Wreck

by Catherine Newman

Our room smells so thickly of mothballs that it’s like a substance in the air; I picture us leaving black-lunged, but—silver lining!—permanently mothproofed. Also, there’s a four-poster bed with a nasty lace canopy draped over the top like a large ghost has dropped her undies here on her way up into the attic. There are many wreaths made of faded plastic flowers, many haunted wicker baskets and chairs, many admonishing signs everywhere: DON’T WASH YOUR FEET IN THE SINK! NO BANANAS IN THE TRASH! THE BED IS NOT A TRAMPOLINE! “Is the bed a trampoline?” Nick asked, testing my knowledge of the room’s constraints and limitations. “Yes?” I said. He jumped on it to make me laugh, and one of the posts fell off and thudded to the ground, tangling Nick up in the ghost underpants.