Who Do You Love(106)
Author: Jennifer Weiner

“I don’t want Andy to think I’m after his money, or that I deserve any credit for his success. Everything he did, that’s all him.” And if he could send a message to his Olympic-winning son? Landis Senior doesn’t even have to think about it. “I know I wasn’t his father, but I’d tell him I was proud.”

Andy stared at the words. He wondered which friends had sent his father clippings about him, and then pictured Mr. Sills, carefully cutting out each story. Maybe writing a note. Had his old friend felt guilty, that it was his own son’s fault, and maybe somehow his, too, that Andy’s dad was in prison?

Inside the magazine’s pages was an envelope from the Grim Rieper. This is your father’s address and phone number. He asked me to pass them along. Andy studied the note for a minute, trying to imagine the reunion, the ex-con father meeting his infamous, tainted son. He looked at his phone, but instead of reaching for it he grabbed the vodka, adding another dollop to his Red Rage. That night, for the first time in his life, he drank until he passed out.

He might have stayed in that room forever, eating, drinking, sleeping, then waking to do it all again, except one day his cell phone had started ringing. He’d seen 215, the area code for Philadelphia, and, on a whim, he’d answered it.

“No comment,” he’d said instead of hello. The words sounded a little slushy. Oh, well.

Instead of a volley of questions, his opening sally earned him a wheezy laugh. “Andy Landis,” said a familiar voice that had gotten fainter over time. “Is that any way to say hello to your old friend?”

Andy, who’d been lounging on the couch with a go-cup full of Blue Crush and vodka balanced on his chest, sat up so fast that the drink spilled all over his shirt.

“Mr. Sills?”

Another wheezy laugh. “You can call me Clement now, remember? I make it a policy for all my friends who’ve won gold medals.”

The familiar searing, scalding shame rose through his body, making him flush and squirm with the desperate desire to outrun what could never be outrun. Disgrace was now his shadow, and he couldn’t ever leave it behind.

“Your friend who cheated.”

Mr. Sills sighed. “Now, I’m not saying you didn’t do wrong. But name me someone who goes through life without making mistakes. I know you,” he continued. “You’re probably sitting in the dark, not talking to anyone, beating yourself up.” Looking around, Andy realized that he hadn’t turned any lights on that night or, he suspected, most nights. “You’ve still got a long time to live, and there’s plenty of good you could be doing. Lots of boys out there could use a helping hand. Maybe even a coach.”

“Who’d hire me?” Andy hated that he sounded whiny, in addition to drunk. “Nobody’d want a cheater coaching their kids.”

Mr. Sills was relentless. “Do you know that for sure? Have you asked anyone? I’d bet you a whole stack of National Geographics that if you went back to Roman Catholic, went to the coach, said, ‘I’d like to help out,’ he’d have you doing it in a minute.”

Andy, who wasn’t so sure, said nothing.

“But that’s not why I called,” his friend continued. “Truth is, I haven’t been doing so well lately. I’ve got that emphysema, you know.”

Andy hadn’t known.

“I’d sure like a visit,” Mr. Sills had said. “Maybe you could come down here, we’d have some breakfast, maybe visit a few junk shops.” Junk shops, Andy remembered, had been Mr. Sills’s name for the antiques shops and the vintage and resale stores that they’d frequented. “I don’t drive anymore . . .”

“What happened?”

“Ah, well, you know, I never could parallel park, and then it just seemed like everyone on the road was so angry, honking all the time. I got friends who take me places now, and I get Meals on Wheels for lunch and dinner.”

“I’ll come,” Andy heard himself say. He was moving through the kitchen by then, pulling out a trash bag from the box on the counter, scooping up pizza boxes and half-full Chinese food containers and dozens of empty plastic Red Rage bottles and sweeping them inside. It was unendurable, the thought of Mr. Sills stuck home alone, eating Meals on Wheels, while he sat here like a petulant prince with more money than he needed. “I’ll come tomorrow.”

“No need to rush,” said Mr. Sills. Then he started coughing again.

“Tomorrow,” Andy had repeated, pouring the rest of the vodka down the kitchen sink. He’d spent the night cleaning, doing laundry, packing what he needed. He was waiting at the car dealership when it opened, grabbing the first salesman he saw, pointing at a car, cutting off the other man’s speech with a curt “Just give me the keys and I’ll write you a check.” By noon, he was pulling off the exit for Allegheny Avenue.