Chris Mooney - World Without End

And you know the amazing thing? She never complained about it. During those awful early years, she had to work two jobs just to make ends meet. She would drive him to school and then park at Wonderland and then take the Blue Line into downtown Boston to her job as a secretary for an insurance company that gave her flex time and health and dental insurance but couldn't provide the money for the extra things that always popped up, the problems with the Buick station wagon with the big rust pockets what his friends loved to call the Ass Mobile. Three night-shifts a week and weekend mornings at the local Dunkin Donuts covered the numerous car breakdowns but never enough for a new car. But she never complained. The grind of the second job left her with permanent dark circles under her eyes, but she always came home with a smile and would help him with his homework or just talk. After Sunday morning church, she would take him to Friendly's for cheeseburgers and, if there was money left over at the end of the month, she would take him to a ball game instead of doing something nice for herself.

Not once did she bitch about it. Not once. Why should she?

Complaining was his full-time job. He had, in fact, carried enough rage for both of them. It came out in odd moments: fights in playgrounds, screaming fits, and later, in college, long bouts of drinking followed by fist fights that left his victims crying and bloodied. He should have seen the warning signs then, but hey, they had been isolated incidents, right? You did that sort of stuff when you were younger. You were supposed to be full of piss and rage, it was okay, this shit happened once in a while. Besides, he had just entered his thirties and was now in full-control, working as a salesman for a hot Internet startup. That part of his life was behind him, right? Oh yeah. Then his mom got breast cancer and everything turned to shit.

His mom, Patricia Riley good oP Patty all the girls at Double D called her had always been a petite woman the bones of a bird wrapped in skin.

The oncologist, Rubenstein, was one of Boston's top cancer specialists, the kind of no-bullshit guy John liked. The doctor laid it on the line: The cancer's very aggressive, John. It's going to take a toll on her. Your mother's thin to begin with, which concerns me. John told her to move closer to Boston, where he lived, and insisted on paying her rent. When she didn't argue or put up a fight, he knew right then how scared she was of dying.

The chemotherapy kicked the shit out of her. She couldn't eat, she was nauseous all the time, throwing up. John would go and get her vanilla milkshakes from the same Friendly's in Lynn where they used to go after church, as if this ritual could prevent her from future harm. She drank the vanilla milkshakes, but the chemo left her as weak and emaciated as an AIDS patient.

She'll pull through. She's a good woman. Besides, God owes her one.

Church every Sunday, never bitches, and oh God, do you remember the time we found the pocketbook in the woods, the one with the wallet stuffed with over four hundred bucks, and good ol' Patty Riley turned it in? Remember that one, God?

The morning of her final treatment, she didn't buzz him in. He had a spare set of keys, and when he let himself in, he climbed the stairs, thinking she was in the bath. Mom loved to soak in the tub and read her mysteries. When he opened the door and walked through the musty air that seemed too close with the smell of vomit and soap and bleach he knew what had happened to her even before he walked into her bedroom and saw her small body lying deathly still in the tangled mass of white bed sheets glowing with the blades of sunlight from another glorious winter morning.

They hauled her away in an ambulance, and John, true to form, went out and got polluted, did a little coke. Man, did he love to drink. Loved the way the booze put its arm around you like a close friend and wrapped a thick coat of armor around your skin and kept away the hurt, the fear, and all the doubt, the way it kept you from feeling so fucking empty. At night, when the world was spinning and vomit was close, sometimes Riley wondered if his love for the drink came from his father.

Thank God for Booker. True friend, he had stepped right in and helped with the funeral arrangements. Conway had come from Colorado. What the hell was Steve doing in Colorado? The guy traveled all over the place as if he were being chased by bounty hunters. Steve was one of those Microsoft-certified engineers who knew how to troubleshoot servers and LANs, and here he was traveling all the time when he could come back to Boston for some serious coin and be with his friends. Good guy and Riley loved him like a brother, but Steve, man, the guy was locked up tighter than a vault. Stuff goes in but never comes out. Was it because Steve had grown up in and around here in all those shitty foster homes? Riley could relate about wanting to get away from your past. A week after his mother's death, Riley was standing at her grave, the sun so bright it pierced the eyes, and, as he looked out at the field of gravestones, he felt the awful, suffocating weight of the truth come crashing down on him. He was alone. He never knew his grandparents, and his mother was an only child so there weren't any aunts or uncles. I'm alone. I'm totally alone. The truth of his life hit him right there and knocked him flat on his ass. He sat there next to her grave, alone, and cried. And then got shit-faced, of course.

Can't break out of character.

Steve could relate. Steve had no family, and now neither did John.

Booker, he came from this great family with brothers and sisters the black version of the Brady Bunch, Conway had said jokingly and what John needed right now was a companion, someone who could understand his pain and fear and not just give him lip service someone who had fucking been there. Book, the guy was living la vida loca and had a beautiful wife and twin boys and a booming private investigation business and a sweet, sweet pad in Beacon Hill, this six-foot-nine black guy who dressed in Versace, looking like a cross between a pimp and a gangster as he rubbed elbows with the WASPs and the blue hairs. Now that was a funny thought.

The cocaine got way out of control. The days off added up, and Riley lost his job because he wasn't making the numbers. He lost the apartment too, right about the time he got busted for drinking and driving while under the influence big time. He was so fucking polluted he didn't even bother to hide the bag of coke sitting right there on the passenger's seat. Booker had stepped in and pulled some strings and got the sentence commuted to a loss of license for two years and a stay at a drug treatment program not just some court-mandated shithole either. No, this place was in Tucson, Arizona, a place where celebrities went, and Booker had picked up the entire tab. He even helped Riley pack his bags and bought the plane ticket. Booker hit him with it at the terminal inside Logan: Clean yourself up and get your life back on track, JR. If you can't do that, if you're going to be one of these pukes who love their dope more than they love their family, don't bother calling me or coming around my house. My son is not going to have a junkie as his godfather.

Tough words to hear from a guy you loved and admired, but Riley needed to hear them. They got him through those rough first weeks. Three months inside, doing therapy, and when he was released, he felt cleansed. Born again. All because his friend Booker had stepped in.

And now look at him. A year and a half later, and Riley had cleaned up his life. Book found him a new gig as a salesman for a solid Internet startup with nice stock options and serious pay that allowed him to buy this two-bedroom condo on Mount Vernon street in Beacon Hill, within walking distance to work, and a hop, skip, and a jump to Booker's palace right around the corner. And then there was Renee Kaufmann.