The Devil in Pew Number Seven Part 15

His dreams were gone.

And now, by all appearances, he was slowly losing his mind. At times I watched helplessly as he would talk to people who were not in the room. I remember sitting at the dinner table when Daddy experienced one of his flashbacks. As if being transported in time to the day of the shootings, he completely lost touch with reality. Without warning he jumped out of his seat, knocking several dishes off the table in the process. With a fire in his eyes he shouted at the unseen gunman until my grandfather took hold of him and settled him down.

There were countless days when my grandparents sent Daniel and me outside to play while they tried to calm Daddy after a flashback. Even though I was a child, I knew it would take much more to soothe Daddy's troubled spirit. He needed to be healed, and I had faith that G.o.d would make Daddy better. I took markers and paper and drew signs, which I placed over his bed, that read, "Jesus, please heal my daddy." I rode my bike around our yard, praying for Daddy, believing one day soon we'd have a normal life, a life free of Daddy's "episodes."

Granted, Daddy appeared normal some of the time. He had seasons where he'd seem like his old, wonderful self. I drew a lot of comfort from those harmonious intervals. He loved to grill outdoors for company and interact with them like in the old days. He'd jump off the diving board into the pool with a "bomb" dive that splashed almost all the water out of the pool. He was even a guest preacher in various churches every now and then. The good times gave us hope that one day, if we didn't give up, Daddy would be completely healed.

For my part, I did what I could to help Daddy parent Daniel-not that Daddy needed me to do so. I figured if I antic.i.p.ated Daniel's needs as Momma used to do, though, I might take some of the pressure off him. When Daniel struggled with his emotions over Momma's death, I'd put my arm around him or hold him and remind him that we always had each other and we still had Daddy. And I made sure I kept track of where Daniel was going and what he was doing. If he needed help getting dressed or was hungry for a sandwich, rather than bother Daddy, I stepped in and lent a hand.

Even so, Daddy's moments of normality seemed to pa.s.s by far too quickly. Inevitably, another setback would occur. Sometimes he would wake us up during the middle of the night in order to go on a trip. With his suitcase packed, he informed us that he had a revival to preach, and we had to get going right away. Having awakened everyone, determined to hit the road, he started rummaging through the entire house searching for the Bibles and car keys we had stashed to prevent him from wandering off.

Daniel and I unpacked his bags, and after rea.s.suring him there was no scheduled meeting, we'd finally return to our beds. We would get only a few hours of sleep some nights before the alarm sounded for school. Tired and worn out, we'd get dressed, go to our cla.s.ses, and try to concentrate. Although we pretended that our lives were normal, a question always lingered in the back of our minds: Will Daddy be there when we get home from school? Or will he be in the hospital again? Will Daddy be there when we get home from school? Or will he be in the hospital again? This was especially unsettling for me as a twelve-year-old preteen, a concern that shadowed me for the next two years. This was especially unsettling for me as a twelve-year-old preteen, a concern that shadowed me for the next two years.

Daddy's fragile condition was severe enough to require heavy medication-even an extended hospitalization of six months. Because of the death of Momma and the years of hara.s.sment at the hands of Mr. Watts, Daddy's mental state had been thoroughly scrambled. The endless hours spent answering the phone, only to hear the breathing of a maniac, or peeking out the window every time a car pa.s.sed the parsonage, created an anxiety that wreaked havoc on his nervous system.

I'm sure his condition was complicated by second-guessing. He had to have wondered about the wisdom of staying in Sellerstown when friends and family had pleaded, begged, and prayed we'd leave before harm was done. Should he have listened? Had he been stubborn? Had this been some sort of contest of wills: Daddy vs. Mr. Watts? Or had the voice of G.o.d really confirmed in his spirit that he should not abandon this congregation?

What if he had taken their advice and left?

Momma would still be alive, that much is certain.

