one popped up. He slid it out and placed it between his lips, then struck a match and puffed once. As he shook the match to extinguish it, he wondered what to tell her. The truth was abhorrent, out of the question.
When his mother had met his father, she held a respectable position as a social worker with the city of Houston. She dealt with the downtrodden, the dregs of the oil-rich city. Mary Lambert had a natural intuition that allowed her to separate the grifters from the needy, and she doled out social service justice with a fair hand. She made a difference in peopleâs lives. Young mothers, their eyes hollow sockets, carried crack-addicted babies into her office every day. She touched the nerve that showed these seemingly hopeless cases there was a light in the darkness. Mary understood the process: clean them up, restore their self-worth and give them dignity in lieu of drugs and disease. She turned people away from life on the streets toward mainstream society by recognizing what natural assets they had, and encouraging them to enroll in courses that made them saleable. She found them employment and stayed in touch, letting her clients know she was thereâthat she cared. Some failed miserably, but many flourished. Mary Lambert was a jewel in the cracked and broken crown of thorns that was the Houston social service department. Until Joe McNeil walked into her office.
She had instantly recognized him for what he wasâa con man looking for an easy ride. A guy who would rather spend an hour lying to Social Services and walking away with some food stamps than get out there and dig around for a real job. But for some reason, she couldnât say no to him. He was an attractive, mid-twenties man, two years her senior, with an easy one-sided smile. Joe had even white teeth and wavy blond hair that framed his boyish face. She was attracted to him even though she suspected he harbored a dark side. For the first time in her six-year tenure at social services, she cheated the system. Joe was the recipient of undeserved public moneyâmoney he spent on drugs and booze. Against every instinct, she began to sleep with him. When sober he was a great lover, often bringing her to climax. When he drank to excess, his performance shriveled. Mary began to drink to wipe out the desires that couldnât be satisfied by a drunken partner. More often than not, morning would find them passed out on the floor or the couch, the bed unused. And mornings were becoming difficult for Mary.
In fact, mornings were just the tip of the iceberg. Her entire life began to unravel as she plunged into the same abyss from which she spent her days trying to pull out other addicts. Her work suffered. Travis figured it was about the time he was conceived that she began to use crack cocaine. She started smoking one pipe in the morning to get her going. By the time Travis was born, she was a full-fledged crack addict, living the precarious edge between two worlds. When her baby was eighteen months old, the shadowy world of crack and alcohol finally won the battle. She was fired for embezzling funds and told to go quietly or criminal charges would be filed. She returned home to her alcoholic husband and told him she was unable to support him any longer. He beat her to within an inch of her life. From hospital records Travis dug up later in his life, he knew she had spent thirty-two days recovering from the beating. And it wasnât the last.
Young Travis had watched as Joe McNeilâs true colors emerged. He regularly beat Mary, and by the time Travis had reached double digits, his father had turned pimp, selling Mary on the street for pitiful sums of money to buy his booze. They lived in squalor, Travis going to bed hungry so often it became the norm. He would lie awake listening to them fight, praying for a miracle. In a way, he got it. Seven days before his eleventh birthday, his parents began to fight over who should get the last hit
When his mother had met his father, she held a respectable position as a social worker with the city of Houston. She dealt with the downtrodden, the dregs of the oil-rich city. Mary Lambert had a natural intuition that allowed her to separate the grifters from the needy, and she doled out social service justice with a fair hand. She made a difference in peopleâs lives. Young mothers, their eyes hollow sockets, carried crack-addicted babies into her office every day. She touched the nerve that showed these seemingly hopeless cases there was a light in the darkness. Mary understood the process: clean them up, restore their self-worth and give them dignity in lieu of drugs and disease. She turned people away from life on the streets toward mainstream society by recognizing what natural assets they had, and encouraging them to enroll in courses that made them saleable. She found them employment and stayed in touch, letting her clients know she was thereâthat she cared. Some failed miserably, but many flourished. Mary Lambert was a jewel in the cracked and broken crown of thorns that was the Houston social service department. Until Joe McNeil walked into her office.
She had instantly recognized him for what he wasâa con man looking for an easy ride. A guy who would rather spend an hour lying to Social Services and walking away with some food stamps than get out there and dig around for a real job. But for some reason, she couldnât say no to him. He was an attractive, mid-twenties man, two years her senior, with an easy one-sided smile. Joe had even white teeth and wavy blond hair that framed his boyish face. She was attracted to him even though she suspected he harbored a dark side. For the first time in her six-year tenure at social services, she cheated the system. Joe was the recipient of undeserved public moneyâmoney he spent on drugs and booze. Against every instinct, she began to sleep with him. When sober he was a great lover, often bringing her to climax. When he drank to excess, his performance shriveled. Mary began to drink to wipe out the desires that couldnât be satisfied by a drunken partner. More often than not, morning would find them passed out on the floor or the couch, the bed unused. And mornings were becoming difficult for Mary.
In fact, mornings were just the tip of the iceberg. Her entire life began to unravel as she plunged into the same abyss from which she spent her days trying to pull out other addicts. Her work suffered. Travis figured it was about the time he was conceived that she began to use crack cocaine. She started smoking one pipe in the morning to get her going. By the time Travis was born, she was a full-fledged crack addict, living the precarious edge between two worlds. When her baby was eighteen months old, the shadowy world of crack and alcohol finally won the battle. She was fired for embezzling funds and told to go quietly or criminal charges would be filed. She returned home to her alcoholic husband and told him she was unable to support him any longer. He beat her to within an inch of her life. From hospital records Travis dug up later in his life, he knew she had spent thirty-two days recovering from the beating. And it wasnât the last.
Young Travis had watched as Joe McNeilâs true colors emerged. He regularly beat Mary, and by the time Travis had reached double digits, his father had turned pimp, selling Mary on the street for pitiful sums of money to buy his booze. They lived in squalor, Travis going to bed hungry so often it became the norm. He would lie awake listening to them fight, praying for a miracle. In a way, he got it. Seven days before his eleventh birthday, his parents began to fight over who should get the last hit
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