Murder, Werewolves, and Ghosts

picture Pinky cowering in her corner, knowing he was on the war path and she’d better stay lower than low. I didn’t unlock the door, what was the point, he had a key; and he did use it to unlocked the door, came in, and closed it behind him; then quietly told me that he didn’t mind me killing that cat. He had thought about doing it himself. But, why in God’s name, did I have to carve it up. I explained my reasons as he listened patiently making me feel that maybe I had a chance. Then to my surprise he said he thought that my method for disposing of it was rather ingenious—but why did I allow myself to get caught by my sisters! Then he said that my stupidity in that regard called for me being punished. He took off his belt and had me prostrate myself across the bed and let me have a few whacks loud enough to be heard by Ma and the twins, then left.

  A few days later he confiscated my BB gun. I was devastated! How did he know about the BB gun? I’d rather he beat me–but not take my BB gun, for Christ-sake. As he left the house I heard him yelling at the twins to mind their own business. Just about a week later, much to my surprise, he took me with him to the auto parts junkyard on a Saturday. And even more startling was when he handed me my BB gun and said I could use it to shoot at rats and cans. He then showed me the sawed off shotgun he kept under the counter in his office, along with a shiny army 45 pistol he had in a holster and sometimes strapped on when he was out in the yard–especially to let customers know he was armed, should anyone try to steal parts–something they were unlikely to do at night when he let his two junkyard watch dogs, Hugo and Gory, lose. During the day they were chained in plain sight, barking savagely at strangers as father took particular pride in their flashing white fangs and drooling saliva. I wondered what would happen if the chains broke and they went full tilt, intent on tearing someone or something limb from limb. But he made it so that I got along famously with them, introducing me as a family member and letting me feed them to prove it. I took a real liking to them because they were ferociously glorious–powers to be reckoned with. But still and all, I wished they were less aggressive about the cats since none would venture anywhere near the junkyard–cats I yearned to kill and wouldn’t even have to cut up, but rather drop them in their tracks with the .22 rifle father had also given to me, then toss them over the fence into the nearby garbage dump.

  Father didn’t make much money. But it was enough. His father had left him the junkyard and the house we lived in. So there wasn’t any mortgage to be paid and taxes were next to nothing. He often complained about the rats because of the garbage dump—that was actually the reason for the .22 rifle: for me to shoot rats, but to be very careful of old Joe, his yard-man, and anyone else he allowed to remove parts from the wrecked and junked cars. It was the greatest thing that ever happened to me. I loved father for it. We agreed not to tell mother about my sniper shooting. He had learned to keep his mouth shut to her about such things. And as far as the twins were concerned they rarely came near the auto parts junkyard, and I was sworn on penalty of death not to let anyone at school know that our father owned one—since they would refer to it as a junkyard. Mother claimed it would devastate the girls if their school mates knew about the junkyard, so I had to keep mum, but then held it over their heads. A weapon I wished I had known about during elementary school days when they made my life a living Hell by teasing me and hogging the bathroom, conspiring to keep it occupied no matter what. But then, later on, when I threatened to spread the word about the junkyard, the bathroom was mine whenever I wanted.

  High school become a real drag. I was made to sit outside the classrooms in the hallways practically all of the time. I was good at math and science, ahead of my classmates in that regard, so continually interrupted with the intent of showing them to be the morons I knew them to be. Of course, the teachers didn’t like that. I would have been completely kicked out of school and sent to a boy’s reformatory if the teachers had their way, but the principle felt sorry for my mother. It seemed that he had gone to school with her way back when. Finally, it reached the point where I couldn’t stand it any longer and nagged and nagged until my parents agree to my quitting, but only if I pursued a trade– particularly to become a machinist like my mother’s father had been before a ring he had been wearing caught in a lathe and his hand had been practically torn off. I loved the job I was able to get even though I started out by sweeping the floor and handling deliveries and packing machined stuff for pickup. I soon moved on to learning how to operate a lathe, and milling machine, and the grinders–and best of all, the band saw used to cut off the excess from castings brought in to be machined into all sorts of things. I wished I had that bandsaw when I did that cat. It would have been so easy, although bloodier, I was sure, but so what, blood naturally came with the deed; especially without first gutting and allowing the carcass to drain—a procedure I had little time for with that cat.

