The Devil in Pew Number Seven (23 page)

Now this.

As if reading her mind, James said, “I’m sorry; Ramona didn’t make it.”

Words failed her. A cold numbness chilled her to the bone. Ramona? Dead? Impossible. The room seemed to spin. She reached for the kitchen counter to steady herself.

“Brother Nichols was shot, too.”

She heard the words, but they almost didn’t register. Robert? Like being punched in the gut, she felt the wind knocked out of her. James added, “He doesn’t know yet that Ramona is dead. You and Martha gotta get up here.”

Grandma Nichols studied Aunt Dot’s face during the phone call. As she watched Aunt Dot’s cheerful expression suddenly turn dark as if a black cloud had moved through the room, Grandma kept asking, “What is it? What’s happened?” Aunt Dot was too unnerved to speak. She handed the phone to her mother. Grandma Nichols listened, speechless, as James repeated the horrifying news.

Her son had been shot. Twice.

He was in intensive care.

It was too early to know if he’d make it.

Her daughter-in-law was dead.

The report was too much to bear. Grandma Nichols was overwhelmed with grief. When she saw her mother was too hysterical and emotionally drained to move, Aunt Dot peeled the phone from her hands and finished the conversation with James.

* * *

Aunt Dot and Aunt Martha, Daddy’s sisters, took the first available flight. James Tyree picked them up at the airport and, as they raced to the hospital, filled them in on the details—at least the parts that were known so far. Upon arrival, they found the front entrance to the facility a literal sea of humanity. Well-wishers from the surrounding area converged upon the parking lot, hoping to get inside for an opportunity to see Daddy. The press did too. Dodging cameras and microphones and reporters looking for a scoop inside the lobby, they made their way to the chaplain, who, in turn, briefed them on Daddy’s condition.

Surgery was needed.

His condition was critical.

He had lost a lot of blood.

His doctors didn’t believe Daddy was strong enough to hear the news that his wife was dead. Aunt Dot and Aunt Martha would be permitted to enter his room on the condition that they didn’t upset him with the horrible news.

They were ushered into the intensive-care unit, where they found Daddy resting. His large frame filled the bed. Seeing him lying still, his face as pale as the hospital sheets, was almost too much for them to handle. As kids, he had always been there to protect them; now they had to be there for him.

Aunt Dot approached her brother, fighting back a surge of emotions. Sensing someone was present, Daddy opened his eyelids to half-mast, as if still he lacked the strength to open them fully. Rolling his head to one side, it took a moment for him to recognize his sisters.

“I’m sorry you have to keep coming here for me.”

Aunt Dot moved close to his bedside. Slipping her hand into his, she applied a soft, tender squeeze. As brother and sister, they were cut out of the same parental cloth. She’d do anything for her sibling. “It’s no trouble. We want to be here, Buddy. Mom and Daddy are coming up too.”

A faint smile appeared, then faded as quickly as it had surfaced, pulled down from the surface of his face by an unseen undertow of pain. “How are the kids?”

“They’re fine, Buddy,” she said, offering another reassuring squeeze of her brother’s hand.

“Where are they? You sure they’re all right?”

“They’re with Pat. Everything is okay.”

That was a bit of a stretch. How could everything be okay ever again? Aunt Dot knew we had just witnessed the murder of our mother. She knew we were shaken to the core of our beings, stung with disbelief. And yet she knew she had to appear strong.

“What about Ramona?” His forehead wrinkled into a knot, as if bracing for bad news. He searched her face, clinging to the frayed strands of hope. When she didn’t answer immediately, he asked more directly, “How is she?”

That was a tough one. It was the question Aunt Dot didn’t want to answer. At least not now, not when he was about to undergo surgery. Fighting back a sudden surge of emotion that threatened to betray the truth, Aunt Dot said, “Buddy, we came straight to your room.” While technically accurate, she had sidestepped the grave reality.

“After we leave here,” she added, “we’re going to check on Ramona, okay?”

Like a dark cloud, a worried look crossed his face. The muted chorus of equipment monitoring his condition, humming and occasionally beeping in the corner, was the only sound breaking the near silence between them.

“Buddy, just relax,” she said. “I’ll check on Ramona.”

