The Devil in Pew Number Seven

by Rebecca Nichols Alonzo; Rebecca Nichols Alonzo

  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 glory66 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,67 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,68 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.

  She wouldn’t be the one getting me ready for school or walking me out to meet the bus with a big smile on her face. I’d never see her “I’ll see ya later” wave of the hand again or be enveloped in one of the big hugs she gave me when I returned home from school. She wouldn’t be kneeling at my bedside at night to say prayers with me anymore. And, while I knew someone else would fulfill these motherly duties, she wouldn’t be my momma.

  After the memorial service, one of the neighbors, Johnnie Sellers, my momma’s friend, came over to me with tears streaming down her face. She said, “Your mother and I were getting ready to plant a garden together.” Then she slowly walked away in shock, unable to believe or accept the fact that this had really happened.

  Neither could I.

  Chapter 12

  Eight Men and Four Women

  After the press, the police, and the well-wishers had departed, there was the matter of Daddy’s recovery. The doctors had implanted a long, metal pin into Daddy’s leg, requiring him to remain in the hospital for the better part of a month. While he recuperated, my grandparents, Aunt Dot, Aunt Martha, and Aunt Daisy returned to live in our home. Out of respect for my parents—and to avoid sleeping in the room where Momma had died—they removed the mattresses from the beds and slept in the living room on the floor.

  When Aunt Pat invited Danny and me to stay at her house, I hugged her hard enough to squeeze the air out of her. For obvious reasons, there was no way I’d set foot back into the parsonage so soon after the attack—if ever. The memories were too intense, too fresh, and too painful for me to deal with; the thought of ever living there again felt creepy.

  Granted, friends from church did what they could to clean up the house in anticipation of our return. The food that Momma had lovingly prepared for our Easter feast, left untouched due to the attack, had been removed. The bloodstains on the kitchen floor where Daddy had fallen, as well as those on the carpet and bedspread in my parents’ bedroom, had been scoured clean. Even so, there was nothing they could do to scrub away the memories that hung in the air like dark phantoms.

  I don’t remember ever going back to my room, where Harris had held his wife, Sue, and baby hostage. While I have only a vague recollection of the immediate aftermath of the attack due to the trauma I experienced, I doubt I would have felt safe trying to fall asleep in my princess suite. And with Daddy lying in a hospital bed s
omewhere across town and with Momma gone, I felt as alone as if I had been orphaned.

  Day by day I’d wake up wondering whether this would be the morning when I’d hear Momma humming a favorite tune while preparing breakfast in the kitchen. I wanted and needed her desperately to be there for me. I had lost a part of my heart when she died. Now, nothing seemed real. Indeed, the events of the next several weeks ran together in a blur of raw emotion.

  When Daddy was finally released from the hospital three weeks after he had been admitted, we packed our belongings and flew to Mobile. For Daddy, part of the healing process required him to gain some distance from the home where his bride had been gunned down. Spending time recuperating with family would be good medicine.

  The trip south, however, proved to be taxing. When we arrived at the airport and boarded the plane, we were seated near the back because Daddy had to be carried up the rear stairs in a stretcher. Watching six men, one each in front and back and two on each side, struggling to maneuver him up the steps was unsettling. This giant of a man, who had carried me in his arms countless times before, was unable to simply walk up the steps like everyone else.

  Besides, it felt wrong to be going on a trip without Momma. I could see other kids on the plane, laughing and having a wonderful time together with their mommies and daddies. Why couldn’t it be the same for us? The more I thought about the fact that life would never be the same, the more upset I became.

  Aunt Dot did her best to keep things pleasant on the flight. She tried to fill the role Momma would have played, buckling Daniel and me into our seats while answering our questions. It was, after all, only the second time I had been on an airplane. Sensing my discomfort, she attempted to distract us by pointing to the activity outside the window as the ground crew bustled about.

  Despite her efforts, my nerves were stretched thin. Once airborne, things went from bad to worse. The whine of the jet engines was extremely loud, which put me further on edge. They sounded as if they were ready to explode; if that happened, I knew we’d crash. Nauseated from worrying, without warning I threw up all over my seat and myself. I was so scared and embarrassed.

  The flight attendant and Aunt Dot tried to clean up my clothes and settle me down. Since our baggage had been checked, I didn’t have a change of clothes with me. They did the best they could to wipe away the mess. It bothered me the entire flight that my outfit had blotches all over it. Momma had always taken pride in our things being clean, and now here I was a total mess . . . emotionally and physically.

  What was happening to me?

  If only I could wake up and find that life was the way it used to be.

  I think the most difficult part for me was knowing that this was more than a trip south; it was an attempt to start over . . . without Momma. Once we landed in Mobile, I knew I’d be facing a new home, a new church, and a new school that fall. The thought of scaling such a mountain of change was overwhelming. My world as I knew it had been scrambled beyond recognition, and I approached the future with profound apprehension.

  The summer of 1978 was hard on me and my brother. Adjusting to life without Momma and without friends was no small task for two high-energy kids. I missed the bike rides with Missy to our secret fort in the woods. She was my confidant, and now she, too, was gone. Thankfully, my grandparents and Aunt Dot were our primary caretakers. We were blessed to have such a loving family surrounding and supporting us at this time. Still, I had to deal with the reality that my life would never be the same.

