Book Review: "The Cost of Living" by Rob Roberge

"The dumbest junkie I've ever met could do the quickest math imaginable about how much they had left and how long it could and would last. We can shift metric to standard in our heads and we can tally up the numbers of pills in our pockets faster than a room full of MIT grads with calculators."

Bud Barrett should know better than anyone what it's like to be a junkie. He's spent a good part of his adult life completely high, thinking about getting high, figuring out how long his high is going to last and how to maintain it, and recovering from being high. Amazingly, during a good amount of this time, Bud has been a well-known indie guitarist and singer, part of a band that achieved some renown (and even more after he left). But the siren call of drugs has led him down an increasingly self-destructive path, causing him to do things he never thought he'd do, and hurt himself in ways non-addicts couldn't even imagine.

"I'd crossed so many ethical lines I said I would never cross in my life. I'd become a man I couldn't recognize more times than I could ever count."

Bud's mother committed suicide when he was young, and his relationship with his father has been strained since he witnessed a shocking crime he never quite understood. And those two relationships have haunted him, driven him toward drugs and thoughts of suicide, and given him some thought of redemption at times as well. When Bud meets smart, sassy, responsible Olivia, for the first time in his life he wants to be sober, wants to savor the moment instead of drowning in it drugs. But will the pull of his addiction be stronger than true love?

Rob Roberge's The Cost of Living is a beautiful, almost poetic book which is brutally frank in its depiction of the daily struggles of a drug addict. Bud is a man with everything—talent, brains, drive, love—but he can't keep from putting himself in harm's way, literally putting his life at risk hour after hour, day after day. The book shifts back and forth through different times in Bud's life—sometimes he's deep in the throes of addiction, sometimes he's clean, sometimes he's somewhere in between—and it follows him as he deals with problems both ordinary and bizarre. He finds and loses love because of his addiction, he's financially secure and penniless, he's with old friends and drug friends he barely knows.

At its heart, this is a book about relationships. All the paths in Bud's life lead him back to his estranged father, a man whose love Bud craved yet a man he also wanted to destroy at times. Yet the answers he seeks from his father could either set him free or set him back on a path of self-destruction, and he's not certain which he'd rather it be.

"My next overdose could be my last, and I wasn't sure I was too scared by that anymore."

I was absolutely captivated by Roberge's storytelling. Although the shifts in time took a little orienting, Bud is such a vivid character and his persona, both high and sober, is so well-drawn, that even as you're disgusted by him and pity him and think he might be better off dead, you can't help reading about him. The Cost of Living is tremendously well-written and utterly compelling. One hell of a read.

Book Review: "The UnAmericans: Stories" by Molly Antopol

There was a time when I didn't read short stories, because I said I didn't like getting emotionally invested in characters and plot only to have to move on a short while later. It was a foolish sentiment, in retrospect, one which I abandoned about 15 years ago when I realized how rich the short story landscape truly was, filled with talented authors creating stories with the power of full-length novels, stories whose characters intrigued me and made me long to know more about what happened to them when the stories ended.

Molly Antopol's new collection, The UnAmericans, is one of the reasons I'm glad I read short stories. Every one of the eight stories in this collection packed a quiet power, richly drawn characters, and tremendously compelling explorations of human emotion in typical and unusual situations.

The characters in Antopol's stories are Jewish people spanning the 1950s through the present. Whether it's the former Czech dissident-turned-New England professor in "The Quietest Man," who tries to find out from his estranged daughter what her new play will say about their strained relationship; the restless Israeli journalist desperate to once again leave her country in search of work, but can't seem to get herself disentangled from a relationship with a widower and his teenage daughter, in "A Difficult Phase"; the actor recently released from prison after refusing to name names during the McCarthy era in "The Unknown Soldier," who has reinvented himself to get roles but can't seem to even act the part of good father to his young son; the young Israeli soldier in "Minor Heroics," who finds his loyalty to his family tested after an accident; or the woman recounting her exploits in the Yiddish Underground during World War II in "My Grandmother Tells Me This Story," these are seemingly ordinary people facing challenges that test their strength and their heart.

After I finished every one of these stories, I simply thought to myself, "That was so good!" Antopol's use of language and imagery, as well as the emotional richness with which she imbues her characters, really makes this a tremendously strong collection. It doesn't matter that I couldn't identify with the situations most of these people found themselves in; I just wanted to keep reading about them. And usually when I read, I'm struck by a sentence or two, something I like to use in my reviews, but there were so many amazing sentences in these stories it became an exercise of excess.

