Who Do You Love by Jennifer Weiner Page A

Sills. “Saw him on the court a time or two.” When Mr. Sills smiled his cheeks crinkled, sending his glasses up toward his eyebrows. “Your daddy was probably the best high school basketball player in the Catholic League. Maybe even the best in the city.”
    All of this was news to Andy. His heart was pounding hard, the way it did when he was running. “He was?”
    Mr. Sills opened the leather folder, glanced at the bill, and put down a twenty and a ten. Andy did some math and realized that was probably why the waitress had been so happy to see him.
    Once, he’d gone out for pizza with the Strattons, and the lady taking people to their tables had stiffened when they’d walked in, and asked “Are you picking up takeout?” when she hadn’t asked any of the other families that question. She was white, and most of the people in the restaurant were, too, and Mr. Stratton had been scowling by the time they were finally seated. “Typical,” Andy had heard him say.
    â€œCome on,” said Mr. Sills. They climbed into the blue truck and drove back toward the new apartment . . . but instead of dropping Andy off at his house, Mr. Sills led him to the row house halfway up the block where he lived. Andy hesitated as Mr. Sills unlocked the door. Lori had approved breakfast, not a home visit, but he was so desperate to hear anything about his father, from someone else who’d known him, that he would have gone in even if Lori had been standing right there in front of the doorway, her arms crossed, saying I don’t think so.
    Mr. Sills led Andy into the first-floor apartment and walked toward what Andy assumed was the kitchen as Andy stood, stunned and staring. It looked like every bit of space in the small room—every inch of the wall, every scrap of the floor—was crammed, was covered, was occupied. Pictures, paintings, pages cut from magazines, all in frames a dozen shades of copper and brass and gold, lined the walls, almost obscuring the trellised green-and-cream-patterned wallpaper. One section of the wall was covered entirely in mirrors. He saw stacks of books and magazines, standing lamps, a strange brass thing Andy would later learn was a cuspidor, tables with delicate legs edged up against a couch, and two slipcovered armchairs. Layered over the floor were carpets in patterns of red and gold, blue and emerald green.
    As he looked more closely, the room began to resolve itself. Andy saw a narrow pathway that led from the door to the kitchen and branched off to allow passage to a grouping of armchairs on one side, a couch on the other. The framed art was arranged by subject—one section of the wall featured paintings and drawings and photographs of flowers; another spot held landscapes; and a third was devoted to representations of dogs, some in human poses, others just doing regular dog stuff. One painting depicted a bunch of dogs in human clothing playing cards. The mirrors were of all different sizes, from as small as the one in his mother’s compact to as big as a television screen. A few of them were hand mirrors in fancy gold frames that had been shaped to look like vines and flowers. There was no fireplace, but there was a marble mantelpiece against one wall. On it, alone, was a gold-framed photograph of a slender black woman in a wedding dress. She stood in profile, with a bouquet in her clasped hands and a long veil drifting down on her back.
    â€œThat was Mrs. Sills,” said Mr. Sills. He was carrying a tray with a teapot and a plate filled with half-moon-shaped butter cookies with scalloped edges and a sprinkling of sugar on top, and Andy, who fifteen minutes ago had thought he wouldn’t eat again for a week, found that he was hungry again. “Go on, help yourself,” said Mr. Sills. Andy took a cookie, and Mr. Sills poured them tea. “She’s been gone eight years now. I miss her so.” He said this all matter-of-factly,