The Devil in Pew Number Seven (19 page)

Now
that
would have been quite the gift.

On Sunday night, December 12, 1976, a cold rain and thick fog moved in, yet it failed to put a damper on the congregation’s attendance. Every seat in the sanctuary was filled as Daddy preached on the topic of fighting the good fight of faith. His text was 1 Timothy 6. Midway into his message, the building shook as Mr. Watts bombarded us with his tenth destructive device.

Ten bombs in two-and-a-half years.

Six targeting our home.

Four aimed at the church.

Daddy could only take so much. For the next two weeks, he was hospitalized for mental distress. Our Christmas was ruined.

Our loved ones begged us to leave. Grandma Welch called Momma weekly, trying to convince her to move away, whether that was home to Bogalusa—or Mobile—or just about anywhere but Sellerstown. Grandma was beside herself, fearing that the attacks would never end. On the other hand, the church yearned for us to stay. My parents, torn between the pleas of the family and the call they felt upon their lives to this community, believed the situation had to get better.

And the devil in pew number seven remained committed to his crusade to drive us from Sellerstown . . . “crawling or walking, dead or alive.”

Chapter 10

Black Thursday

The visitor came.
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In the spring of 1977, Daddy was home when a sharp knock on the front door echoed through the house. There was nothing unusual about guests stopping by the parsonage unannounced. In a way, our home doubled as his office. People with church or personal business often dropped by for an impromptu meeting. Although Daddy didn’t recognize the caller, he greeted the man with a warm handshake and invited him into the den.

By all outward appearances, the man looked as normal as anyone you’d meet on the street, although the look in his eyes had the intensity of a hawk. He wore no mask, nor was he dressed in a white, hooded robe. And while he didn’t sport the white cross encircled in red, the symbol of the Ku Klux Klan, the man introduced himself as the personal bodyguard of the Grand Wizard of North Carolina.

As they took their seats, the man explained the reason for his visit. With his commanding knowledge of the facts, he demonstrated that he and the Klan were fully aware of the events unfolding in Sellerstown. The Klan felt that the constant persecution we were suffering was wrong, and furthermore, he said everybody knew who was behind these attacks.

I’m sure Daddy must have felt a degree of inner conflict as he listened. On one hand, the harsh prejudices and practices of the Klan were the polar opposite of the love of Jesus he preached, not to mention the saving love that defined his life. And yet Daddy must have felt some degree of gratefulness that this outsider cared about our situation.

But the man didn’t come to just offer sympathy.

He came with a radical offer to help.

Before stating his proposition, the man said, “Mr. Watts is never coming to justice.” Evidently, he knew about Mr. Watts’s connections within the “good old boy” political system. He must have known that someone as powerful as Mr. Watts could pull whatever strings were necessary to evade a conviction forever. But the Klan, as he was quick to point out, had contacts and manpower. Sitting a few feet from Daddy, the man leaned forward and laid out his proposal.

“We’re ready to take him out,” he said without a hint of sarcasm. There was nothing in his body language—no wink, no smirk—nothing to indicate the offer was a joke. This man was dead serious. “Nobody has to know,” he said, adding, “Just give us permission, and it can all be over once and for all.”

The thought that there would be no more bombings, shootings, home invasions, threatening phone calls, midnight stalking, or interruptions in church must have been appealing to Daddy on some level. The idea that he and his family would finally be safe from the resident madman was almost too good to imagine. How different his life would be if Mr. Watts wasn’t in the picture! If he just gave the word, the cloud of fear that followed him every waking hour would be gone.

But to have the man “taken out”?

Killed?

I can’t say for certain, but I wouldn’t be surprised if Daddy, weighing this extreme proposal, pictured in his mind’s eye the temptation of Jesus by Satan. While alone, hungry, and vulnerable after a forty-day fast, Jesus was tempted by the devil, who promised Him the world if Jesus would simply bow down and worship him. Just as Jesus resisted the temptation to take a shortcut to glory, Daddy would have no part in killing Mr. Watts.

“I appreciate this,” Daddy said after a moment to process his thoughts. “But that’s not the way we do things. Yes, we’re frustrated. Yes, the process is taking its toll on us and on the community. But we’re dependent on God to take care of Mr. Watts for us.”

* * *

Spring gave way to summer without another explosion rocking our world. In fact, Mr. Watts took a break from his string of bombings in 1977. The reasons for his cease-fire are unknown. Perhaps the reason for his restraint was the ever-watchful eye of Special Agent Charles Mercer, who left no stone unturned in his investigation. Or perhaps it was the $10,000 reward offered by Agent Mercer for information linking Mr. Watts to the bombings.

It might have had to do with the fact that Mr. Watts was having difficulty leveraging his wealth to buy off the police. On one occasion, for example, Mr. Watts initiated a ninety-minute casual conversation with Deputy James Coleman and County Police Chief Jesse Barker. Mr. Watts spent most of the time describing how much money he had amassed and wanted these officers to know he was “well off.”
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Without offering a bribe outright, the implication had to have been clear. Evidently, they didn’t take the bait.

Their investigation wasn’t for sale.

The yearlong suspension of hostilities—at least those involving guns, home invasions, and bombs—was a welcomed relief. However, Mr. Watts still sat in pew number seven each Sunday morning making faces at Daddy. He tried his best to cause a distraction by coughing, sucking his teeth, squirming in his seat, and tapping his watch.

To an outsider, the actions of Mr. Watts during church might have appeared eccentric at worst, the ludicrous yet harmless actions of someone who wasn’t right in the head. But to those who knew the man, it was evident that Mr. Watts wasn’t a changed man. He still paced at night. He still glared at us with a smoldering disdain that, like hot lava, would inevitably surface.

Somewhere, somehow, he’d strike again.

