The Devil in Pew Number Seven (20 page)

As Sue poured out her heart to Momma, it was clear that Harris had fallen back into his old pattern of hard drinking and subsequent bad behavior. The last few days living with him had been unbearable—several nights before Sue came to see Momma, Harris had threatened her again.

She, in turn, went to Harris’s probation officer on the morning of March 23 and asked him to take out a warrant against her husband. Like tossing gasoline on a fire, her request made matters worse for Sue. When Harris learned she had called the law on him, his rage intensified and he made additional threats. Sue had nowhere to turn—except to Momma. Upon hearing the details of Sue’s plight, Momma didn’t hesitate to invite Sue to move in with us. She told Sue to bring a few things along with her baby, since Sue had made arrangements with her ex-husband to take care of her other sons. We’d find a way to shelter them for as long as was necessary.

This was no casual suggestion. There was an urgency to Momma’s invitation. An insistence. An awareness that Sue was in grave danger, probably more than she fully recognized at the time. Momma said our home would be a temporary refuge until Sue could get things straightened out. I’d say that was ironic, considering how the parsonage had been the focal point of ten recent violent attacks.

Grandma Welch wasn’t the only person concerned about our safety. On Wednesday afternoon, March 22, Momma, who had been making some extra cash selling houseware gifts, stopped by Aunt Pat’s house to deliver her order. For a few minutes the two lingered on Aunt Pat’s front porch to talk. Aware that Sue was now living with us, Aunt Pat said, “You know, Ramona, I’m not sure how safe
60
it is to have Sue in your house with Harris’s problems.”

Momma acknowledged her concern but said she felt led to help Sue any way she could. After all, Momma lived by the words of Jesus in Matthew 25 when He said, “For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in. . . . Whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me” (
NIV
). In Momma’s view, supporting Sue in this small way was really an opportunity to serve the Lord.

Maybe it was the caring nudge of Aunt Pat suggesting we’d be safer without Sue living in the parsonage. Perhaps it was the desperate plea from her mother to move to the safety of their home. Whatever the reason, that same evening during the midweek church service, Momma felt compelled to take a public stand against anxiety and fretting over what
might
happen to her and her family in Sellerstown.

With a bright, beaming smile that seemed to chase the shadow of fear from the sanctuary, she read Psalm 91:

I will say of the L
ORD
, He is my refuge and my fortress: my God; in him will I trust. Surely he shall deliver thee from the snare of the fowler. . . . Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night; nor for the arrow that flieth by day; Nor for the pestilence that walketh in darkness; nor for the destruction that wasteth at noonday. . . . Because thou hast made the L
ORD
, which is my refuge, even the most High, thy habitation; There shall no evil befall thee, neither shall any plague come nigh thy dwelling.

Before concluding her comments, Momma told the congregation, “I believe God will protect my family. All of us should have faith that God will do
His
perfect will in our lives. Besides, what He allows to happen is out of our hands.” With that, she took her seat.

It would be the last time Momma spoke in church.

The events which were about to unfold the following night would change our lives forever.

* * *

By all indications, Thursday, March 23, 1978, would be an exciting day. Lunch box in hand, I headed off to school, anticipating the celebration of Easter just around the corner. Being as fond of candy as I was, having an insatiable sweet tooth, I couldn’t wait for the Easter egg hunts to begin. Toss in plates brimming with homemade goodies and the chance to dye our eggs with colorful splashes of creativity, and I was eager for Easter to arrive.

As I left home, I knew Momma would be busy during the day preparing the special music for church, and Daddy would linger at his desk perfecting his Easter Sunday sermon. When I returned home, Momma had a fresh-baked pie cooling on the kitchen counter; the aroma of dinner simmering on the stovetop filled the air. About five o’clock, we took our places around the dinner table.

Sue and her baby joined us for supper in what was to be the unofficial beginning of our Easter celebration. Although Sue was on edge because of the threats from her husband, she did her best to enter into the joy of the occasion.

Daddy, seated at the head of the table, glanced at Momma and shared a smile that seemed to say, “Thanks, honey, for all of your hard work.” Daddy was poised to give thanks for the meal as Momma, standing beside her chair, finished filling my Charlie Brown glass with iced tea. In order to make room on the table, I took the tea pitcher and placed it on the counter by the sink.