But would leaving to save our own skins have been what the Lord wanted? Didn't Jesus say to take up our cross and follow Him? Did we get a say in where Jesus took us? By definition, a cross, as Daddy knew, was suffering even unto death. The Scriptures don't paint a rosy picture for those who follow the Lord. Daddy knew full well that Jesus promised, "In the world ye shall have tribulation." That's part of the deal, part of what happens when living in a fallen world. And yet Daddy also knew full well that Jesus promised His followers hope, saying, "Be of good cheer; I have overcome the world" (John 16:33).

In spite of what Daddy knew to be true in the Bible, his constant questioning about his decision to stay acted like a stage-four cancer. The speculations devoured his inner being, reducing him to a sh.e.l.l of his former self.

As a young girl, I vacillated between good and bad days. I still had my daddy, but he wasn't the man I had known. Sure, some days the fog cleared, and I experienced the intimacy and love I had once known. Most days, however, were close to insufferable. I wished I could have unzipped the darkness and the depressive atmosphere at home and crawled out to where there was light. I longed for fresh, breathable air and a new cup of hope to quench the years of dry prayers. The other cups of hope had spilled each time Daddy was taken away to the hospital, which left me wondering if there would ever be any refills.

Walking alone to the bus stop on cold school mornings, watching the air as I breathed in and out, I remember thinking that this could not not be my life . . . not my be my life . . . not my real real life. I had been born to wonderful parents, and now they were gone. Momma was dead, and Daddy was gone into sort of a living death, a zombie-like, disoriented state of being. life. I had been born to wonderful parents, and now they were gone. Momma was dead, and Daddy was gone into sort of a living death, a zombie-like, disoriented state of being.

For me, losing them was such a burden; at times as I walked to the bus, it felt as if I were carrying another person on my back. Ididn't appear to be bent over, but my heart was weighed down with a heaviness that made even the short trek to the bus stop seem to take forever.

Worse, the thoughts echoing in my head felt as if they were so loud everyone at the bus stop could hear them. Even so, I'd smile and say h.e.l.lo to maintain the illusion that everything was just fine with me. No one knew the effort that charade took just so I could carry on with a "normal" school day.

Making matters worse was watching my daddy go in and out of hospitals. That was especially hard on me. I wanted to be with him, but it hurt to witness his condition. His clothes had a disinfected hospital smell, not the familiar scent that I had loved about him. At times when we visited him in the hospital, I'd find him unshaven and his eyes reddened and glossed over from the medications.

His face, tired and drawn from one too many sleepless nights, seemed to lack color. We'd take him outside and sit at a picnic table so he would get some sun. Our conversation was somewhat stilted due to the sedatives. He'd answer questions in clipped phrases, like a vending machine dispensing one treat at a time.

None of these changes in Daddy's countenance prevented me from sitting right beside him for the entire visit. I sat so close you couldn't squeeze a dime between us. My brother and I would take turns sitting in Daddy's lap, as if he were Santa-only better. I'd hug him, kiss him, and love him as if there were nothing wrong. I just hoped, prayed, and waited for him to be healed. I knew G.o.d could glue back the pieces of his shattered life.

When it was time for us to leave, I'd offer him my brightest smile. I'd wrap my arms around his neck one final time and say, "Good-bye, Daddy." That, however, didn't sit well with him. He'd shake his head and say, "Honey, please say, 'See you later,' not 'good-bye.'" I think the thought that he might never see his children again weighed on his heart.

More than once after leaving the room, I overheard Daddy telling my grandma Nichols, "Mom, I'd rather have a dozen cancers in my body than have to suffer with these severe nerve problems. If I'm not going to get any better, I'd rather for the Lord to take me on home. I can't take it any longer. It's like h.e.l.l on earth. Please, Mom, pray for me this way."

At the same time, I knew that Daddy had a rock-solid faith that he could be healed by the power of Jesus. He knew there was no sickness or brokenness beyond G.o.d's repair. Jesus was the Great Physician. Daddy had preached about the healing power of the Lord, had prayed for others who had been sick, and had watched the Lord heal them. If it was G.o.d's will, he, too, could be made whole again.

