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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