The Devil in Pew Number Seven (3 page)

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 running a number of tests, the first physician broke the bad news: Momma had endometriosis. Nine out of ten women with her condition could not have children. She heard him speak the words, but the reality was slow to register. When it did, the news almost crushed her. Momma hoped and prayed she would be one of the few who defied the odds.

She also sought a second opinion.

Sitting across the desk from her new doctor, Momma explained her deep desire to have children. After examining her, the doctor threw up both of his hands as if being held at gunpoint and said, “I’m sorry, Ramona, I can’t paint you a pretty picture—the capacity to have children just isn’t there.” The third doctor echoed what she had already been told and then suggested she consider adoption.

Momma’s heart was shattered. The thought that she’d never embrace a baby who was her own flesh and bones was too much to bear. She desperately wanted to give her husband a child. But the verdict was in. There was nothing more that could be done—at least not humanly speaking.

She had reached the end of the road, and she knew it.

There would be no baby blue or pink pajamas, no high chairs, no little feet following her around, no birthday candles to blow out atop a brightly decorated cake. She’d never experience the joy of hearing a little voice laughing while swinging in the backyard or opening presents on Christmas morning. Her ears wouldn’t be graced with the precious words, “I love you, Momma.”

Her empty arms ached at the thought that they might never be filled. At the same time, Momma clung to the conviction that coming to the end of ourselves always brings us to a place where we find Jesus. If she were ever going to enter into the marvel of creating life, a supernatural intervention to correct whatever was wrong within her womb would have to occur. She never doubted that it could.

And when it did, she had no idea what was wrong.

* * *

One morning, Momma became too queasy to stand. Drained as if she had expended every last ounce of energy running a triathlon, she lingered in bed, head glued to the pillow. The knotted-pine walls of their rented bungalow seemed to grow as dark as the Black Forest with depression. She kept her eyes closed as if that might prevent the waves of nausea from washing over her.

With no explanation for this sudden shift in her demeanor, Daddy took her to see a doctor who, though not wanting to raise their hopes, ran a fresh battery of tests. The doctor returned to his desk, wearing a smile so wide his face almost couldn’t contain it. With the enthusiasm expected from a proud grandfather to be, he announced there was no mistake: Momma was pregnant!

It was Daddy and Momma’s turn to rejoice at the unbelievable news. Their countless prayers had been answered. Soon there would be a third plate at the table.

They’d be a family.

Now what?

The doctor provided a book detailing the important vitamins Momma should take, a prescription for even more potent vitamins, and a list of foods she should be sure to eat. Like a student studying to pass an exam, Momma pored over the material to ensure she did everything in her power to fuel proper fetal development. This was going to be the healthiest baby in the world. It was also destined to be the most spoiled—that is, if the grandparents had anything to say about that.

Momma’s pregnancy—and Daddy’s decision not to serve as a traveling evangelist for a season—gave birth to a whole new routine. Having settled down in Baton Rouge, Daddy worked as a self-employed painter and, on occasion, was a guest preacher on an “as needed” basis. His schedule was as unpredictable as the stock market. Momma’s days looked different, too. In the past, she had spent her time cleaning, sewing, and preparing dinner in anticipation of Daddy’s arrival. Now, she passed the time dreaming about setting up a nursery. Whenever she could get to a phone—their rented house didn’t have one—she’d call her mom and talk about baby clothes, her sudden cravings, and her latest favorite baby names.

What’s more, she didn’t feel so alone during the day. True, Momma’s little miracle couldn’t communicate with her yet. But she delighted in serenading the growing baby anyway, humming a tune as she busied herself in the small home. Like any expectant mother, she glowed as if the sun’s rays illuminated her face everywhere she walked. Life was good, and it was about to get better.

Three months into her pregnancy, when stepping out the back door of their home, the unthinkable happened. Momma’s ankle buckled as she walked down the steps. She fell sideways, hitting the stonelike earth. Hard. Too hard. As she struggled to pull herself upright, the weight of fear pressed down on her like a vise, crushing her with the thought that she might lose her precious baby.

The baby they had prayed God would provide.

The child she envisioned cradling in her arms.

A grandbaby for her parents.

Without close neighbors and with no phone to call for help, she battled her fears like a mother bear about to be robbed of her cubs. Nursing a twisted ankle and a bruised side, she hobbled to bed and slipped under the covers cocoonlike. The comforter did little to muffle the voices of shame swirling like a storm inside of her head: . . . if only she had been more careful . . . if only she had placed her hand on the handrail to steady herself down the two short steps . . . if only . . .