Snowed in Together Read Online Free

stupor. "The coffee'll be ready in a minute. I'm going to fix oatmeal. It's a good day for it." If I kept talking, the words would sink in and Dad would make an effort to eat breakfast.
    He was a good guy, really. He didn't turn mean when he drank. He just sorta shut down.
    It was a lot of work to keep propping him up, though, to keep the world from finding out about his drinking. I was sure no one at the bottling plant where he worked suspected. He'd just gotten a raise there. A small one, sure, but a raise.
    Still, I was tired. It was hard taking on so much responsibility. It was hard having to pretend that things weren't the way they were. It was tough making excuses to Jeff and Tony about not coming over to my house any more, but I couldn't always hide the bottles. Besides, I was sure the house reeked of alcohol.
    On top of all that, I still hadn't told anyone the truth about Mom. I'd waited until weeks after she left before I'd said anything, hoping she'd come back, even though it was clear she wouldn't. I kind of made up a story about Mom and Dad "separating" and eventually told everyone they'd gotten a divorce.
    I thought that sounded more civilized. After all, lots of guys' parents got divorced. Once in a while I'd mention a letter or phone call I'd pretend that I got from Mom, so it'd seem as if she actually still cared about me.
    "Mmphf, mornin'," Dad finally said. He ran his fingers through his hair. "Mmm, what day is it?”
    "Saturday-I'm-fixing-you-a-hot-breakfast." I hoped to plant the idea of food in his brain before he thought too much about what day it was. Sometimes on the weekends Dad didn't eat at all, he just drank. "Coffee's ready."
    I poured hot, steaming coffee into a mug and waved it under Dad's nose, then set the mug on the kitchen table.
    Dad got up from his rocking chair, and transplanted himself to the kitchen table. He sipped the coffee, then let out a long, loud, "Aaaaah. Just as good as your mother used to make."
    I didn't say anything. Sometimes I got tired of Dad mentioning Mom about every other sentence. Sometimes I just wanted to forget Mom and the fact that she deserted us. One phone call and three postcards in a year and a half. Why did she even bother?
    I slammed a ladle of oatmeal into a bowl.
    "Careful there, Wes," Dad said. "Don't break the dishes."
    I placed the bowl of oatmeal in front of Dad and handed him a spoon. He started to eat, so I got myself some oatmeal and a glass of milk and sat down across from him.
    I watched to make sure he was really eating and not just pushing his food around. Once I was convinced he was eating, I said, "I'm going up to the school soon. I'm going to help take inventory in the art room. Jeff's folks'll give me a ride. I'll be home some time this afternoon."
    After I finished my announcement, I waited to see if Dad absorbed what I just said.
    "Okay." He nodded a couple of times.
    He'd heard me. I hoped he'd remember. I thought maybe I should leave him a note, just in case.
    Dad finished his oatmeal and pushed the bowl away. "That was good," he said, "but I think I need a little hair of the dog to get rid of this headache."
    "Dad--"
    "Don't worry." Dad scraped his chair on the floor as he got up and went over to the refrigerator. "Just one."
    I checked the clock. It was seven-twenty, so I didn't have time to argue. Not that it mattered. Even if I got him to hold off on the beer, he'd just wait until I left and have it then.
    I let him sink into his rocking chair with his bottle of beer and went to the bathroom, so I could brush my teeth. After, I splashed on some of Dad's Old Spice. It was kinda old fashioned, I guess, but I liked the way it smelled. I hope Ellyce would too, if she ever got close enough to smell me.
    I looked at my watch. I wished I could afford a cell phone, so I could check the time that way, but, oh, well. It was almost seven-thirty. I ran a comb through my hair once more, then grabbed my jacket. As I ran out the door, I shouted,