving town with her father, who had received orders transferring him to another naval station. She made it clear Robert was not to follow—and for the record, her father was having their marriage annulled.

Which is why Robert had appeared to ignore Ramona for the first two weeks. Love had wounded him before. The last thing he wanted to do was make the same mistake twice. He had to see what kind of person Ramona was before daring to get close to a woman again. Yes, he had been watching her, studying her character at arm’s length. He warmed to her humor, her giftedness, her simplicity, the way she interacted with others, and above all, her heart for God. What he saw led him to believe she’d be the perfect helpmate for him.

For the next fourteen days of the revival, she drank more coffee—with Robert—than she’d had in her entire life. The couple concealed their growing love from the parishioners, who, in turn, were floored at the announcement of their wedding on Tuesday, February 11, 1964. Six weeks after her unexpected encounter with Robert in the chapel, Momma and Daddy pledged each other their lives—for better or worse, in sickness and in health, until they drew their last breath.

Standing that day, arms entwined under a white, arch-shaped trellis, surrounded by family and friends, there was no way they could foresee the trials that lay ahead like a snake in the shadow of their garden of paradise. Trials that would test their faith, threats that would shake their emotions, and bullets that would target their commitment to God and to each other. All they knew or cared about in that joyous moment was the unmistakable fact that God had brought them together.

* * *

Their first house was a small trailer in which Momma gladly set up housekeeping as if it were a palace. The humble abode didn’t bother her in the least. A big house held nothing that she didn’t already possess. She had a great man who loved and cherished her, a man with an unmatched passion for the Lord. That was better than the finest mansion money could buy.

For the better part of six years, Daddy, Bible in hand, and Momma, toting her accordion, planted churches and held revivals wherever God’s calling took them. Throughout Alabama, Arkansas, and Texas, they lived in motels while Daddy preached the Good News to whoever would listen. They spent several of those years serving as missionaries to the Native Americans in Oklahoma.

In spite of their best efforts, times were hard, and finances were lean. On one occasion, with just three potatoes and some cooking oil in the pantry, my optimistic momma suggested they head to the creek and catch some fish for supper. Daddy dug for worms and grabbed two poles, and away they went. Evidently the fish weren’t as hungry as they were. After three hours, and with no nibbles to show for their efforts, Daddy announced, Let’s go!

Momma wasn’t about to let the fish win. Time they had. Money they didn’t. Besides, once she got something in her head, she wasn’t easily dissuaded. Momma said, "Wait a few more minutes. I know we’re going to catch something." I’m sure in that moment Daddy gained a new insight into his new bride: He had married one tenacious woman.

She was also creative at meal planning whenever they traveled to conduct revival services in other cities. When packing the car, she made sure she had an electric coffeepot and a frying pan to cook dinner in their motel room. Skipping restaurants was a sure way to keep costs down. Momma’s resourcefulness knew no bounds, except in one area.

Having children.

Try as they did, Momma couldn’t get pregnant.

Robert was as disappointed as she that kids weren’t a part of their story. He loved children. Always quick to pass out candy to the youngsters or to tell tall tales to entertain their young ears, he couldn’t imagine going through life without raising at least one child of their own making.

During the early years of their marriage, Momma saw three doctors in search of a solution. After