Once, when we were children, we were fucking around in one of the bedrooms, and Abe and Cris broke something. The object is not important. When wind of this reached the living room our father promptly entered our room, removed his belt, and asked what happened. We didn’t say a word, of course, because the broken object said it all. It’s interesting that the belt could be so feared after all the times he’d used it, but it wasn’t the belt that frightened us. The object is not important.
He asked me who should receive punishment for the indiscretion. I told him, “Nobody.”
He laughed, and told us, “You have a good brother.”
I never got his meaning.