The Devil in Pew Number Seven (8 page)

One letter stood out. The message was housed in a plain, vanilla white envelope bearing no return address. Daddy’s name and address were typed in the center of the mail piece. As was Momma’s style, she slit open the end, fished out the note, and began to skim the words.

Similar in tone and style to the other hostile letters my parents had received during their time in Sellerstown, they didn’t need an address to know the madman behind the menacing words.

But this letter had been different. For in it, the threat of inflicting bodily harm to our family was taken to a new level. The cryptic message had been typed onto an ordinary white piece of paper to mask the identity of the sender.

The unsigned diatribe stated that the people at church were weary of the way Daddy had been treating them. They were disgusted with his behavior, especially with the way he allegedly used flattery to brainwash the young people. After suggesting Daddy take a leave of absence, the writer promised we’d be leaving Sellerstown one way or the other “. . . crawling or walking,
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running or riding, dead or alive.”

With the threatening phone call still ringing in his memory, Daddy knew the matter warranted some measure of caution. Trained in warfare, having spent years as part of a Navy crew at sea, Daddy knew one strategy employed by the enemy was a shot across the bow. To ignore such overtures would be a mistake.

* * *

With the controversial building project nearing its completion and with the festivities of Christmas behind them, Daddy and Momma packed the car and drove home to vacation with family in Alabama and Louisiana. Since I was not yet three years old, I have no memories of the time spent mingling with my aunts, uncles, and cousins. Nor do I recall Daddy and Momma’s stories of the amazing growth of the church and their dreams for the future.

Our return to Sellerstown in January of 1973 was marred by an unwelcome revelation: In our absence, while we were away enjoying a belated celebration of the birth of Christ with relatives, the parsonage had been violated. I’m not sure whether Daddy initially saw, or felt, that something was amiss. His first clue that our home had been invaded might have been the telephone. Pulled from the wall, with its cord sliced, the phone had been knocked to the floor.

Then again, his first impression that there was trouble might have been the lack of heat. Though the thermostat had been lowered while we were away to save on the heating bill, when our family entered the house that evening, it was no warmer than the icy-cold January temperatures outside. The thick blanket of snow covering the roof and ground around our house, while picturesque, only added to the chilly reception.

Upon further investigation, Daddy discovered two reasons for the inhospitable temperatures inside our home: Someone had poured about fifty gallons of water in the fuel tank, causing the heater to malfunction. That, and a shattered window through which cold air continued to enter as easily as the housebreaker had made his or her illegal entry. The broken glass littering the floor would be the least of my parents’ problems.

As they soon learned, there was more trouble afoot. When Momma attempted to use the faucet, instead of watching a clean flow of water spilling into the sink, she witnessed an oily substance oozing from the tap. The water and fuel tanks didn’t share plumbing. No pipes had burst, causing seepage between the tanks. Puzzled by the water-and-oil mixture, Daddy ascertained this had not been an accident. Someone had intentionally spiked our water pump with fuel oil.

No heat, no water, no phone.

But why? Why would anyone attack our home?

A quick survey of our few valuables indicated that nothing had been stolen. This, then, was an act designed to frighten us. Whoever had done this must have known we were scheduled to be out of town.

Did that mean we had been watched? If so, by whom and for how long? Were we being watched now? Should Daddy and Momma call the law from Aunt Pat’s house? Or would involving the police bring unwanted attention to the church? Did this break-in have anything to do with the threatening phone call or unsigned letters?

Repairing the damage was the easy part.

Getting answers was a bit trickier.

Anticipating what might be next, impossible.

Chapter 5

Under Siege

The fog lingered.

On the evening of Saturday, August 17, 1974, a light rain shower swept across the southern region of North Carolina, moving west to east. The rainfall traveled from Fayetteville through Sellerstown and then continued east to Wilmington before sailing out to an unknown destination over the Atlantic Ocean.