I've always felt that a good short story keeps you thinking about the characters after it has ended, and in many cases, you'd be willing to read more about them. I felt that way about nearly every story in The UnAmericans. I'm so glad I found this collection, and look forward to seeing what's next in Molly Antopol's career. I know we'll be hearing from her again soon.

Book Review: "The First True Lie" by Marina Mander

Luca is a young boy living in Italy with his mother, who suffers from depression, and their cat, Blue. He has never known his father and doesn't quite understand where he went, so many of his classmates call him an orphan. Sometimes he and his mother have a typical relationship—they have fun, she nags him about getting up on time, taking a bath, doing his homework. But sometimes his mother is unable to cope with the world and locks herself in her bedroom for a day or two, but Luca is attuned to those moods.

"They say that for a child I'm extremely sensitive—whether or not they mean it as a compliment, I don't know. They say it with a smile, but there's something sad behind that nice smile that makes me think they haven't understood much of anything. I train myself to be sensitive and my antennae tune in on their own."

One morning, however, Luca's mother doesn't wake up. At first he thinks she has taken some of her pills, which often make her sleep deeply and not hear anything, but when he returns from school that day and sees she hasn't moved at all, he knows that she has died. And now, he truly is a "complete orphan," and he is sad that his love and his presence weren't enough to keep his mother alive. But beyond that, he fears that when his mother's death is discovered they'll put him in an orphanage, a horrible place where you aren't encouraged to be yourself or be free, and they'll separate him from Blue.

"This is terrible. I don't want to go. I don't want to be a complete orphan. Anything else would be better. Better to say that Mama's left. Or else say nothing and act like it doesn't matter. Better to find a way to make do. It can't be that difficult. Better to try to survive. Better to keep it a secret and smile. Better to use my imagination, to make myself come up with something special. Better to hope it will all just be over soon."

At first, like many young children who discover they're suddenly without adult supervision, Luca enjoys the freedom of eating only junk food, of leaving their apartment a mess, and staying up as late as he can. But he knows he must pretend to the outside world that everything is fine. He tries not to act overly sad or even overly happy—he doesn't want anyone to question his behavior, which might lead them to want to talk to his mother. He figures out how to go the grocery store and act like he belongs there, to pass his mother off as busy at work or running late so people don't encounter her, all while he has all the windows to her bedroom open to combat the increasing smell of decomposition.

The First True Lie is a heartbreaking story of one boy's courage and ingenuity in the face of what he knows is inevitable. Luca is a tremendously endearing narrator—smart and imaginative, impish and mischievous. His sensitivity in recognizing his mother's moods and feeling for her even if he doesn't understand them is moving, as is his fervent desire to stay in his home with his cat. While obviously not every young child could keep up the subterfuge (and it's clearly a measure of how much his mother has disconnected from the world), you find yourself rooting for him to succeed.

This was a tremendously compelling book, because you want to know what happens to Luca. Its narrative is at times a little disjointed and peppered with curses, much as dialogue with a young boy might be. But you are moved, and even impressed, by Luca's bravery.

Book Review: "The Last Days of California" by Mary Miller

Fifteen-year-old Jess and her family have left their home in Montgomery, Alabama, and are driving to California, with the plan to arrive before the Rapture. Along the way, they are committed to saving as many souls as they can—Jess' father wants her and her older sister, Elise, to hand out as many tracts as they can every time they stop at gas stations, fast food restaurants, motels, and the occasional casino. Despite the special and sacred nature of their pilgrimage, this car trip is like one many families experience—Jess and Elise squabble over space in the backseat, their long-suffering mother just wants to read and relax in peace, and their father refuses to use a GPS because he doesn't like machines to tell him what to do.

Other than their father, it doesn't appear that anyone in their family truly believes that the Rapture will actually happen. Elise, who is secretly pregnant, hopes in many ways that it does come, so she won't have to live with the disclosure of her secret. And Jess isn't sure what she believes, about being saved, or anything else for that matter.

"That was my problem—I had no imagination—I couldn't imagine anything other than what I knew. The way time functioned, for example. Minutes. Waiting. How long a day could be. My biggest fear was that things would go on forever and there would never be any end. The idea of forever terrified me, even if we were in heaven and everything was great there."

As her family makes their way across the country, Jess confronts her insecurity with her looks and her body, and her simultaneous envy and relief that guys stare at Elise and not her. She desperately wants something to happen in her life—she wants more meaningful friendships, she wants to fall in love—but in her heart she knows she might not be as ready for these things as she thinks she is. She says, "I didn't know how I could want things so badly while making it impossible to ever get them."