I returned to my seat, but before I could sit down, I heard someone yank the screen door open by the carport. It wasn’t surprising when guests arrived unannounced since we lived with an open-door policy. Friends often stopped by for a visit—even during mealtimes. Momma and I exchanged a quick look, expectant, wondering who was coming into the house.

I immediately recognized the visitor.

Harris Williams.

He had caught us completely off guard while we were relaxed and in the middle of family time. At age seven, I had had my share of trauma. Almost out of instinct, the caution in my heart caused it to collide with my chest. I cannot say why. Something about his sudden appearance didn’t feel right. He appeared tired, yet focused, a man on a mission. In the silence, the room felt as if a force for evil had violated its four walls.

Sue, with her baby sitting on her lap, sat closest to the intruder. A look of shock and panic crossed her face. Even though he hadn’t said a word, Sue knew Harris’s demeanor was not a humble one. He hadn’t stopped by to mend fences with her. He wasn’t there to seek forgiveness for the most recent beating.

Daddy, still seated, spoke first.

“How are you doing, Harris?”
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His neck stiffened, his jaws clenched.

“Not too damn good.”

Daddy slid his chair back and stood up, but he didn’t approach the man, at least not at first. The last thing Daddy wanted was to provoke a confrontation. About twelve feet separated the men. “If you are going to curse in this house,” Daddy said with a surprising calmness, “you can leave our home right now.”

Harris was in no mood to be crossed.

He was quick to fire back.

Literally.

With the focused determination of a killing machine, Harris reached for a .38-caliber pistol tucked in his waistband, concealed underneath his shirt. Pulling out the deadly weapon, Harris took aim and shot my daddy in the right shoulder. I watched in helpless disbelief as the hot flash of light leaped from the gun. The deafening blast mixed with our screams. My ears burned as if touched by a hot poker. Although not the target, Sue started screaming at Harris, begging him to stop.

I stared at my wounded daddy in complete shock. This couldn’t be happening. Not here. Not now. But it was. The stain of fresh blood splotched its way across the front of his white dress shirt. Fast. Too fast. He was losing a lot of blood. The warmth behind his eyes seemed to drain, replaced by a mixture of bewilderment and pain. I knew what I needed to do. I was taught that whenever shots were fired, I was to seek cover. Yet I froze, unwilling or unable to act. Fear crawled over me like a swarm of fire ants.

Escape was out of the question. Harris, armed with three guns and eighty-three rounds of ammunition, stood between us and the door to safety. And while Daddy’s hunting rifle hung on the wall behind the attacker, there was no way to reach it.

Daddy, unarmed, turned and took three steps
toward
the assailant as if driven to defend his family any way he could. Having played football years ago, maybe Daddy thought he could tackle and disarm the assailant if he could just get into position. Seeing the flash of determination in Daddy’s eyes, Harris yelled, “I told you to back off!” That’s when the gun thundered again, spewing a host of hellish yellow sparks from the black steel barrel.

The second shot shattered Daddy’s left hip, knocking him to the floor. With Daddy’s six-foot-three frame sprawled on the ground like a lifeless giant, Harris turned and pointed the weapon toward Momma. Standing by the kitchen table and in front of the washing machine, she was unarmed; she held no knife, no gun, not even a chair to throw in her defense.

She cried out, “Jesus! Jesus!”

The gunman stood seven feet from the woman who had given me life, who, for almost eight years, had clothed me, fed me, and nurtured me. The one who filled my life with laughter, love, and lessons on forgiving others just as we had been forgiven by Jesus. None of that history mattered to this man. Without hesitation, with a cold indifference to her precious life as our mother, he fired a single bullet to her chest.

The lead projectile clipped Momma’s heart. She staggered backward, clutching at her wound. The moment the bullet pierced her heart, my heart shattered too. With the sound of the gunfire still echoing in the room and the pungent sulfur stinging the air, Momma managed to turn and stumble out of the kitchen while Sue, having jumped out of her chair, attempted to defuse her husband’s attack.