  And so that’s the way it went until father dropped dead in the junkyard. Ma found him there in a heap. It then became a question of the cemetery or cremation; with, of course, cremation being the choice since it was cheaper than the cemetery and because the authorities wouldn’t let her bury him in the auto parts junkyard, like had been done with his father on the sly. So she sprinkled his ashes around and got me to quit my machinist job and take over running the business. She said it was a matter of tradition going back to horse and buggy days.

  My sisters, as before, refused to go near the junkyard, staying at home, continuing to work as clerks in a department store, and cooking as needs be for Ma and me. And so we went along as dysfunctional as ever with me and my sisters advancing into our fifties, with them trying hopelessly to get married–to snare a mate–anyone would do. But how could that be when they were so equally ugly and ill tempered. But still and all there could be emigrant men willing to marry either of them as a possible means of gaining citizenship—and then making a break for it.

  Then mother died—just as father had done—for no reason it seemed other than to just die. She hadn’t been ill or despondent in any way. Much to the anguish of my sisters, she left a will bequeathing the house and the auto parts junkyard to me because she felt they would sell out. And so it was: my sisters cooking for me and keeping house, while still working at clerical jobs, and me spending practically all my time at the junkyard; coming to the house to occasionally have a home cooked meal, do my laundry, sleep in a feather bed, and maintain a legal residence since I knew they were looking for every opportunity to gain the house and turn me out.

  I was left the old Packard as well, still running like a charm after all those years. Mother had done as father had: changing the oil and filter every three thousand miles, plus replacing the spark plugs and the points. It had been, in its day, and even more so in antiquity, a very fashionable mode of transportation in spite of the door panels rusting away as well as all four fenders, plus the need to have plywood inside on the floors so as not to inadvertently thrust a foot through to the pavement below.

  I had Ma cremated, but I didn’t scatter her ashes throughout the auto parts junkyard. Instead, I put them in a vase she had liked, and placed it in her and father’s bedroom.

  But life had to go on, and one day along came a very attractive woman—or at least I thought so—about my age. And made even more attractive because of the greasy smudge on her nose and the strong likelihood she had been sliding under an automobile by the oil stains on the back of her shirt—yes, I immediately classified her as my kind of woman. I had a wonderful opportunity to get acquainted as she was in need of an alternator for her Chevy Camaro. But that it would have to be guaranteed in perfect working condition. I told her I had two Camaros in the lot, both still with alternators. And so, with my tool box, I took Louella (that was her name) to the bowels of the yard where the Camaros were situated. Normally I would have assigned old Joe, or tell a customer to do it themselves, but this was a golden opportunity for me to rub elbows with this provocative creature in the course of operating on one of the Camaros to extract its alternator. (I ofte
n thought of my wrecked and junked autos as dead people whose organs could be re-embodied and become functional once more.) In the course of removing the alternator Louella told me her husband had owned an auto repair shop and she had learned a great deal about auto repair, but the business bellied up and he ran off. But it dawned on me that the auto repair shop she referred too was the chop shop the feds had nailed closed, and her husband had been sent up the river where, rumor had it, he had died. Well anyway, I sold her the alternator for half price; but then, after she left, felt like a pussy for doing it.

  Low and behold, two days later in drove a gorgeous canary yellow Camaro, and out pops Louella all made up and smelling all lavender-like. Even my junkyard dogs were captivated by her, not barking or growling as usual, but breathing heavily, as thought thinking: what do we have here. I wasn’t sure whether it was she who struck their fancy, or it was the Camaro, or both. I suddenly became exceptionally proud of them, making a mental note to get some choice scraps from the butcher shop.