Jess also watches as her parents struggle with their own relationship, with their father's inability to hold a job, their fears about money, and with Elise's erratic behavior. They also struggle with the question of whether the trip will ultimately end in the Rapture, and what will become of their lives if it doesn't occur. Elise can't face the reality of her situation, and isn't sure whether she should keep using her looks to get her the attention she craves. Jess wants things in her family, and their relationships, to remain the same.

"If I wasn't the good daughter, I wouldn't know what I was. I wasn't popular or a cheerleader or a straight A student. ... There were so many things I wasn't that I had difficulty defining myself, especially in relation to Elise, who was so many things."

Mary Miller really told an interesting story, and I found both Jess and Elise's characters to be very dynamic—you knew there was more about them than you first saw. I wasn't sure where the plot would go, and I like the way that Miller ended things, but I thought this was a compelling exploration of how you learn to trust what you know rather than what you're told, and how complicated it can be to find yourself and become comfortable with who you are. This was a really quick read; I read nearly the entire book in about a day.

Book Review: "Still Life with Bread Crumbs" by Anna Quindlen

Lovely. That's the word that kept coming to my mind as I read Anna Quindlen's latest novel, Still Life with Bread Crumbs. It was just a lovely book, emotional, thought provoking, and really enjoyable.

Rebecca Winter used to be something. A once-revered photographer whose iconic works were viewed as feminist statements, her photographs aren't selling well anymore, her agent is becoming increasingly more hostile toward her, and her bank balance keeps declining. At 60 years old, when she receives a notable prize for her body of work, she realizes what this recognition means.

"To Rebecca, it was now official: she was done. Yesterday's news. In your heyday, you got attention; in your senescence, prizes."

She flees her posh New York City apartment to live for a year in a cottage in the country, hoping the rent from the apartment will help abate some of her financial woes, and the change in setting will inspire her to create again. Yet things are seldom what they seem: the cottage is much more rundown and isolated than she imagined, and the charming town she envisions is a little more smothering than she thought it might be. But when a raccoon invades her attic, she meets roofer Jim Bates, and the two strike up a casual friendship that teaches Rebecca that what she sees through her camera lens isn't always what is real.

As Rebecca struggles with doubt in her professional abilities, worries about her financial situation, grapples with the decline of her elderly parents, and ponders the dissolution of her marriage to a man who traded in for a younger woman every 10 years, she begins to feel herself warming to the cottage and the small town. Her daily hikes lead her to photograph everything she sees, and when she encounters a series of homemade wooden crosses in the forest, they inspire a vein of creativity she thought had tried up. But she has no idea what these crosses mean, why they're scattered haphazardly through the woods and accompanied by everyday objects, and their connection to someone in town.

This is an emotionally rich and compelling story about believing in yourself again, trusting your talents and having faith in your own worth. It's also about believing you deserve a second—and even a third—chance at happiness, and how the things we don't say are often the most powerful statements we make. I really enjoyed this book very, very much, and found myself devouring it very quickly.

It has been a while since I've read a book by Anna Quindlen, but after reading Still Life with Bread Crumbs, I was reminded just how much I love her writing, and how good books can make you feel.

Book Review: "Road to Reckoning" by Robert Lautner

Full disclosure: I received an advance copy of this book in exchange for an unbiased review.

"I, to this day, hold to only one truth: if a man chooses to carry a gun he will get shot. My father agreed to carry twelve."

Thomas Walker is 12 years in 1837. An only child, he has lived a sheltered life, never leaving New York City, and following the death of his mother, he is homeschooled by his aunt and doesn't get the opportunity to interact with children his age. But when his mild-mannered, spectacles-selling father takes a traveling salesman job for Samuel Colt, selling his revolutionary new "Improved Revolving Gun," he decides to take Thomas on the road with him, much to his aunt's chagrin—and Thomas' delight.

"Even at twelve I knew that I would have no limit of things to do out beyond the mountains. My own thoughts of danger were less important than having the opportunity to be away from my aunt's lavender chiffon and her yardstick rule, which I never saw measure anything except how much blame my knuckles could take."

Not long after Thomas' father made his first sale, a run-in with a group of robbers turns their travel adventure to tragedy. Orphaned and alone, with no money and few possessions save a wooden model of the Colt revolver, he can think only of getting back home to New York and the comfort and security of his only living relative, his aunt. He then encounters Henry Stands, a cantankerous, larger-than-life former Indiana Ranger, who has little use for people except when they can provide him food, ammunition, and rum.