It was just a matter of time.

* * *

Even so, as the months rolled on without an attack, life, at least for me, settled down into a more peaceful, uneventful rhythm. I rode motorcycles with Missy, played in our secret fort in the woods, and occasionally hung out with Billy Wayne. Admittedly, now that I had finished first grade, I discovered Billy Wayne had cooties. He was, after all, a boy, and all boys had that dreaded disease, which is why I stopped trying to marry him. No longer in a hurry to get to the altar, having lost the interest in sealing our “vows” with a kiss, I was open to new ways to pass the time.

One hot, summer afternoon, Daddy was working around the house, and Momma was taking a nap with Daniel. I was bored, which can be dangerous when you are seven years old and the adults are preoccupied. Spying the yellow school bus used to pick up people for church, I got a crazy idea. Don’t ask me where the thought came from or why such a notion struck me as okay. It just did.

I decided it would be fun to make mud pies on every seat of that bus. It would be my own giant kitchen on wheels with plenty of room for all the pretend flavors I could cook up. Retrieving the water hose from the side of the house, I got busy creating fresh mud pies on Becky’s Bakery Bus. With the care of a pastry chef, I carried the mud to each seat, shaped it into a pie, and then cut it into individual servings with my knife—a stick. As I worked, I decided two pies per seat sounded about right.

You know, one for each passenger.

Just as I was finishing my preparations, Daddy came by to see why I had been so quiet for so long. When he approached, I was standing outside the bus, proud of my accomplishment. He looked at me, the water hose, and the mud on my hands, shirt, and shorts. Then his eyes drifted toward the open door of the bus. Without saying a word, he walked up the stairs and into the bus to find out what I had been up to. I tagged along behind, waiting for his words of praise.

As he walked down the aisle, studying each seat without comment, I began to realize what I
wasn’t
hearing. There was no “Wow, Bec, this is great!” or “Your mud pies sure look yummy.” Instead, I received the what-in-the-world-have-you-done look followed by a speech explaining why my bakery wasn’t such a good idea. He didn’t need to raise his voice for me to get the picture that he was displeased with my handiwork.

While I had experienced a string of horrors at the hands of Mr. Watts, I realize now that the thing I feared most in life was the thought that I might do something to cause my father to stop loving me. I think Daddy sensed this. And although I was sent inside to clean up while he took the hose to spray down the interior of the bus, he never gave me the impression that his love for me had been dampened.

I was his little girl, and he still loved me.

For her part, Momma, the practical joker in the family, wasn’t too happy to see me coming into her “germ free” house covered in mud. Like a drill sergeant, she marched me down the hall to the bathroom for a good fingernail scrubbing and bath. And yet, like Daddy, I didn’t get the sense that she loved me less for making such a mess. I was grateful that neither of my parents held a grudge or chose to shame me for what I had done. Their unconditional love for me outweighed my childish choices.

They even laughed about my amateur cooking later.

* * *

The unconditional love my parents displayed toward me was just a reflection of the kind of people they were. Their Christlike love was also the primary reason why they were persistent in forgiving Mr. Watts, even though they had been under fire year after year. Indeed, Daddy and Momma were cherished by the folks in Sellerstown because my parents extended grace and kindness—without judgment or shame—to all with whom they came in contact.

Their commitment to the church remained rock solid, much to the puzzlement and dismay of my grandparents. The weekly disruptions instigated by Mr. Watts in church, along with the ongoing late-night, anonymous phone calls to our home, kept all of us on edge. They viewed Mr. Watts like a hot-spring geyser; his disdain for us bubbled beneath the surface from a deep well of hatred. They feared his rage would eventually reach critical mass and, without warning, explode.

On Monday, March 20, 1978, just days before Easter, Grandma Welch called Momma, begging my parents to leave Sellerstown and return to the safety of their hometown. Grandma, trying to sound optimistic, said Daddy could always start a new church plant or help with an existing, struggling church. She told Momma, “Please get out of there.
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I can’t take it anymore. I’m worried sick. Your daddy and I will pay your moving expenses.”

Momma put her foot down. Sellerstown was the only home Daniel, now three, and I had ever known. For the better part of a decade they had grown deep roots in the rich soil of Sellerstown. Momma and Daddy loved their home, their church, and the farming community. Picking up to settle somewhere else wasn’t an option. In no uncertain terms she told Grandma Welch, “Mother, I will live and die here. We are not leaving!”

You see, Momma had just told Grandma Welch that she had taken a dear friend, Sue Williams, under her protective wing and wasn’t about to abandon someone in need. Grandma viewed this as an unwelcome development and a new danger to our family. Momma saw offering shelter to Sue as a ministry opportunity. Sue, a petite woman with a shy, graceful smile, was one of Momma’s closest confidants from church. They had formed a sisterhood over the years; Sue leaned on Momma’s shoulder during the breakup of her first marriage, and Sue had been there to support Momma during the threats and assaults on our home. Like an extended member of our family, Sue had vacationed with us on several occasions, including the Cherokee trip when I’d panicked at the staged train robbery.

Their friendship was a gift to each other.

And now, Sue was in dire straits.

Just days before Grandma’s call, Sue stopped by our house to see Momma. Sue was desperate. She told Momma that her husband, Harris Williams, a thirty-five-year-old alcoholic given to drunken rages, was physically abusing her again. This time she barely escaped. Momma knew about Harris and his previous trouble with the law. She was well aware of his criminal record,
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which included a conviction and imprisonment for assaulting Sue.

Whenever Harris would become violent, he was quick to express sorrow that he had hurt Sue. While sorry, he apparently was unwilling or unable to shape up. Even Daddy had reached out to Harris on several occasions in hopes that Harris would be receptive to the life-changing power of Jesus. His words must have fallen on deaf ears.