  Louella had stopped by to tell me how wonderful the alternator had been working. As other customers came I admit I became somewhat abrupt with when I noted the yum-yum look in their eyes at the sight of Louella. To further riffle my composure, when one customer couldn’t quite describe a part he needed, Louella immediately chimed in, not only naming the part and its function, but how to remove it or attach it so graphically an idiot could understand. She even recommended to a customer they should buy a new thingamajig and not a used one—to which I immediately agreed, not wanting to contradict her. The redirected customer whispered to me on leaving that my wife really knew her stuff. And without thinking I replied that she certainly did, thereby accepting the thought of Louella as my would-be wife. From that moment on Louella was no longer a drop in, but rather a drop on, if you get my meaning. One evening when I picked her up where she was living with her mother to take her for a cheeseburger and shake, she told me it was a temporary living arrangement until she found a job and quarters of her own. I took her past my house and she was impressed, but I could not invite her in seeing that my sisters were at home. What a pussy I was! Was I afraid of my sisters? Of course not—the ugly bitches. I should have taken Louella in and overwhelmed them, neither of which could find a street cleaner or garbage man who would take either of them out even if they bought the cheeseburgers and shakes. They would have been bowled over by this gorgeous creature to whom I and my junkyard dogs were becoming more and more attached. I recalled the first drive-in movie I took her to, but not the movie itself other than I think it started Carey Grant and a blond singing some maudlin irritating song.

  It was on a Saturday that we were married by a justice of the peace and then spent the night on my make-shift bed in the auto parts junkyard office. The next day, Sunday, I knew my sisters would be home in the afternoon munching chocolate covered cherries and watching television when I dropped in with Louella, introducing her as my wife. On which I was sprayed with pieces of chocolate covered cherries by one of my sisters in her amazement at my announcement. The other went into a choking fit. I felt that Louella was secretly enjoying the consternation she had evoked without even saying a word. Then when I told them Louella would be moving in I thought they were each going to discharge a string of chocolate covered cherries. But I didn’t care—it was my house and I could turn them out—and they knew it, and immediately, as though on the same wave length—as twins often are—changed their attitudes—snakes as they were.

  And so it was that Louella moved in. We all got along quite well. I think, because Louella devoted most of her time to the auto parts junkyard where she pitched right in disconnecting parts and placing them on display in the office, and instituting an inventory and cataloguing system that would have knocked the socks off my father, and his father as well. And so it was at the auto parts junkyard that Louella, I, old Joe, and the junkyard dogs became family, and not simply working associates. And speaking of old Joe, I noticed him looking sideways at Louella when she leaned over a front fender to get at a part on the engine–the old fagot.

  In the meantime, business sky rocketed. Louella was considering giving seminars on how to remove and reattach engine parts, fenders, and even seats, and about upholstery repair. We replaced the old sign with one twice as big, but took care not to seem too prosperous: still wanting to keep the old auto parts junkyard tradition.

  As already noted, I had always disliked my twin sisters—but tolerably so. But with Louella on the scene I began to hate them even more. It was their attitudes toward her that did it. But I must admit she provoked them at times—at first not obviously. But so what—it was her privilege. She felt they should be gotten out of the house—for my sake, she said. She had found, by searching their room while they were at work, that they had been secretly scrounging away (as she put it) earnings from their jobs, and skimming the grocery money I gave them, into their joint savings account. After twenty years they had accumulated a very sizable amount. I was amazed at Louella’s ingenuity and agreed that with my sister’s nest egg I would not be turning them out penniless—after all, my wife, in my house, should not have to put up with two miserable sister-in-laws—we had no prenuptial agreement that said she should have to.