In spite of the ongoing physical and mental anguish, Daddy never gave up on his faith in G.o.d. I overheard Daddy talking to his mother, Grandma Nichols, in the kitchen, saying, "These tormenting spirits can touch my body, my mind, and my emotions. But they can't touch my born-again spirit." Indeed, he loved G.o.d more than life itself.

I'd hear Daddy walking through the house, confessing the Scriptures "My peace I give unto you" and "He hath not given us a spirit of fear, but of power, love, and a sound mind." He spoke emphatically, using his hands for emphasis, as if preaching. He'd quote, "The thief cometh but for to kill and steal and to destroy, but Jesus came that we might have abundant life" and "He came to bind up the brokenhearted."

At times Daddy appeared to be basking in the grace of G.o.d to continue the good fight of faith. On his good days, he'd stop taking his medicine and call a friend who struggled with problems of his own. Daddy would pray with him, offer words of Scripture and encouragement, and essentially serve as a lifeline to this fellow traveler. Nothing encouraged Daddy more than bringing hope to the hopeless.

Sometimes I heard Daddy crying out to the Lord in prayer, repeating that he had forgiven Mr. Watts and that he wanted Mr. Watts to become a changed man through the power of Jesus. Interestingly, I never once heard Daddy complain that Mr. Watts had escaped justice. He didn't badger G.o.d with endless "Why, G.o.d?" questions about the suffering Mr. Watts had caused our family. Neither did Daddy rejoice when he learned about a breakthrough regarding Mr. Watts's role in the Sellerstown bombings.

On June 5, 1980, two years after the murder trial, Grandma Nichols, Daddy, Danny, and I took a trip from our home in Alabama to North Carolina. I think Grandma thought it would be a good idea for us as a family to reconnect with our old friends from Sellerstown.

I couldn't wait to see my friend Missy, whom I'd always admired as I would a big sister. I was now ten, and Missy was fourteen. Even though two years had pa.s.sed since I last saw her, we picked up as if I had been gone just a few days.

One afternoon, we stood in front of her bathroom mirror, laughing at the sight of our green facial masks plastered from chin to cheek. For a moment, the distant memory of a more peaceful, playful time in our shared history was reflected in the two sets of eyes staring back at us. Even though life was different for us now, our friends.h.i.+p felt as familiar and comfortable as a pair of favorite shoes.

I had the same warmhearted reunion with Aunt Pat. After a hug that spoke volumes, she raked my hair with her fingers, cupped my face between her tender hands, and just shook her head. I sensed she was marveling at the young woman I was becoming. She said, "You look so much like your precious mother, Becky." My heart swelled. In a way, it felt good to know I was able in some small way to bring joy to those who knew, loved, and missed Momma.

After we had arrived and settled, Daddy bought a local paper to read with his coffee. Daddy read that ATF Special Agent Charles Mercer never stopped pursuing Mr. Watts's involvement in the bombings.

According to the newspaper account,73 Mr. Watts had been indicted by a federal grand jury, was arrested on June 9, and immediately made bail by posting a $200,000 bond. He had been charged on two counts: first, conspiracy to detonate a destructive device in the series of Sellerstown bombings; second, conspiracy to violate our freedom of religion as protected by the First Amendment and our civil rights of life, liberty, and property as guaranteed by the Fifth Amendment to the United States Const.i.tution. Mr. Watts had been indicted by a federal grand jury, was arrested on June 9, and immediately made bail by posting a $200,000 bond. He had been charged on two counts: first, conspiracy to detonate a destructive device in the series of Sellerstown bombings; second, conspiracy to violate our freedom of religion as protected by the First Amendment and our civil rights of life, liberty, and property as guaranteed by the Fifth Amendment to the United States Const.i.tution.