The procession of thunderclaps, noisier than the crashing cymbals of a marching band, announced the parade of inclement weather washing over Sellerstown. The restless and moonless sky soon lost its booming voice. In the storm’s wake a pale gray fog, accompanied by a gentle mist, settled in for the night around our one-story, redbrick house.

I was four years old at the time.

It’s not that I have an extraordinary memory about weather patterns on any given day during my childhood. Nor was I some sort of child prodigy who thrived on all things meteorological. Even today, while I’ll consult the Weather Channel, I’m not an avid viewer. True, I happen to be interested in storm patterns since tornadoes are a reality in Tennessee, where we live.

However, I’m not sure I could tell you what the weather was like last Saturday, let alone a Saturday decades ago. Aside from figuring out how to dress my kids for school, I don’t typically study the forecast. There is, however, a very good reason why I can report what the weather was like on that night in August.

I checked.

I researched that date for a compelling reason.

I wanted to learn everything I could about the last night before my innocent world was completely—and forever—turned upside down. Hiding behind the blanket of darkness, lurking in the misty shadows of fog, an evil so black, so devoid of compassion, planned to execute its diabolical attack against our family.

While the weatherman had predicted the weather with surprising accuracy, he would have had no idea about the tornado of hate gathering strength nearby. Nor could he have foreseen the vortex of rage that would soon sweep down upon us, hurling everything we held dear, most of which had nothing to do with earthly possessions, to the wind. We were targeted by a madman who, in mere hours, was ready to pull the trigger.

Literally.

* * *

At the time, unaware of the hostilities about to befall us, we were happily engaged in the routine business of family life on a Saturday night. With a well-worn Bible opened to his text, Daddy sat at his desk in the corner of our family room. He prayed and pored over his sermon notes like an honors student cramming for a final exam. Three pine shelves fastened to the wall, sagging under the weight of thick biblical reference books, were within arm’s reach above his head. While Daddy never went to seminary, he had been changed by Calvary and wanted to be as prepared as was possible to lead others to the Cross.

As busy as he was—given his responsibilities on the Lord’s Day—Daddy still made time for a good-night hug and a kiss. I’d climb into the safety of his lap, content to linger in his sturdy arms until his large yet tender hands lowered me to the floor. With the inevitable bidding to brush my teeth and head to bed, I’d reluctantly leave his company.

Upon reaching my bedroom, I’d slip into my pajamas while Momma picked out my clothes for Sunday morning’s church service. Even with her best efforts, Momma typically ran late on Sunday mornings. It seemed as if there were always a thousand and one things to do, between her need to fix her hair, get dressed, get me dressed, make breakfast, then make me
eat
my breakfast.

Driving her race against the clock was the need to get to the organ in time to play the music
before
Daddy gave her “the Look.” You know, that unhappy glance with an eyebrow raised skyward, wondering why there wasn’t music playing as the members filled the sanctuary. Sitting in one of the two high-back, oak chairs behind the pulpit, Daddy would turn his head to the left and give her the Look if Momma wasn’t ready and in position as worshipers filed in.

I’m afraid I wasn’t much help.

Especially at breakfast.

Momma served scrambled eggs and toast. I was fine with the toast. The eggs—forget it. Scrambled, hard-boiled, poached—any way they were served, I hated eggs, and Momma knew it. Still, she’d sit there with me like a sentry to make sure I ate every last bite. I was a growing girl and needed my protein; at least that was her position.

I don’t know whether I got my stubborn streak from Momma or from Daddy. Either way, the standoff was nothing less than a battle of our wills. Some days she won. Other days, with time at a premium, she abandoned her post, leaving me and my headstrong protest in order to get dressed. I confess, the moment she left the kitchen, I raked my eggs into my napkin and then threw them away.

In spite of our breakfast skirmishes, I’d have to say that the first four years of my life had been charmed. I enjoyed the unconditional love of two parents; I was doted on by Aunt Pat and half of the church; and my best friend, Missy Sellers, lived conveniently up the street.