  But my sisters refused to vacate. They were adamant that our mother would not have stood for it. Although she hadn’t left them the house, she didn’t intend they should be forced to leave it. They had been born there and they intended to die there. They even offered to use their savings to buy the house—Jesus Christ! Did they take me for an insensitive dolt? How could I conceivably sell that house with all my fond memories of Pinky, doing that cat, father practically confiding in me that he had done away with Pinky; and now, Ma’s ashes in her bedroom—father wouldn’t have liked that one bit. No. Something had to be done about those two witches to rid me of them once and for all. Louella said to leave it to her—she would come up with something.

  It was two months later when both twins complained about having head aches and upset stomachs. Trying a number of remedies to no avail, they were positive it was due to a passing flu or something they had eaten. They both appeared to be extremely uncomfortable over the weekend, and Louella and I steered clear of them. The following Monday morning they again did not go to work, calling in sick. Later in the day while at the junkyard, I got a call from a hospital, where they had been taken in an emergency van. When I got there I was told they both had died. The cause was diagnosed as severe food poisoning. The health department was called in. They came to the house and went through the refrigerator, the cabinets, and even the trash in an effort to track down the source of the deadly bacteria, but they found nothing. Alarmed, they asked me if and where my sisters might have gone out to eat or purchased take-out food. I didn’t have a clue. They did the same at the place where they worked, and came away with the same answer. It was a mystery.

  I had them both cremated, combining their ashes into a ceramic cookie jar they had been fond of, and placed it in their bedroom. Louella objected, wanting their ashes strewn in the ocean or in the country somewhere; but finally gave in to me, because I thought mother would have wanted them to remain in the house. And so it was that I now had two bedrooms occupied by the incinerated remains of my mother and two sisters.

  With my sisters no longer troublesome, Louella wanted a child. Was she out of her mind? A child? But who would inherit and take over the junkyard and carry on the tradition—Had I ever thought of that, she wanted to know—trying to make me feel guilty, trying to make me feel as though I was forsaking my father and grandfather. I had an obligation to them she went on. So we compromised: she had a nephew in his early twenties whom had been orphaned at an early age and was coming to live with her mother. Perhaps he could work in the junkyard as an employee without any obligation on my part other than that. His name was Leroy. He had been serving time in jail, in prison, behind bars; but that he had gotten a bum rap, she said; that he was truly good by nature and needed a second chanc
e.

  Because I loved Louella so and trusted her judgment and intentions I agreed to meet Leroy, who had already moved in with Louella’s mother. I found him very affable, a pleasant sort of fellow in his early twenties. But I detected what I thought to be a shifty look in his eyes, the way they darted about the office, taking everything in, but I attributed it to him wanting to be a fast learner. But my junkyard dogs didn’t take a fancy toward him, but neither did they seem to extremely dislike him either. And, by that time old Joe was dead and buried—his body having been carted down south by his wife, or wives, I wasn’t sure for certain how many there were.

  So I hired Leroy and he seemed to be living up to Louella’s expectations, spending little time in the office, completely and vigorously engaged in removing salable parts from the wrecked and junked autos. He often made threatening gestures at the dogs when he walked past them, riling them up even more than was their custom. I told him he should take care lest one of them break lose and devour him. He told me he had learned how to not only defend himself against ferocious dogs but to kill them as well with the hunting knife he kept in a sheath on his belt. I wanted to take the knife away from him but Louella said I shouldn’t because it was a defense against the low types who sometimes came who might want to steal parts or even attack her. What was she talking about? Didn’t I have a shotgun in the office she knew how to use, and didn’t I carry my 45 when I went into the yard. But still and all she persuaded me to allow Leroy to retain his knife.

  I soon found however—in spite of excuses and reasons set forth by Louella—that choice and expensive parts came up missing: parts I knew should still be in cars, but weren’t when on occasions I personally assisted patrons in need of them, only to find they had been removed. I became suspicious of Leroy, and having gotten the serial number of an expensive CD player from the papers I had for that vehicle, called around to learn that the unit had turned up at an electronic store that also sold such equipment.

  I fired Leroy after demonstrating to him in the farthest corner of