Through his lawyers, Mr. Watts entered a plea of not guilty. Not surprisingly, he had retained four of the best lawyers money could buy. The attorney for Bud Sellers, R. C. Soles, was a state senator. For the better part of eight months, this team of skilled barristers bombarded Federal Judge Earl Britt with a virtual barrage of motions and objections. Among those motions was a request to omit any evidence not originally presented to the grand jury. This move prevented the prosecutor74 from pursuing evidence linking Mr. Watts to any events of wrongdoing after November of 1975-including the shooting of my parents. Finally, on February 2, 1981, the trial of Mr. Watts began. from pursuing evidence linking Mr. Watts to any events of wrongdoing after November of 1975-including the shooting of my parents. Finally, on February 2, 1981, the trial of Mr. Watts began.

Daddy, the first to testify, flew back to North Carolina to face in court the devil who previously had occupied pew number seven in church. It would be the last time the two men saw each other. When asked by the press about his reaction to the news that Mr. Watts had been indicted, Daddy described the mental torture he still experienced years later. "I have to take tranquilizers,75 and I just got out from a six-month stay in the hospital. The wounds to my body have healed, but I can't put that time out of my mind," Daddy said. and I just got out from a six-month stay in the hospital. The wounds to my body have healed, but I can't put that time out of my mind," Daddy said.

Grateful to see the wheels of justice finally moving forward, Daddy added, "I have been waiting and praying those Fed boys would see this thing through. I feel a great sense of relief that this thing is finally going to court. I try not to think about it, but it wakes me in my sleep. You can't blink away a thought in the dark." No wonder Daddy roamed through the house in the middle of the night.

Daddy's testimony spanned two days. Ironically, the trial went through Valentine's Day. I'm sure Daddy's heart had to have been aching as he sat there in court without his valentine, reliving the painful past he had once shared with Momma.

Mr. Watts was prosecuted by a.s.sistant U.S. Attorneys Ted Davis and Wallace Dixon, who pulled together upward of one hundred witnesses to make their case. At their request, the witness list had been sealed until trial to prevent hara.s.sment of their witnesses.

Even with that precaution in place, Gail Claude Spivey, one of the government's witnesses, told the judge that he had been threatened by members of the defense team. He testified that he had been approached and was told, "If you're not very careful,76 you could get blown to pieces." He added, "I leave this courtroom with great fear." That appeared not to be an unwarranted concern; his house had been burned down shortly after receiving the warning and just before he had taken the witness stand. you could get blown to pieces." He added, "I leave this courtroom with great fear." That appeared not to be an unwarranted concern; his house had been burned down shortly after receiving the warning and just before he had taken the witness stand.

The government's star witness was Agent Charles Mercer, who had done a thorough job acc.u.mulating evidence over five years. According to one report, Attorney Davis painted Mr. Watts as "a rich and powerful man in Columbus County77 who was stripped of his powers in a church he was not even a member of [who] plotted to run the pastor and his family out of the Sellerstown community." who was stripped of his powers in a church he was not even a member of [who] plotted to run the pastor and his family out of the Sellerstown community."

Fifty-four witnesses were ultimately called by Attorney Davis, who, like a skilled surgeon, st.i.tched together seventy pieces of hard evidence as he sewed up the case against Mr. Watts. Layer upon layer, Attorney Davis laid the foundation and built a rock-solid wall of evidence for the jury to consider.

For the better part of three weeks, Attorney Davis methodically walked the jury through the threatening phone calls and letters, the series of shotgun blasts and bombings. He presented dynamite fuses, photos of craters in the yard and bullet holes in our car, and the results of telephone traces from calls made to the parsonage. He rounded out his case by interviewing detectives, ballistic experts, and specialists in forensics.

One of the most damaging pieces of evidence was a government witness who claimed78 under oath that Mr. Watts had offered him $100,000 to kill my daddy by running him over with his car. Mr. Watts had told him to make it look like an accident. under oath that Mr. Watts had offered him $100,000 to kill my daddy by running him over with his car. Mr. Watts had told him to make it look like an accident.

