Snowed in Together Read Free

with old Hudson cars in various stages of deterioration. Dad collected them. He said that fixed-up they'd be worth thousands of dollars. Trouble was, he never got around to fixing them up. He never got around to much of anything since Mom left.
    A snowflake drifted in front of my face. Then another. Though it was mostly still raining, I started to worry. I knew Dad would not be home yet.
    A lousy half inch of snow was a disaster around here, because it hardly ever snowed and no one was prepared for it. Few people had snow tires, or carried chains. None of the nearby towns had snowplows or sanding trucks.
    I checked the sky again and relaxed. Nothing but rain now. Heavier than usual, but only rain.
    Though it was not quite four o'clock, the towering fir trees that seemed to pierce the clouds wrapped my house in darkness. Dad and I never remembered to leave a light on. As Dad said, "It was always your mother who kept the home fires burning, Wes. She was the one who made it shine."
    He'd say that, then take a long pull on the bottle of beer he always had in his hand. Oh, he never drank at work, never let drinking interfere with his job, but every night he drank, and all day on weekends. He just sat at the kitchen table, softly mumbling about Mom and drinking himself numb.
    In the darkness, I fumbled with the key. Finally, it slid into the lock and I let myself in. Immediately I turned on the hall light, then went into the kitchen and turned on both lights in there. I hated being alone in the dark.
    I stuck my jacket in the back room, which served as a closet, pantry and laundry room. A pile of dirty clothes sat on the washer. I pulled out the white things, stuffed them in the washer, poured in a cup of detergent and turned on the machine. If remembered to put the wash in the dryer, at least I'd have clean underwear for my big day at school in the morning.
    I thought about trying to hatch some fantastic plot to win Ellyce, but my stomach felt as if it was scraping against my backbone.
    I checked the refrigerator. A half carton of beer. A stick of margarine. A few eggs. A chunk of moldy cheese that was still good enough to use if I cut off the mold.
    At least I could make omelets for supper. I got out the skillet. I hoped Dad would bring home some supplies so we'd have something for the weekend. Fridays he was supposed to shop for groceries. He always remembered to get beer. He didn't always remember to get food.
    The snapping margarine in the skillet got my attention. I poured in the omelet mixture I'd fixed and as the edges set, I drew that part toward the center with a fork. When the eggs were set, I turned up the heat to quickly brown the bottom, then tossed in a few shards of cheese I salvaged from the moldy chunk.
    I'd had to learn fast after Mom left, but I discovered that I liked to cook. Of course, it'd be more fun if I had a steady source of food, and more variety than what Dad brought home.
    "Damn! It's cold out there." Dad slammed the door and stomped into the kitchen, splattering water all over the floor. He carried a box from the discount grocery store. As soon as he set it on the counter, I checked it out.
    There was more beer. No surprise. But I also found a bag of potatoes, a pound of hamburger, cereal, milk, bread and orange juice. Even a few vegetables, which was a real shock. At least for the next few days I'd have a full stomach.
    Dad shook more rain off his jacket and tossed his boots into the pantry. "Mmm, mmm. That smells good," he said, waving his nose over the skillet. "You sure can cook. Almost as good as your mother."
    Sober, Dad always referred to Mom cheerfully, as if her absence was only temporary and she would be home any minute. It wasn't until he belted down a few beers that he moaned that she was gone and wasn't coming back. Then the glazed look of despair would spread over his face and he'd mumble his anguish as tears fell and soaked the collar of his shirt.
    "Food's all ready, Dad." I slid the