“You come right back and let me know—” he said, gripping her hand with a sudden surge of strength. She managed to smile, although she really wanted to cry. Aunt Dot chose her words carefully.

“We’re putting you . . . and her . . . in God’s hands.”
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* * *

On Saturday, two days after the shooting, Daddy was wheeled into surgery. Hours later his surgeon informed us that the operation had been a success. Daddy would need three weeks in the hospital to recover. After that, he would be on crutches for several months. In spite of the positive prognosis, the metal pin used to repair his hip would cause Daddy to limp when he walked—a permanent reminder of this traumatic chapter of his life.

After Daddy pulled through the surgery, his doctors, the chaplain, and family members gathered around Daddy to inform him that his bride didn’t make it . . . his best friend and soul mate had gone to be with the Lord. Now Daddy would have to continue his journey in this life without the woman he cherished.

A blank stare settled on his face as the reality sank in. His hollow eyes betrayed the fact that his mind was racing back to happier times—like the evening they met in Bogalusa . . . their first date in the coffee shop . . . the day they stood proudly at the altar to exchange vows just weeks after meeting . . . the children they begged God for when they couldn’t conceive . . . the souls they ministered to across the country. He had lost the companion who had stood by him through the blackest nights. She had been his faithful partner in ministry—he in the pulpit and she at the organ supplying the sound track of praise for the service.

They were such a great team.

While a twenty-inch scar marked the location of the incision, there was no outward sign of the scar left on his broken heart upon hearing the news that the love of his life was gone. Stricken with a grief so profound, so overwhelming, Daddy wept bitter tears. While the wounds to his body would heal in time, he knew nothing would erase the memory of that fateful day. Daddy later said that during his season of intense mourning, the Scripture came to him, “Sorrow not, even as others which have no hope” (1 Thessalonians 4:13).

My mother’s brother-in-law, Walt, was there when Daddy was told about his wife’s death. While there’s never a comfortable time to raise the subject, Walt carefully asked Daddy what he wanted to do with Momma’s body. Daddy said, “After the funeral in Sellerstown, take her home to Bogalusa.” His precious Mona would be laid to rest where they first met.

I can only imagine what Daddy felt in that moment. As much as he had wanted to protect his wife and children, he had been powerless to do so. As I would later witness, guilt over his inability to keep Momma out of harm’s way tormented Daddy for years to come.

When I was finally permitted to see him later that day, Daddy’s face brightened as I entered the room. I pulled myself onto the hospital bed beside him, careful to avoid jarring his injury. While I was still dealing with my own loss, I wanted to be strong for him. I put on my best smile and said, “Mommy’s in heaven now.”

With his big hands, Daddy pulled me to himself, tight. He buried his head against my neck and cried softly. He lingered in that embrace for what felt like an eternity, almost as if he were afraid to let go for fear of losing me, too. Through his tears Daddy whispered, “I know, Becky. I know.”

I was at a loss for words. While Momma had been the sun in our universe, she wasn’t coming back. Nothing I could do or say would fix things for Daddy—and for Danny and me. Life would never be the same without Momma illuminating our home with her sparkling spirit. And yet we knew that, if life were to go on, it had to be without her. One day we’d see her again in heaven. But the waiting is always the hardest part. In a way, Daddy’s embrace expressed these things without words. He’d miss her every day. So would I.

I still do.

* * *

With the possible exception of Mr. Watts and his foot soldiers, the entire Sellerstown community, along with our family and friends around the country, were devastated by the tragic news. There were two opportunities for them to say good-bye to Momma in Sellerstown. A memorial service was also held in Bogalusa. Due to his injuries, Daddy was unable to attend any of them. I’m sure it haunted him that he didn’t get to see her one last time this side of heaven.

A wake, which drew hundreds of people, was held at the Peacock Funeral Home in Whiteville on Saturday night. A memorial service followed at our church on Sunday afternoon, March 26, 1978. Of the three hundred or so people who signed Momma’s guest book after the Sunday service, the name of one couple jumped off the page when we looked through the book later: Mr. and Mrs. Horry Watts. Frankly, I’m amazed that Mr. Watts would show his face. He probably thought he had to attend, or his absence might make him look like he had been involved in some way.