That dramatic testimony must have been the final straw. Mr. Watts stunned the court when he abruptly changed his plea from "not guilty" to "nolo contendere," which in Latin means "I do not wish to contend," to the two counts related to our family's situation. Not wanting to risk a jury verdict, with his revised plea Mr. Watts threw himself on the mercy of the court.

During the sentencing phase of the trial, Bob Burns, one of the attorneys for Mr. Watts, pleaded leniency for his client. He told the judge that the Mr. Watts he knew personally for some forty years wasn't the man as described in this case: "The picture painted of him79 from the witness stand is not the H. J. Watts I've known. I have found him to be a peacemaker. . . . I have known him as an honest and kindhearted man. Without exception in transactions with him, there has been no question of what is right and wrong; I have found him ready and willing to do the right thing." from the witness stand is not the H. J. Watts I've known. I have found him to be a peacemaker. . . . I have known him as an honest and kindhearted man. Without exception in transactions with him, there has been no question of what is right and wrong; I have found him ready and willing to do the right thing."

Mr. Watts was a peacemaker?

Mr. Watts was a kindhearted man?

Does a peacemaker mastermind five years of terror against a pastor and his family? Where's the kindheartedness in publicly ridiculing my father during a wors.h.i.+p service while smearing his reputation by calling him an adulterer behind his back? How could a man with these alleged qualities even dream of detonating a bomb outside the window of a house where an infant is asleep?

To help make his case that the Mr. Watts personified during the three-week trial wasn't really a scheming, evil man, Mr. Burns produced forty Columbus County residents. While thirty-five of them stood when called upon in the courtroom to acknowledge their support, five others took the stand to testify on record to the upstanding character and reputation of Mr. Watts.

Attorney Ed Williamson followed his cocounsel's address to the court, adding that Mr. Watts's "plea admits to you and the world his wrongdoing and his presence and manner show his remorse. He deserves mercy. The things he admits should never have been done."

Mr. Watts didn't "admit" to using violence and threats to hara.s.s our family.

He pleaded no contest no contest.

The evidence against him had been so overwhelming that even a blind man could see Mr. Watts would be hard-pressed to gain a favorable judgment. He made a calculated decision hoping that his friend, the judge, who had represented him in years past,80 might somehow go easy on him now. might somehow go easy on him now.

For his part, attorney Ted Davis, who successfully prosecuted the case, urged the court to remember the severity of the harm done by Mr. Watts. "When the Reverend Robert F. Nichols came to Sellerstown81 in 1969, he was six feet three inches tall, weighed 230 pounds, and was in excellent physical and mental condition," Mr. Davis said in his closing address. "Today, he is still six feet three inches tall, weighs in excess of three hundred pounds, and is in terrible mental and physical condition." in 1969, he was six feet three inches tall, weighed 230 pounds, and was in excellent physical and mental condition," Mr. Davis said in his closing address. "Today, he is still six feet three inches tall, weighs in excess of three hundred pounds, and is in terrible mental and physical condition."

Davis continued, saying, "The bombings, shootings, hara.s.sment, and threatening phone calls have left him a sh.e.l.l of his former self, the result of this malicious treatment. He was run out of his position and was forced to go back to Alabama to escape the living h.e.l.l he endured and to s.h.i.+eld his children from the events of this trial. They walked in fear of being shot or bombed, and nothing can erase the horrifying fears they endured. We'll never know the horrifying fears Ramona Nichols endured, not knowing if they would be killed. All of this pain is the result of one man's jealousy."

After all was said and done, Mr. Watts, the man who stalked our family for five years, received what amounted to a hand slap on the wrist from Judge Britt. After commending Agent Charles Mercer for "a thorough and relentless investigation,"82 the justice said, "Pa.s.sing sentence is the worst job about being a judge, and it is extremely more difficult when people involved are people you know very well." the justice said, "Pa.s.sing sentence is the worst job about being a judge, and it is extremely more difficult when people involved are people you know very well."

You could almost see that the fix was in.

