the junkyard next to the garbage dump my proficiency with the 45, dropping rats in their tracks and telling him in the process that I put him in the same class. Consequently, there was no objection on his part as he left my employment—but with a sly grin I could not comprehend at the time. It was not until about a month later that I got the gist of that little message he had sent me, when I found that parts were continuing to vaporize, painfully leading me to the conclusion that it was Louella who was selling them under the table, so to speak, putting them in her Camero and taking them out of town to other used parts dealers. It took some real sleuthing to find it out; but I did, learning that the dealers had purchased the parts from a very attractive sales woman who really knew her stuff. Their description left little doubt in my mind about it being Louella. How could she do that to me, and to my father, and to my father’s father, and to our auto parts junkyard? Was she getting back at me for refusing to have a child, or because I had fired Leroy, or simply because she was taking me for a ride. When I accused her she began to cry, but then stopped abruptly and laughed at me, wanting to know what I was going to do about it.
From then on life with Louella became Hell—worse than it had ever been with my sisters. I had a nightmare in which she set the dogs on me and they tore me apart with their razor sharp teeth, much like I had done to that cat using my custom made knife, ground from a file made in my machine shop class in high school.
Something had to be done about Louella. Yes, it was possible, highly possible, but I didn’t want to use rat poison, or food poisoning, I’d have to come up with something more sophisticated than that. But I did owe Louella for disposing of my sisters. I wondered if she would attempt to incriminate me if I told the police I suspected her. No, there had to be a way of dealing with Louella that was creditably beyond suspicion.
I felt threatened. If I delayed, Louella might knock me off as she had done to my sisters. Aware she was an ace auto mechanic, I became hyper about the Packard, about its breaks, a sticking gas petal, its gas tank blowing up—to the point I was afraid to drive it and would not do so unless she was in it with me. Yes, her husband, namely me, owned a successful auto parts junkyard free and clear, a three bedroom house free and clear, and the proceeds of saving accounts of two deceased sisters. Was that sufficient motive for foul play? Yes, it was! I’d better be watchful. I’d better be on my guard. Not only did I suspect the Packard of becoming a death trap, but also scrutinized the tinned goods in the kitchen cabinets, and for anything that had been in the refrigerator for any length of time, to see if it looked suspicious. I also became wary of the dogs: perhaps she had won them over as in my nightmare to where they would attack and kill me when I turned them lose at night or re-chained them in the morning. I had allowed her to feed them, they had become attached to her. Perhaps they were loyal now to the point of doing me in if that’s what she wanted them to do. I was in constant fear! I had to do something. My father and his father would take the offensive, I knew—so must I as well.
It was on a Sunday, after we had closed at noon, that I asked her to help me remove the engine from a practically brand new Cadillac that had just been towed in, under the pretext a dealership wanted the engine Monday morning first thing. She agreed, and we took our cutting tools, wrenches, hoist, and so forth to where the Cadillac was. We cut the engine lose with the acetylene torch, then attached the hoist to lift it out so to transfer it to a carry-all. But then, on getting the engine on high, the hoist lost its footing and the engine swung violently to one side—It was at that moment that I caught Louella on the side of her head with an oily piece of pipe. She went down quite gracefully—dead on the spot. It was obvious, of course, that she had been struck by the engine as it swung lose—an accident without the slightest doubt by police or anyone else who might be audacious enough to stick their nose into the incident.
And so I had Louella cremated and put her ashes in a can we had used at the junkyard to hold the absorbent for cleaning our hands of grease and oil; but, of course, scrupulously cleaned it beforehand. I then put the can in our bedroom .
From then on I dropped by my house on Sundays on the pretext of paying my respects to Louella in our bedroom, Ma in hers, and my sisters in theirs. But that is not the real reason I go there. It is rather, to visit the cellar. The door is always open with no need for a light switch, since the bare bulb hanging from the cellar ceiling is always on—always with a beat-up moth flying about it furiously, thumping itself against it, frantically attacking it. Yes, that’s why I go there: for it is God’s room, and the moth is God.