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didn't care about me. Counselors and such always told
me I couldn't do anything about his problem. He was
sick. They wanted me to think of him as suffering
some diseases, you know.
"'I'm not religious,' he said, 'but I couldn't help
wondering why God let this happen to me and
especially to my momma. You ever think that?' "'Lots of times,' I told him. 'Granny used to tell
me it's all just a test and we should feel sorry for those
who are hurting us.'
"'You believe that?' he asked quickly. I didn't
want to say I did. I knew he didn't.
"'Sometimes,' I admitted, 'but not often.' "He laughed and talked about all the times he
thought about running away.
"'I almost did last year,' he said, 'but I talked to
this counselor at school, Mr. VanVleet, and he said,
"Just accept it, Steve. Accept it and move on with
your own life. When your father's ready to help
himself, he will, or if he won't, you can't make him." "'I thought that made sense so I tried doing
what he suggested and I ignored my father as much as
I could. If he wasn't home to eat, too bad. If he fell
over and slept on the floor most of the night, tough,
even if he threw up over himself. For a little while, it
was like a truce or something in here. We didn't talk
much and we didn't see each other much when he was
sober.'
"'Did it help any?' I asked.
"'Some, I think He drank less for a while and
started to act like he cared about me, you know. He'd
ask how's your schoolwork? What do you want to do
with yourself after you finish school? Questions I
