We waited 3 days for Ralphie to get up after that one beatin’. Every morning we went in there and stood by his bed and looked at him. “Can you get up Ralphie . . . can you get up today?” He just laid there. He didn’t say anything. I hated my dad for what he’d done to Ralphie and I hated myself for causing it. I’d told on my brother. Told dad that Ralphie had knocked over Alice’s glass. I didn’t know dad would charge in through the back door and hurt him that bad. Dad beat him like he was a grown man. “Stop it . . . stop it . . . stop it,” we all cried. He punched him and kicked him and cursed him. He knocked him out and then left. We got Ralphie to bed and covered him up. But no ambulance was called, no report was made . . . no children were taken away. Dad came back drunk later that night. He had him a 6 pack. He didn’t even go in there where Ralphie slept. I looked at my dad and he looked at me and then he sat down on the couch and opened a beer. He said, “I hit dat boy too hard . . . I know I hit dat boy too hard.” He told me he didn’t mean to hurt him that bad. He said he was scared of how hard he’d hit him. He said he wasn’t gonna hurt us like that no more. “That wasn’t right . . . that wasn’t right,” he kept sayin’. He drank another beer and then went off to bed mumbling about makin’ a man outta that boy . . . come hell or high water. I watched him go and I was thinkin’, “I hate you dad . . . I hate you.” “You should tell Ralphie you’re sorry,” I yelled. “You tell him yourself,” he said as he slammed the door. I look back now and see that dad didn’t make a man outta Ralphie with all that meanness but, by god, he sure enough almost made one outta me.