Henry Al Dente

She sighed into the night. He wasn't here. She couldn't change that. She couldn't make the smell of death seeping in from the kitchen go away either. Even Ripper, the family cat, wouldn't enter the small bedroom where the portly Mr. Desmond lay temporarily in a sort of peace, but more in pieces. She had to find a way to transport him into the large bathroom where she could work easily and privately and the blood wouldn't be that much of a problem. That's why she needed Stanley. Now.

She tried to remember exactly how they had done it the last time, each little step they had taken along the way. The experience hadn't been at all unpleasant, but she had blocked out the parts of it that reminded her of Mama. The inquiries and the men in blue who tracked across her nice clean carpet with their muddy shoes and their smelly cigarettes. She remembered them all right. Even now, two years later, the thought of how inconsiderate they had been made her furious. No respect for anyone else's property. No respect at all.

But how could she do this without Stanley? It just wasn't right and yet, she couldn't wait much longer. Nosy Mrs.Cheever might be back at any minute and what if someone called for Mr. Desmond and found him not at home? The trail would lead straight to their apartment and then she might have to "take care of" them as well. And that would only compound the problem because the stew pot simply wasn't big enough. She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Now was the time to act, or as Father used to say, for all good men to come to the aid of their country.