The Devil in Pew Number Seven (9 page)

Toward the end of the sermon, Mr. Watts pointed at his watch, arm raised, signaling that Daddy had preached too long—at least too long in Mr. Watts’s view. And if that grand display didn’t prompt Daddy to wrap things up, Mr. Watts would rise from his pew and make a sudden, noisy exit, slamming the front doors so hard the frame rattled.

To lighten the atmosphere whenever Mr. Watts pulled one of these door-banging stunts, Momma, with a smile and a wave of her hand, would say, “Well,
Amen
!” or “Praise the Lord.” If she and Daddy had been unsettled, which would be understandable, they didn’t show it. Daddy would finish his sermon, and Momma would play her heart out at the organ. After the service, standing at the back, shaking hands with the departing worshipers, they had the wisdom to be discreet rather than comment on Mr. Watts’s weekly misbehavior.

They did, however, have a plan to minimize the racket over at least one of Mr. Watts’s tactics. Daddy had the front doors of the church changed from thick, solid wood doors to glass doors that, being lighter, didn’t shake the building when Mr. Watts stormed out. This, of course, only made Mr. Watts all the more irritated.

What my parents couldn’t do, however, was prevent me from experiencing the hellish actions of this deeply tormented man that were about to unfold. When the initial round of harassment failed to yield the desired results, Mr. Watts was prepared to unleash his full wrath. For the better part of two years, he had dreamed up, and was about to implement, a campaign of terror designed to fill us with fear, drive us away, or send us to an early grave.

All three if necessary.

* * *

With just a sliver of the new moon’s gray face illuminated as if too bashful to make a full appearance, and thick fog loitering on the grounds like a phantom reluctant to move on, two men, no doubt thankful for the shroud of darkness, carried out their orders in our yard while we slept.

Wielding a knife with precision, they sliced through the telephone line. With that lifeline now hanging helplessly at the back of the house, all contact with the outside world was rendered impossible. Clinging to the shadows, they moved around the side of our house to the front yard like professional soldiers mounting an ambush against the enemy.

There, they slashed the rear tires of both cars parked in our driveway. In less than three minutes, working with the efficiency and stealth of trained mercenaries, they eliminated our means of communication and any hope of a rapid escape in the event of an emergency. Whether or not Mr. Watts had any previous military experience, he did a masterful job of planning the details of the attack.

That done, for reasons still unclear, our mailbox, which had been staked in the ground at the end of our driveway, was shot up as if it had faced a firing squad for some unknown crime. Yanking its metal carcass out of the ground, the shooters carried the battered mailbox and ditched it in the carport. Perhaps they were using the mailbox to send us a message: if we didn’t leave town, we’d end up just like it.

It would be at least ninety minutes before the sun, currently held hostage by the night, would begin to assume its rightful place in the sky. This left the mercury-vapor light behind our home as the only means of illumination against the darkness. Situated on the utility pole thirty feet above the ground, this comforting ally was executed with a gunshot to the dome. Eager to finish the main event, no doubt worried that the shattered glass cascading to the ground might betray their position, the gunmen hurried to the front yard to complete their mission.

Exercising the utmost caution, the men positioned ditching dynamite in the ground not more than twenty-five feet from the bedroom where I was sleeping. With the steady hands of a surgeon, someone attached several feet of safety fuse to the nonelectric blasting cap with care so as to avoid an accidental detonation. And while a surgeon’s ultimate objective is to save the patient, these hands were engaged in a procedure designed to harm, not heal.

When Alfred Nobel harnessed the power of nitroglycerin and, in turn, invented dynamite a hundred years prior, he must have envisioned its use as a good thing. Perhaps he recognized dynamite’s potential for the mining, farming, and construction industries. He might have anticipated some utility for dynamite in warfare. I highly doubt, however, that it was ever his intention for his invention to be used by a neighbor with an ax to grind.

I cannot say whether the men deployed more than one stick of the lethal material. And while I am not an expert in such things, I’ve learned that one stick of dynamite produces 2.1 million joules of power and that one joule is the energy required to lift an apple forty inches off the ground. With the strike of a match, they’d unleashed an explosive force so powerful it could have sent two million apples airborne.