Momma’s unsteady footsteps receded down the hallway. As I would soon discover, she wasn’t attempting to get away. In a thousand years she would never abandon her family. Rather, at the risk of taking a shot in the back, Momma was driven to get to her bedroom to call for help. The phone, our only lifeline, rested on her nightstand.

Within seconds of the shot, our training kicked in.

My brother and I, frantic and numb with disbelief, dropped to the floor, taking refuge under the kitchen table, not that the tablecloth would hide us for long. It was our only option. With streams of searing tears free-falling from my eyes, I choked back a wave of sobs. I wanted to be a brave girl. And yet, stealing a look at my daddy through the chair legs, I knew there was nothing I could do for my parents.

At least maybe I could protect my brother.

That’s when it dawned on me that he wasn’t there.

* * *

The house was quiet.

The screaming had been replaced by an eerie silence. After shooting Daddy and Momma, Harris marched Sue and their baby down the hall and held them hostage in my bedroom. About the only thing I could hear was the heaving of my heart within my chest and my labored breathing as I struggled to fill my lungs. Huddled on a chair beneath the table, I shivered with fear. Where was Danny? Somewhere during the commotion he had wandered off. How did I miss that?

Was he in the bedroom with Harris?

Was he, too, a hostage?

My head hurt with the implication. And what about my momma? Was she alive? Why hadn’t she come back? Maybe she fell unconscious. I saw how Daddy was struggling to stay alert. To be sure, she needed help, but how? Daddy couldn’t move. I was too terrified to abandon my hiding place. My tears formed a puddle on the floor beneath me. Looking at the bloodstains on Daddy’s shirt, I managed to ask a question just above a whisper.

“Daddy, are you going to leave us again and go into the hospital?”

With his back resting against the lower kitchen cabinets, arms hanging useless at his side, he said, “Yes, but it will only be for a little while, sweetheart.”

Daddy’s kind, reassuring voice had always been able to comfort me. I wanted to believe he would be okay, but he looked bad. I wanted to think help would arrive to save us before it was too late. But how? It was doubtful that anyone would have heard the shots—other than maybe Mr. Watts across the street. He, of course, would be the last guy on earth to come to our aid.

This was what he wanted.

He spent years trying to drive us away.

Why would he lend a hand now?

I was about to ask Daddy another question when I heard movement in the hallway. At the risk of drawing attention to myself, anxious to learn whether or not it might be my brother, I inched my head out from under the table. A flood of relief and panic hit me at the same time: Daniel stood there looking as if he were lost in his own home, which was understandable, given the hellish ordeal he had just witnessed as a three-year-old. He had found his way back to the kitchen. I was relieved that he wasn’t a hostage, yet afraid he might be spotted if he remained out in the open.

With a wave of my hand, I whispered, “Danny, you’ve got to get under the table with me.” I placed a finger to my closed lips, signaling for him to remain perfectly quiet. Without hesitation, he followed me under the table and then curled up on the cold linoleum floor. He appeared dazed; his eyelids were wide-open as if held in place with toothpicks.

“Where did you go?”

A hushed moment passed between us. I could almost hear the second hand on the clock above the sink ticking off the seconds. Poor little man, he had no idea what was happening or why. Which is not to say I had a handle on things. I didn’t. Far from it. Nothing made sense. How could it? One minute we were having dinner; the next minute both of my parents were clinging to life.

Daniel blinked and then said, “I saw Mommy.” Having spoken the words, he closed his eyes and fell asleep.

“How’s Daniel?” Daddy asked, keeping his voice low. Evidently he had noticed Danny’s return to the kitchen yet couldn’t see his son’s face.

“He’s asleep.”

“Good. I was praying he would be.”

With a wince that distorted his face into a knot, Daddy tried to shift his legs on the floor. I’d never seen him so fragile, helpless, and unable to spring into action and take charge. The man who hung the moon in my world, who lit the stars with his smile, now struggled for each breath. I wanted to avert my eyes. Would I watch him take his last breath? If so, then what? In the past, whenever we were attacked, I depended on him to tell me what to do next. I needed him to do the same now . . . if only he could hold on.