Stands, on his way to a Philadelphia prison to see if they need help tracking down escaped prisoners, is reluctantly pressed into helping Thomas find his way home. He cares little for coddling the boy, and wants only to leave him in the first town they come across. Thomas, though intimidated by Stands' surliness, finds security in his not-quite-fatherly presence, and fears that he will abandon him on the road. The two forge a strange alliance, one that grows a bit stronger after the two encounter the band of robbers who killed Thomas' father. Yet Stands isn't completely enamored of being the boy's protector, and Thomas wants desperately for Stands to treat him less as an obligation and more as a child.

As the pair make their way back to New York, their partnership—and their lives—are tested several times. Both realize there is more to their traveling partner than meets the eye, and while they have different desires for the resolution of their journey, it is a journey that shapes them both.

I really enjoyed this book a great deal. I thought Robert Lautner perfectly embodied the voice of a 12-year-old boy caught between bravado and vulnerability, and Thomas as narrator was tremendously effective. The book surprised me at times and was more than simply a story about an unlikely pair on an important journey—it was also a commentary on how the Colt revolver, and guns in general, shaped America in the mid-19th century and beyond. The characters were more complex than met the eye, and Lautner knows how to tell a good story.

Some of the blurbs I've seen about Road to Reckoning equate it with True Grit, and while there may be some similarities between the two, I think the comparison actually sells this book a bit short. Henry Stands is more Lonesome Dove's Gus than Rooster Cogburn, and Thomas is a more vulnerable character than Mattie Ross, but no less appealing. This is a different story about a different kind of partnership, and it is a compelling and entertaining one.

"When I first met Henry Stands I imagined he was a man of few friends. When I last knew of him I was sure he had even fewer. But, it could be said, just as true, that he had fewer enemies because of it. And as I get older I can see the wisdom of that."

Book Review: "The Gospel of Winter" by Brendan Kiely

Wow. This is a powerful, emotionally moving, and fantastic book.

Sixteen-year-old Aidan Donovan has always existed on the fringes of things. A loner more content to snort Adderall and read by himself, as his wealthy parents' marriage disintegrates, he's more comfortable with Elena, their housekeeper, than his parents or friends his own age. He doesn't have any patience for the dishonesty or non-genuineness of the community where he lives.

"Nobody ever said I don't know or I'm afraid, and they acted like the masks they wore were their real faces and that they could sustain themselves forever on their own self-assurance—like they really believed they didn't need anybody else. What was that John Donne poem we read in Weinstein's class, 'No Man Is An Island'? Not here. We were a goddamn social archipelago that called itself a community. Why did I feel like I was the only one who lived in a nightmare? What was worse was that I knew people did have fears."

The only place Aidan truly feels comfortable is at his church, Most Precious Blood, as Father Greg, the local priest, is the only person who seems to care about or listen to him. As he starts making friends with a trio of his classmates—Josie, the charismatic girl on whom he's had a crush for some time; Sophie, the wild but friendly girl with a reputation; and Mark, the swim team captain with issues of his own which mirror Aidan's in more ways than he knows—Aidan starts to feel a little more comfortable in his own skin.

As Aidan balances the comfort of his new friends with his discomfort about his home life, he starts to realize that Father Greg's affections are not just directed at him alone, and while he mourns the feeling that he is no longer special, he also grapples with the reality of what the priest has done. What does that make him? Would telling people, admitting what has happened, make those in his community blame and think less of him, as the priests have led him to believe? Can he just pretend that nothing happened?

Aidan's community—and the nation—begin confronting the revelations about sexual abuse by priests, and people want to know if Aidan was affected, what he knew, but he'd rather ignore the whole thing, despite the toll it takes on his own psyche and those around him. Only as he realizes the true consequences, and what could lie ahead for him depending on the path he chooses, does he realize that there are other people who care about and love him.

"I thought about how people like Old Donovan and Father Greg and teachers and even Mother and Elena tried to give me advice about who I was supposed to be and what kind of person I was supposed to become, but looking at Josie, I wondered if it didn't all come down to something simpler: Are you the kind of person who is there for people when they need you, or not? Isn't it in those moments when you have to work harder than you thought you could to reach out to another person, and you do, that you finally find the you who's been hiding behind the mask all that time? Is it there, finally truly naked, and reaching for one another, that we create the chance to hold one another again? And what about the chance to love again? Do we get to create that possibility too?"

This was a phenomenal book. Its subject matter was difficult, but Brendan Kiely's use of language and his storytelling ability captivated me completely. I loved Aidan's character and felt so much pain and hope for him. I could definitely identify with some of his thoughts and fears and hopes, as I remember feeling similarly as a teenager. I devoured this book, reading nearly the entire thing in one day. It was just such a beautiful, powerful, painful yet hopeful story, and I hope this gets the attention—and the readership—it so truly deserves.