At 4:30 a.m., Sunday, August 18, the earth shook.

I jolted awake.

A cold fear crawled over me like a second skin. I cried out in the darkness, “Daddy!
Daddy
!” Frightened with a terror that stressed my nerves to the breaking point, I clung to my blue bear. My heart clamored, like horse hooves against cobblestone. What happened? A bad dream? Something imagined? If so, why did my ears ring as if I had been standing too close to the clang of a hundred fireman bells? No, this wasn’t my imagination run wild.

A light snapped on.

Daddy, calling my name, scrambled from his room to see that I was unharmed. We nearly collided in the hall as I, now airborne, blue bear in hand, flew to their bedroom for shelter as fast as my legs could carry me.

I cried in my mother’s arms, her voice struggling to assure me that everything would be okay, that Tina, too, would somehow be just fine in her dog pen in the backyard.

Daddy reached for the phone to call the law. When he found that the phone was dead, he knew he had to get next door to Aunt Pat’s to call for help. And yet he waited.

Listening.

Praying.

Wondering.

Would there be another explosion?

If so, where would the attackers strike? Would the next blast be detonated in the backyard? With a glance out his bedroom window, Daddy could see the outdoor night-light was not functioning. Had it been intentionally destroyed to hide another bomb? Dare he risk leaving his wife and child, even for a few minutes, to seek help while his house was under siege?

At some point, failing to detect sounds of movement around the house, Daddy must have figured we were relatively secure. Or at least safe enough for him to sneak next door to call the law.

* * *

Upon his return from Aunt Pat’s house, I’m sure Daddy’s God-given instincts, as protector of the home, were to get his precious family out of harm’s way. It had to have been creepy for him to venture out into the still-darkened, predawn sky and find that both of his vehicles had been sabotaged. Unable to load the family into the car and drive safely away, praying that no further attack was imminent, he had no choice but to wait for help to arrive.

The dynamite repercussions had been so fierce, the intense thrust had rattled the bones of our house. As we’d later discover, clumps of dirt and rock, like projectiles from a cannon, had pelted the brick exterior of our home. Had the walls been made of anything less sturdy, the damage would have been more severe. Even so, the hardened brick surface was riddled with gashes, a nearby window was splintered, and a six-foot crater left a gaping hole in our front yard.

Columbus County Deputy Sheriff Kenneth “Bill” Smith, one of Whiteville’s then-eight-man police force, was the first to arrive on the scene. Upon surveying the extent of the damage with Daddy, recognizing this was neither a false alarm nor a small matter, Deputy Smith radioed headquarters to request backup.

Deputy Sergeant George Dudley, the only detective serving all of Columbus County at the time, lived several miles away and, having thrown on a pair of jeans and a shirt rather than the standard tie and jacket required during normal business hours, arrived within minutes. Armed with years of experience, a .38-caliber snub-nose Smith & Wesson pistol hanging from a shoulder holster, Detective Dudley took charge to secure the crime scene.

Retrieving several lengths of colored police rope, the detective cordoned off the sensitive areas to prevent extra foot traffic from contaminating the evidence. Unlike today, the now-popular yellow and black polyethylene crime tape used in police work to seal off crime scenes wasn’t in use. Having preserved the evidence, he took a barrage of photographs and pages of notes that would, hopefully, lead to the conviction of the perpetrators.

And, while Detective Dudley had a hunch
13
who was behind this assault, he needed more proof before an arrest could be made.

* * *

Word of the early morning attack spread through Sellerstown like wildfire in a dry wheat field. Daddy didn’t want to alarm the church, yet he knew there was no use trying to hide the details from the congregation. Besides, some of the members in the nearby areas had heard the blast for themselves. Awakened by the detonation, with their own frightened children seeking answers, these good people would want Daddy’s firsthand insight.

During the Sunday morning service,
14
taking his place behind the pulpit in spite of the predawn ordeal, Daddy explained what had happened to those gathered. As he spoke, there wasn’t a question mark in anybody’s mind who was behind the harassment.