Once again, I’m glad I didn’t see him. I was sitting in the second row with Aunt Dot. I’m not sure how that encounter would have gone had I known he was back there in pew number seven—no doubt in his usual spot. This time Mr. Watts didn’t smack his lips, clear his throat, point to his watch, or make faces to disrupt the proceedings. He probably was too busy privately rejoicing that his dream of getting us to leave Sellerstown, “crawling or walking . . . dead or alive,” was coming true before his eyes.

I wasn’t all that surprised that the sanctuary was filled to overflowing. Momma’s coffin, positioned ten feet from me, remained opened throughout the service. It was Easter Sunday, yet this wasn’t how I’d expected to spend the holiday. Everything about the moment felt unreal. The day that was to be a celebration of Jesus’ resurrection had now turned out to be the day I laid my mother to rest. My mind drifted, trying to make sense out of the situation.

Just a few days before, Momma had been practicing her special Easter music at the organ. Now she lay in a casket, unable to lead us in the celebration of Christ’s resurrection. Likewise, two days prior I had watched Daddy at his desk perfecting a sermon for the occasion. Now he lay still in a hospital bed, incapable of bringing us the Good News.

The room came back into focus as the Spiritualaires, the singing group Momma had founded, took the stage. Standing around the casket of the woman they loved, they began the memorial service with a rousing rendition of “On the Other Side of Jordan.” I have no idea how they managed to sing so beautifully under those circumstances.

Clara Cartrette, a reporter who had faithfully chronicled the horrendous drama in Sellerstown for years, was on hand and captured the moment during that song this way: “Hands were raised in glory
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that the pastor’s wife, who was so loved and such a shining light and inspiration to those who knew her, had gone to meet God.”

When the Spiritualaires finished, Daddy’s assistant pastor, Mitchell Smith, stood at the podium and offered these words: “It would appear that we’re here in defeat,
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but we’re not; we’re here in victory! We have hope beyond this life. Ramona has found this hope, and we rejoice that there is victory for a child of God.”

Later in the service Rev. Sam Whichard, a visiting pastor from the Fayetteville area, compared Momma to Phoebe, whom the apostle Paul commends in Romans 16:1-2. He said, “Ramona was a servant of the church,
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dedicated to truth and self-sacrifice. Like Phoebe, she shared the sorrows, hurt, problems, and burdens of others, offering hope to the hopeless and help to the downcast. Ramona cast over this community a fragrance we’ll never forget—of faithfulness and dedication.” His words were punctuated with amens from the congregation.

I can’t say when, but at some point I found myself struggling to stay awake. I was exhausted, both physically and emotionally. As my eyes drifted shut, I leaned over and fell asleep with my head on Aunt Dot’s lap. I’m not sure how long I slept, but I awoke in the uneasy dream that had become my life.

Thankfully, Danny was spared the emotional upset that might have come from seeing Momma lying in the casket. Aunt Pat was kind enough to keep him during the funeral, even though that required her to sacrifice a chance to sing at Momma’s funeral with the Spiritualaires as well as the opportunity to tell her good-bye. In a way, Aunt Pat did Momma one last favor by taking care of her son; the best thing for Danny during this traumatic episode of his life was to remain on some sort of a schedule. He needed to be in a quiet place taking his nap rather than surrounded by hundreds of people looking at him with worried, tear-stained faces.

After the service, when people looked at me, I saw sadness in their eyes. Those who greeted me did their best to comfort me, saying things like, “Your mother is in heaven now,” and “Your mother was such a saint,” and “You know your mother gave her life for her friend.” Several told me I should be proud of her.

I know they meant well.

I appreciated their hugs and warm words.

I just couldn’t comprehend that she wasn’t coming back. Nor could I shake the feelings I’d had when it was my turn to look inside the casket. My first thought was that Momma wouldn’t like the way her hair had been fixed. I’m not saying they did a bad job, but Momma was always so particular about her hair.

Standing alone, peering into the coffin, I wrestled to make sense out of everything. Momma just lay there with a peaceful expression on her face. I wanted to reach in and, with a tender nudge, say, “Wake up, Momma. It’s time for breakfast”—the way Danny and I had done so many mornings before. But Momma wouldn’t be preparing our breakfast or any other meal ever again.