I’m downstairs with my brother in the basement, waiting for the rain to stop so that we can swim. We’ve found a rattrap. I pull the crossbar back, straining against the heavy-duty spring. My brother puts a pencil on the base of the trap and then I let loose the bar. The pencil snaps in two, sending shards flying. We immediately start to look for other things we can break.
“What are you doing down there?” our grandmother calls.
“Nothing,” we shout up.
Where can we find more pencils? I look around the basement. The canning room was meant for Mason jars, but is now mostly filled with toys for the beach, inner tubes, skis, buckets and shovels. On a cross beam near the door to the outside are two outboard motors, a battered army-green 10 horsepower, the other a 25 horsepower in a cream and mustard colored plastic case. Behind these are a series of cabinets crammed with other stuff—an extra badminton net, the badminton racquets, the birdies, mismatched croquet balls, a sail wrapped around itself. None of these things will fit in the trap. How badly would it hurt if we put a finger in the trap?
“Boys! Come upstairs for lunch!” we are called.