I do not know whether or not Mr. Watts was present that morning, although I’d be surprised if he were absent. Failure to attend would appear suspicious since Mr. Watts virtually never missed a service. Missing church would also mean he’d have one less opportunity to harass Daddy. Not to mention that he’d forgo the sick pleasure of witnessing firsthand the impact that the explosion had made on the pastor . . . and on my pregnant mother.

Reflecting on the attack, Daddy told the church that while he had been surveying the damage, Proverbs 28:1 had come to mind: “The wicked flee when no man pursueth: but the righteous are bold as a lion.” He assured the church that he was determined to stick it out and overcome the persecution, come what may.

After the service, many well-wishers offered words of encouragement and promises to pray for our safety. One of them, a visiting missionary from Mexico, said our persecution sounded like life on the mission field. To be sure, Daddy must have thought he had been given a high calling to a low valley—the valley of the shadow of death.

Later that week, borrowing a tractor to fill the crater in our front yard, Daddy had to wonder whether this was the end of the terror or just the beginning of a more aggressive campaign against his family. In spite of what he had said publicly to the church, I wouldn’t be surprised if he privately wondered whether the cost of serving Christ in Sellerstown was a price too high to pay.

He had the welfare of his pregnant wife to consider.

And the well-being of his young daughter.

Soon there’d be a baby.

And yet Daddy was hopelessly in love with the Word of God captured within the pages of his well-worn Bible. As was his habit, he’d recite Isaiah 54:17 out loud: “No weapon that is formed against thee shall prosper; and every tongue that shall rise against thee in judgment thou shalt condemn. This is the heritage of the servants of the L
ORD
, and their righteousness is of me, saith the L
ORD
.”

As a child, I vividly remember him walking through the house, repeating those words. He drew strength from the promises of Scripture daily. No doubt as the phone company repaired the telephone lines, with a new window taking the place of the old, and as he maneuvered the tractor to fill the crater, he chased away the fears in his heart with the Sword of Truth.

If Daddy had any temptation to strike back, as he might have done without a second thought before giving his heart to the Lord, he would have heeded the words of another favorite passage, “Thou shalt not avenge, nor bear any grudge against the children of thy people, but thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself: I am the L
ORD
” (Leviticus 19:18).

It took several months for life to settle down.

Understandably, our nerves were on edge, stretched thin like a balloon and ready to burst. For me, going to sleep proved to be a challenge. Even with my daddy’s bedside prayers, it would take weeks for me to feel safe enough to sleep in my bedroom. Alone.

In the dark.

Wondering.

Waiting.

Listening for any stray sounds that might prove to be the preamble of another assault, I would often crawl into my parents’ bedroom and wedge myself between them on their queen-size bed. Although Momma looked petite next to Daddy, he was a tall man. Between the two of them there wasn’t much room for company. Daddy, being my hero, knowing I couldn’t make it through the night alone on those occasions, would scoot out and sleep in my room while I snuggled with Momma.

During that season of distress, Daddy began to pray over me the words of Isaiah 54:13, placing special emphasis on the second half of the verse: “And all thy children shall be taught of the L
ORD
; and great shall be the peace of thy children.” Even now, if I close my eyes, I can almost hear his warm, unwavering voice reciting those words of comfort and promise, and personalizing it with a subtle change: “great shall be the peace of
my
children.”

Indeed, for the next several months, we experienced a measure of peace. Friends and supporters called the house, offering their votes of confidence and support for Daddy’s leadership. Their words breathed life into our hearts. True, there were numerous phone calls—upwards of twenty-five to thirty in one day—where the caller remained silent, breathing and nonresponsive to my parents’ attempt to engage him. And once the mailbox was replaced, the threatening letters resumed—although these acts of intimidation were kept from me.

The ironic by-product of this persecution was a soaring church attendance, growing with the speed of kudzu vine. People from both Sellerstown and neighboring communities rallied around Daddy, and as the turnout on Sunday mornings swelled to record levels, the building committee explored ways either to expand the sanctuary or build a larger facility at a different location. Such discussions infuriated Mr. Watts, whose sole aim seemed to be to drive Daddy out of the pulpit and, ideally, out of town—not into a new building.