Adelaide fears not death, but being buried. She dreams of that first powdery breath of earth and wakes through the night clawing at nothing. Sometimes she gets up early in the morning, kneads dough with wax paper hands, makes cookies for her two children. John went over a bridge in his puttering station wagon in August of last year, and Violet had been declared missing by the police just weeks ago. When Adelaide kneads too roughly her hands ache, and she runs them through her thinning gray hair, forgetful of the dough.

Often she fills the whole rotting house with a maze of thread, like she used to do as a little girl; start around the couch, then behind the lamp, over to the window, then to the table, and so on through the whole house, never letting go of the end, always using the same pattern. Then she stands at the center and tugs the thread till the whole room constricts, tugs until she can’t move or the thread breaks or a lamp comes tumbling down.

Those who live by clichés instead of their own eyes say Adelaide flutters, but that’s a lie. She hums.

Once when Adelaide felt very angry at her children for leaving her all alone she kicked her thirteen-year old cat Sassafras off the second floor balcony, but she tells everyone he died peacefully in his sleep. Sassafras passed on right before her husband ran off with a traveling saleswoman of Mary Kay products. Since then Adelaide has taken to applying too much make up, caking it on by the ounce, pasting the whites and the reds against her loose, weak flesh.

She only reads mysteries, very methodically, and gets through about three in a year; she never varies from Agatha Christie and Dorothy Sayers and is sometimes surprised when the villains get caught. She mainly prefers to sit and think about her children, and about her work as a pharmacist’s assistant.

Before her husband left she stayed very active, working on the car (her father had toiled under the town’s surly mechanic), gardening, and going out in the evenings. After he eloped, she became excessively feminine, worrying about dirt and grime and appearing unladylike.

Strangely enough, she still hated children, and when John had announced the impending birth of his daughter, Adelaide was devastated, weeping, scratching at her face in desperation. But she quieted herself in the garage for a few moments while John made some tea, and she returned much more composed, in time to eat lunch. She still remembers that last meal. John, her favorite.

She hadn’t liked Violet as much. Once when Violet had been very young Adelaide flushed the family goldfish down the toilet, even as Violet screamed that it was still alive, even as Adelaide calmly explained the fish wasn’t breathing.

Adelaide breaks dishes and shakes when she thinks of what Violet had accused her of, the little brat, and she picks at her fraying shift, swaying, angry, then sometimes not there at all. Standing at the window, she smiles out at the world, regretful but without remorse, rolling up on her toes and back down to the heels, puzzling at how her life has turned out.

Adelaide doesn’t go in the basement anymore.