He continued, "Attorneys Burns and Williamson have spoken of their knowledge of Mr. Watts, and I, too, have known him for years. R. C. Soles and I represented him in an official capacity when he was a county commissioner in a lawsuit involving taxation. I have had the opportunity to get to know some of his family and do some legal work for them. All of these things make it weigh heavier on my shoulders."

Given that history with Mr. Watts and his family, you'd think the judge would have recused himself due to the possible conflict of interest. He added, "I agree [with Watts's attorneys] that the Horry Watts pictured in this case is not the Horry Watts I knew, but I have to deal with the Horry Watts in this case. . . . The severity of the offenses committed easily dictate maximum punishment of all charges, but the severity of the offenses is not the only factor the court should consider. The person involved is, of course, the most important thing."

Judge Britt concluded, "The sentence will be the maximum sentence, but that will not be the ultimate. I will send you to the inst.i.tution to find out what is in the best interest of society and H. J. Watts." As ordered by the judge, Mr. Watts underwent sixty days of "mental, physical and psychological testing in Butner Federal Correctional Inst.i.tution." Probably the most disturbing aspect of the judgment to me was what Judge Britt considered to be the "maximum" sentence for targeting our family: * Count one: $10,000 and five years in prison* Count two: Five years in prison to run concurrently with the first five-year sentence I should point out that at the same trial, Mr. Watts was also tried and sentenced to an additional ten years for conspiracy to bomb two other people as well as for using the postal system to deliver threatening letters to them. Taken together, Mr. Watts was facing fifteen years in prison and significant cash fines.

Upon hearing the judgment, Mr. Watts became visibly emotional. He removed his thick, black-framed gla.s.ses to brush away his tears. I don't know what prompted the outburst of emotion. Mr. Watts rarely displayed any feeling around us other than anger, rage, or spite. I have my doubts that his tears flowed from a repentant heart. If anything, I suspect they were a product of embarra.s.sment.

As mentioned earlier, Mr. Watts knew a thing or two about correctional facilities. In 1972, as a county commissioner, Mr. Watts helped facilitate the planning and building of the Columbus County Law Enforcement Center-a state-of-the-art jailhouse. His name, along with the other commissioners', was engraved on a sizable placard that had been affixed adjacent to the entrance of the prison.

Ironically, this slogan was splashed in large type on the wall of the prison: Respect for Law is the Beginning of Wisdom. That was nine short years before this event. Mr. Watts had to have been mortified to learn that he, of all people, was now heading to jail. In spite of his money, power, and his squad of lawyers, the unthinkable had happened.

He had lost.

At age seventy-five, the man who wasn't accustomed to losing was now a convict. Rather than toss the case out on some technicality, his longtime a.s.sociate and friend, Judge Britt, did the sentencing. The thought that his residence would be a prison cell somewhere within the federal penitentiary system-not his beloved stretch of Sellerstown Road-had to have been humiliating.

On March 11, 1981, justice prevailed.

Mr. Watts was finally placed behind bars.

Chapter 14

Life Is Hard, butG.o.dIsGood.

The tide turned.

In spite of the good news that Mr. Watts was to receive some measure of justice for his behavior, the years he had spent persecuting our family wounded Daddy to the depth of his soul. While Daddy had his good days, in the wake of the trial he went from better to worse. He suffered from paranoia and constantly battled taunting voices inside his head. His condition, we were told, was aggravated by extreme sleep deprivation. These vestiges of Mr. Watts's hounding led to bizarre behavior and ultimately to a severe nervous breakdown.

Even when Daddy was sick, I loved to be with him. I came to accept the fact that he would break down at times. In my view, he was still my daddy in spite of the challenges to his mental state. His hugs never changed; they were engulfing, warm, and safe.

When I was fourteen, we were advised that Daddy might benefit from a stay in a special faith-based inst.i.tution that dealt with those who had similar struggles. I understood he had to go.