  During that first summer without Momma, Danny and I went to see her family in Louisiana. Grandpa and Grandma Welch had been devastated when they heard that their precious daughter had been killed. Making matters worse was the fact that she was shot right in front of their grandchildren.

  Momma’s brother, Ed, and his wife, Shirley, along with Momma’s sister, Sue, and her husband, Walt, were shocked and enraged that their sister’s life had been snatched from them. The Welches were a close-knit family, and now one of them was gone. Danny and I were all that was left of Momma.

  As we walked through their front door, my grandma could not contain her emotions any longer. She wrapped her arms around us and cried from the depths of her broken soul, from that place in a mother’s heart where love knows no end. She said she didn’t understand why my mother had prayed so hard to have children and yet God had allowed her to be taken away from them.

  I had some of the same questions.

  The piano that Momma had played for so many years sat in the living room, untouched and silent. Her fingers would never again grace the keyboard to entertain family and friends. Its music was replaced by the sound of our grandmother crying. Wanting to be strong for her, I tried to remember all the things people had said to me at Momma’s funeral. Maybe some of those words would bring comfort to her and Grandpa.

  During our visit, Grandma Welch took us to the cemetery to see Mother’s grave. Danny and I sat on the little white bench placed there by my grandparents. The grave site was beautiful. The black marble trim and the white rocks that surrounded it made me think Momma would be pleased to know her parents had put so much thought into remembering her.

  Momma’s gravestone had an oval-shaped picture of her smiling on it. To see the smile and twinkle in her eyes brought me comfort. It was as if she were telling me that she was happy and safe with Jesus and that no one could hurt her or threaten her ever again.

  * * *

  As I had feared, I felt as nauseous the first day at my new school as I had on the airplane. Walking to my third-grade class, knees threatening to buckle beneath me, the unbearable thought of a new teacher and classmates was more than I could take. If I could just make it to my desk and sit down, maybe I’d be okay.

  I had to fight the sensation of throwing up again.

  It didn’t take long for the gossip to spread through the hallways. I’d overhear the other students at school whispering things like, “Did you know she actually saw her mom get shot?” . . . “Yeah, and did you know her mother died?” . . . “I heard her dad was shot, too. Poor kid saw the whole thing.”

  Beyond the rumors and knowing glances, there was the practical matter of my schoolwork. Momma had always helped me with my homework, and now she was gone. Daddy was on a regimen of painkillers and nerve medication, so there was little he could do to tend to my needs.

  I didn’t want to be at this school. I didn’t feel as if I fit in. I was the “new kid”—the outsider from North Carolina. The other kids all knew each other, and I had no motivation or desire to break into their well-established circles.

  The best part of the school day was when Grandpa Nichols picked me up from school in his old green truck. Riding home with Grandpa was a safe place. I knew he understood my pain, and I had no fear that he was whispering behind my back. As I opened the door to the truck and threw my schoolbag on the floor, he would greet me with a warm smile while extending his hand, which held his daily treat: a peppermint. At least my school day ended with something sweet—candy and a quiet ride home.

  When we’d get home, Daniel would be there waiting for me to return from school. He was the only thing that didn’t change in my world. Daddy was different now. He was a broken man. He seemed lost and disoriented. That is why I especially loved being with my little brother, except for the fact that he kept asking for Momma. His pleas were especially difficult at night.

  You see, Daniel slept in my bed after the shootings. I would sleep on my side with my left arm draped over him until he fell asleep. I was an eight-year-old trying to comfort a three-year-old. Many nights he cried for Momma. I was frustrated that I had no easy answers for him. Back when Momma was alive, he was so attached to her that he would scream when she walked out of the room after putting him to bed. Now she was gone, and there was no way he could be with her no matter how hard or how long he cried.

  I tried my best to console him during those restless nights. I’d say, “Danny, Momma’s in heaven. Don’t worry, we’ll see her
when we get there.” That wasn’t good enough. He’d say, “Then I want to go to heaven right now and see her. I want Mommy!” After a while he’d settle down, whimpering his way to sleep. This went on for some time. Then he started wandering back and forth between Daddy’s room and mine. After several months he decided to stay with Daddy—I guess he felt safer with at least one parent.

  I don’t remember when Daniel stopped crying for Momma. In a way it was a relief because it hurt me to see him asking for her. But it was deeply painful for me, too. I was old enough to understand that she wasn’t coming back, at least not in this lifetime. I knew I had to say good-bye to Momma, our town, my friends, and my childhood.

  * * *

  In August 1978, five months after the shooting that claimed the life of my mother, Daddy and I headed back to Sellerstown for the murder trial. I had such mixed emotions about returning. I was thrilled that I’d get to see Missy, Aunt Pat, and some of my old friends, but I dreaded the thought of staying at our old home under the watchful eyes of Mr. Watts. Thankfully, we were invited to lodge with Eddie and Johnnie Sellers, who lived up the street from the parsonage.

  On Sunday, August 6, Daddy preached his farewell sermon at the Free Welcome Church in Sellerstown. The church family had been supporting us since the shooting, and while Daddy appreciated their generosity, he knew it was time to move on. He was encouraged to see the church thriving in his absence, and after he finished his message, he formally resigned as their senior pastor.

  On Monday, August 7, the murder trial began. The proceedings were held before the Superior Court of Bladen County in Elizabethtown, North Carolina, and lasted for five days. The twelve members of the jury were selected on Monday and Tuesday; eight men and four women plus two alternates would sit in judgment of this dark chapter in our lives.