The rust-colored van sat under a few inches of fresh snow. No tracks, no coffee smell in the house. Everyone still squirreled away in their rooms. What a relief.
The last thing Tania wanted at this hour was an uncomfortable and mutually hung over conversation with her father, or god forbid, her mother. Not wanting to explain the circumstances under which she had returned, late, in the snow, and (probably obvious) she thought, not sober. And with no coffee... She shuddered.
With each pop and fizz as it brewed she hoped that nobody would stir. Surely they know I'm here, she thought. But grateful for the time alone she poured her coffee and picked up yesterday's daily paper from the large oak table. The table sat pushed to the edge of the kitchen, three of the six chairs available for human access, though the cat perched there comfortably for most hours of the day. It was home to two glass ash trays, a stack of old mail, a yellow phone book, a stray candy cane and a construction paper Christmas card from the little cousins. Unlike some houses, the table was not a great center of family activity. Most days they ate quickly off of paper plates, downing whatever yogurt or casserole was in the fridge with haste and very little fanfare.
The place was small on the inside, consisting of a meandering sprawl of rooms unique to New England farm houses. People often remarked how it looked so much bigger from the outside, and were surprised to when they encountered the narrow, low-ceilinged gloom that inhabited the interior.
The entryway was cold and drafty, with a grass mat, low, splintered storage bench, and an array of coat hooks. This far north, the value of a proper-sized entryway cannot be overstated; insofar as it is capable of absorbing the endless slush covered boots, wet wool mittens and dripping snow shovels that parade through between November and April. The living room began dreary in a wood drenched New England way, a quality that didn't relent as the rooms sprawled back and back toward the adjacent barn. But Tania liked the entry way. It was a bright, sturdy thing, and tended to have the effect of reminding others of home. Built as an afterthought 100 years later, it did not match the style of the place in the slightest, but it nonetheless infused the house with a haphazard modernity on first blush, which made it all but worthwhile its residents to stay.
And besides, they wouldn't be leaving any time soon. The group, Tania's mother, father, aunt Alison, sister Ruthie, and Tommy, Ruthie's dimwitted, and admittedly stoned-most-of-the-time boyfriend. These days they were a package deal. Somehow they h
The last thing Tania wanted at this hour was an uncomfortable and mutually hung over conversation with her father, or god forbid, her mother. Not wanting to explain the circumstances under which she had returned, late, in the snow, and (probably obvious) she thought, not sober. And with no coffee... She shuddered.
With each pop and fizz as it brewed she hoped that nobody would stir. Surely they know I'm here, she thought. But grateful for the time alone she poured her coffee and picked up yesterday's daily paper from the large oak table. The table sat pushed to the edge of the kitchen, three of the six chairs available for human access, though the cat perched there comfortably for most hours of the day. It was home to two glass ash trays, a stack of old mail, a yellow phone book, a stray candy cane and a construction paper Christmas card from the little cousins. Unlike some houses, the table was not a great center of family activity. Most days they ate quickly off of paper plates, downing whatever yogurt or casserole was in the fridge with haste and very little fanfare.
The place was small on the inside, consisting of a meandering sprawl of rooms unique to New England farm houses. People often remarked how it looked so much bigger from the outside, and were surprised to when they encountered the narrow, low-ceilinged gloom that inhabited the interior.
The entryway was cold and drafty, with a grass mat, low, splintered storage bench, and an array of coat hooks. This far north, the value of a proper-sized entryway cannot be overstated; insofar as it is capable of absorbing the endless slush covered boots, wet wool mittens and dripping snow shovels that parade through between November and April. The living room began dreary in a wood drenched New England way, a quality that didn't relent as the rooms sprawled back and back toward the adjacent barn. But Tania liked the entry way. It was a bright, sturdy thing, and tended to have the effect of reminding others of home. Built as an afterthought 100 years later, it did not match the style of the place in the slightest, but it nonetheless infused the house with a haphazard modernity on first blush, which made it all but worthwhile its residents to stay.
And besides, they wouldn't be leaving any time soon. The group, Tania's mother, father, aunt Alison, sister Ruthie, and Tommy, Ruthie's dimwitted, and admittedly stoned-most-of-the-time boyfriend. These days they were a package deal. Somehow they h