What’s more, I had my own bedroom; a collection of dolls, some mass produced, some handmade; an assortment of stuffed animals and toys; and a real live puppy named Tina. No bigger than a loaf of bread, Tina was a white poodle-and-Pekingese mix.

Adding to my princesslike childhood, Momma arranged my bedroom with an elegant touch. I had a full-size, snow white poster bed with matching nightstand, accompanied by an upright, five-drawer chest, a long dresser with a picture-window-size mirror, and a desk. Each piece was trimmed with gold accents. A chorus of kindly stuffed animals took their assigned places on my array of furniture. And the drapes, to my way of thinking as a child, were made of pure gold threads, probably woven out of strands of perfectly milled fibers by fairies in the Enchanted Forest.

Knowing how precious little time there was on Sunday morning to get everything done, Momma arranged my Sunday outfit, ironed, of course, on my dresser the night before. She knew her angel needed a head start when she awoke. And, going way beyond the call of duty, placing her as close to sainthood as was humanly possible, Momma would surprise me by placing a little dress or a candy treat on my pillow at bedtime. Not every night, mind you. She didn’t want me to be spoiled rotten. Just often enough for me to feel as if I had checked into a fine hotel.

Speaking of bedtime, as was their habit, Daddy or Momma would get down on their knees with me, bedside, to pray together before tucking me under the covers. Lingering over prayers was an especially comforting touch during a thunderstorm. Thankful that the thunder boomers had passed, having said my prayers, I settled in for the night, pulling my blanket to the base of my neck.

* * *

During August 1974, I was too young to recognize anything different about my mother. Unlike Daddy, I wouldn’t have noticed the sunlike glow on her face, the added bounce in her step as if walking happily on spring-loaded shoes, or on occasion, the need for a midafternoon nap. Any change in her diet, any odd cravings, would have been missed by me, who, most of the time, was happy with a peanut butter and grape-jelly sandwich. Day or night, this was the preferred food of young princesses.

Had I been aware of the secret she carried within her, I’m not sure what difference that would have made to me. Children at that age are typically absorbed in their own universe. I was not an exception to the rule. You could have offered me a million dollars, and still I couldn’t have told you that my momma, at age thirty-nine, was three months pregnant. Nor could I have known that she had, once again, defied the odds for a woman with endometriosis. To be three months pregnant was, in itself, a miracle.

* * *

When I say that I had a charmed childhood, I believe that’s largely a function of what my parents did and
didn’t
do for me. While they immersed me in love, laughter, and yes, discipline as needed, they also kept me in the dark when it came to the heated debate over the building expansion, the mysterious letters, and the late-night phone calls. In true princess fashion, I had been spared such unhappy details. Even the home invasion went over my head. About all that registered was the fact that there was something wrong with the heater and water and phone—the kind of stuff best left for grown-ups to sort out.

And when our home had been burglarized a second time in May of 1973, I knew something was wrong, but was again spared the details. While I was unsettled by this invasion and suspected my parents had been, too, they did a remarkable job not allowing the fear they may have been experiencing to dominate their lives. That time, the intruder had stolen both of my daddy’s hunting rifles, most likely to disarm us.

Though it wasn’t as frightening as break-ins, my parents also had to deal with the antics of Mr. Watts in pew number seven.
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Yet even when Mr. Watts did his best to disrupt the worship service, my parents didn’t allow him to define their joy or cast a cloud over the mood in the church or our home. For instance, Mr. Watts had a deep bag of dirty tricks designed to fluster Daddy while he preached. Like some sort of clown with a bad sense of timing, Mr. Watts made obnoxious faces in the middle of the service. Bringing hand to mouth, he’d clear his throat with gasps, coughs, and grunts as if he had swallowed dry bread, and for variety, he’d suck his teeth and smack his lips as if savoring the last morsels of a steak dinner.