The Lonely by Ainslie Hogarth Page A

suit
    Elizabeth’s head protector
    Elizabeth’s respiratory measurement mask
    Elizabeth’s equine inhaler
    Elizabeth’s gas mask
    Elizabeth’s armor
    Elizabeth’s bridle
    I looked up at Phyllis but she was already in the kitchen, rummaging under the sink for a stepladder.
    â€œYou want me to go into this mess?”
    â€œWell, on top of it first,” she replied, wiping some dust off a white vinyl stepping stool and placing it next to my feet. “And then you should probably start digging.”
    I looked at Julia. She shrugged, stepped up onto the ladder, and climbed on top of the solid mass of basement that we were meant to rummage through. So I followed.
    Once I was up there, Phyllis spoke again:
    â€œI’ll leave the door open so you always know how to get out, all right?”
    â€œOkay. Wait, Grandma, who’s Elizabeth?”
    â€œElizabeth is your mother’s horse.”
    â€œShe has a horse?”
    â€œHad a horse,” Phyllis replied.
    Then she walked into the kitchen to prepare a Bloody Mary. Just one, to transition from tomato juice morning into vodka afternoon.
    â€œNamed Elizabeth … ” grumbled Julia from some-where deeper in the basement.
    So Julia and I began our expedition. We felt like a pair of archaeologists going through layers of settled earth, counting the years of growth by the things that we found. We tunneled through the stuff, created pockets, rooms where we could stop for a moment and leave items of interest that we retrieved. We made a tunnel to the door so we could enter and exit fairly easily to use the bathroom or grab something to eat. Phyllis left us trays of toast and jam on the breakfast table that afternoon for lunch, along with two glasses of chocolate milk, four water bottles and a box of granola bars. We brought those with us into the first room that we created, which we were calling The Café.
    â€œI wonder how much money antique horse equip-ment goes for,” Julia said while fingering a whole piece of buttered-limp-toast into her mouth.
    â€œI can’t believe Mom never told us she had a horse,” I said.
    â€œI think if she told us that she had a horse, then we’d expect to get horses.”
    â€œI do kind of expect her to buy me a horse now.”
    â€œI told you so.”
    â€œOr at least a dog.”
    â€œSeriously.”
    We could always hear Phyllis: slippered feet on the rug, screen door opening and closing, her daily routine kept by a tomato-shaped egg timer that seemed to have limitless settings. A crank first thing in the morning before preparing breakfast, the only time that Phyllis would eat a meal all day. A ding at noon to announce lunch, at which time Phyllis would fetch a piece of celery to place in her drink. Another crank, a ding at 3:00. Time to switch to straight vodka. Another crank and a ding at dinner time. Three dings all together to maintain Phyllis’s day, pull her from her stillness on the porch as though from a trance. Three dings we could hear from The Cube, letting us know when our lunch would be placed at the door, when it was safe to leave to use the bathroom, when it was time to clock out for the day.
    That first night, once we were safely sealed off in our bedroom, Julia expressed some bitterness about our adventures underground.
    â€œI hate that fucking bitch.”
    I was lying on the green carpet, letting myself get sucked under slowly. One of my nostrils was already submerged and my lips were shut tight to keep any of the carpet from getting into my mouth.
    â€œDon’t you hate her, Easter?”
    â€œMmm.”
    â€œI mean, what kind of a terrible grandmother would send kids into that firetrap? We could suffocate in there. Our tunnels could collapse and we could be crushed or starve to death. I can’t even imagine what kinds of particles aggravated my lungs today. We’re probably going to die now, from some poisonous mold that we