George Mobley’s common-law wife stabbed him in the heart with a butcher knife. Almost killed him.
[I don’t know how she spelled her name, but George pronounced it, “Louise-ee.”]
The Mobleys had four or five children. They lived in a slum in Charlotte, in a shotgun house that was torn down years ago to make room for the parking lot next to the stadium where the Carolina Panthers play football. My Dad’s syrup plant was nearby, on Graham Street, and that’s how I knew George. He worked for Dad for years and I worked for Dad in the summers, starting when I was in junior high.
George was a good worker and a good guy when he wasn’t drinking.
After he got well and came back to work he and I were sitting around at lunchtime one day, eating our sandwiches, and I ask him:
“George, why did Louise-ee stab you?”
And he said, “Well, I had her down on the floor choking her and she said, ‘George, if you don’t let me up right now, when I get up I’m gonna ‘stub’ you.’ I didn’t let her up right then. And when she got up, she ‘stubbed’ me.”
George’s throat had been cut years ago — he had a nasty looking scar around his neck– and I asked him about that too.
“Louise-ee cut my throat,” he said.
“Had you been whipping up on her?”
George said, yes, he had, that he had been drunk at the time. He said she was quick with a knife.
I thought I might as well ask him about the crease in the back of his skull while I was at it.
“Did Louise-ee do that too?” I asked, pointing to the crease.
“She chopped me with a hatchet,” he said.
Finally, Louise-ee killed George. She shot him.
That’s why I never bought the NRA line, that guns don’t kill people. George had been stabbed, slashed, and chopped — and lived — but a gun killed George Mobley.
Coming Friday: You Know, Don’t You