Right before Daddy was to leave, Danny and I had an opportunity to say good-bye. Other times when Daddy had been taken to a hospital, we'd come home from school, and he'd already be gone. No good-byes. No hugs. No last prayer together as a family. So this was a treat to get to send him off. When Danny and I arrived home from spending some time with friends, the house was quiet. The shades had not been drawn open to let in the usual light that made our home feel warm and welcoming, perhaps because Daddy felt safer knowing strangers on the outside couldn't see in.

I found Daddy sitting upright in his brown cloth recliner in the family room. He sat as still as a statue. He wore his normal attire, a short-sleeve, b.u.t.ton-down s.h.i.+rt, khaki pants, and brown slippers. When I searched his face, I could barely see the brown of his eyes due to the redness that surrounded them. He had a distant look on his face as if he were somewhere else.

I didn't hesitate to climb onto his lap.

Though I was fourteen, I hadn't outgrown the security I felt from sitting on his lap. I reached to wrap my arms around him for one last hug, but the hug wasn't returned as usual. I said, "I love you, Daddy," but he sat like a prisoner sworn to silence. During that brief encounter, I got the feeling that he was looking through me rather than at me. In the past he'd make eye contact when speaking to us; now he appeared tired and broken.

I knew I couldn't stay long. The car was packed and ready for the long road trip ahead. I held his huge hand and once again said, "Ilove you, Daddy. . . . I'll see you soon." Just then, and much to my surprise, he said, "I love you, Rebecca." He didn't make eye contact as he spoke. He didn't need to. The words were enough. It was such a gift to me for G.o.d to allow him to step back into reality-if just for a moment-to let me know that his love for me had not drifted away along with his mind.

After I slipped off his lap, Danny came and hugged Daddy, but at age nine, he just said his "I love yous" and turned around to leave. There was no point in waiting for a conversation. It wasn't going to happen. Daddy was too tired and heavily medicated. As Daddy left for the trip, I hoped and prayed that this hospital visit would be a short one.

I didn't see the storm coming.

There had been no alarm, no forewarning, nothing to prepare me for the news that would send me reeling for years. I was completely blindsided. On October 5, 1984, my world was blown apart. The tornado of grief hit on Friday while I was attending school. My teacher called me to her desk and, with a look on her face I couldn't quite make out, told me I was not to ride the bus home that day; I was to take the bus that would go to my grandmother's house instead.

There was no further explanation.

I did as I was told.

When I got off the bus, Mrs. Deborah, my grandparents' next-door neighbor and close family friend, greeted me. Without disclosing what was going on, she took me to her house instead of to my grandparents'. Her behavior seemed guarded, as if she wasn't at liberty to talk about why I had been summoned to their house. Although the homes were separated by several acres, as we pulled into her driveway, I noticed a number of extra cars parked outside of my grandparents' house.

That was odd.

It wasn't my birthday-or theirs-so this couldn't be a surprise party. I knew my grandparents had big family get-togethers all the time, but nothing was scheduled for that weekend. The more I thought about the reasons behind the unusual situation, the more I sensed something might be wrong. I just couldn't figure out what it was. Had something happened to Grandma or Grandpa?

Did they have a fall?

Had one of them died?

They were were older, so that was an option. older, so that was an option.

Mrs. Deborah tried to distract me with chitchat while stalling for time. The longer I had to wait, however, the more persistent I became in my search for answers. When can I go to my grandmother's house? What is going on over there? Who are all of those people gathered at their house? When can I go to my grandmother's house? What is going on over there? Who are all of those people gathered at their house?

About all Mrs. Deborah told me was that I had to wait until we received a phone call-and not to worry. Again, that didn't make any sense. Why the mystery? I was fourteen at the time and had a more refined "baloney meter" that resonated whenever adults weren't being forthright with me. After what felt like an eternity, the call finally came. I hustled across the yard between the two houses.

As I crossed the small ditch separating the homes, virtually out of the blue, a heavy feeling weighed down on my chest as if someone were standing on my rib cage. I was overwhelmed with the foreboding sensation that something bad had happened to my daddy. Something really bad. Between the short hike and the uneasy premonition gnawing at my stomach, my heart started to race.