Geno lived at Vern’s house the rest of the summer.
“Nothing happened,” he said. “It’s not Zoe’s fault. She’s great. It’s me. I just feel better here with you. I’ve known you longer and it’s like being near Dad.”
Behind his glasses, Vern looked concerned, but also touched. He didn’t ask Geno many questions. If he had his own conversation with Zoe about what happened, he never said so. He made arrangements and helped Geno get ready for college.
“You’re sure you’re ready to go?” he asked.
“Yes,” Geno said, only sure he was ready to go somewhere where nobody knew him, so he could start again as someone else.
At freshman orientation, he introduced himself as Mo. One short, tough syllable. The bare minimum. A suit of armor he pulled on in the morning and laid in a drawer at night.
“It’s going all right,” Geno said to Vern on the phone. “I like the campus. Classes are cool. I’m getting involved in the radio station.”
“Good, good,” Vern said. “Making any friends?”
“A few.”
“And you like your roommate? Bill?”
“Ben.”
Vern tried hard to get one of the residence hall’s single rooms for Geno, but enrollment at Brooklyn College was up and first come was first served. So Geno was sharing digs with a sophomore boy from Connecticut.
“He’s okay,” Geno said, truthfully. “Good guy. So far we don’t annoy each other.”
“How do you feel physically? Everything all right?”
“Yeah. I still don’t sleep all that great but I have the Ambien. I saw Dr. Bloom and she green-lighted me to start working out. The campus has a fitness center but she wants me to work with a certified trainer. The school helped me find someone. He’s a physical therapist but he also does personal training at the Flatbush YMCA. It’s just a few blocks away.”
“Excellent, sounds like a perfect fit.”
“Yeah, maybe if I’m getting some regular exercise, I’ll sleep better.”
“I bet you will.”
“Sorry it’s another expense, but—”
“Don’t give it a thought,” Vern said. “The money is yours to do as you wish.”
Geno rolled to his back on his bed, slinging a forearm over his eyes. “Any buyers for the house yet?”
“No, but the listing only just went live. The realtor’s having two open houses this weekend.”
“Okay.” He swallowed. “Have you talked to Detective Mackin?”
Vern’s voice softened. “Regularly. But no updates.”
Geno exhaled.
“You know I’ll tell you the minute I hear anything.”
“I know. Just…” The next inhale hurt his throat and chest. “Those pictures are out there and…he’s out there.”
“I know. And after you, no one wants him taken in more badly than me.”
“I gotta head to class now,” Geno said. “I’ll talk to you next week?”
“Talk to me anytime.”
Geno hung up and collected his backpack. He stepped into the hall just as his roommate, Ben, was arriving with a couple buddies.
“What’s up, my man,” Ben said, coming in high for a handshake.
“Mo,” the other guys echoed. Like people greeted Norm in Cheers. Handshakes around, bit of chit-chat and Geno was out of there. Feeling eyes on his back but no hostility. By now, at the end of September, he’d established himself as the residence hall’s weird loner.
The afternoon was chilly, and a brisk wind ran a hand over Geno’s head. Before coming to school, he clipped his hair to an eighth-inch buzz. He thought it made him look tougher. Also, nobody could grab a handful of stubble and yank your head back. Of course, his head got cold, especially at night. Being cold often triggered his anxiety, or made it worse. He started wearing wool hats while he was studying. Inevitably, his left hand would creep up under the ribbed brim, fingers rubbing against the thick, soft nap of short hairs. Words would blur in his eyes and he’d be gazing off, into the past, full of memory so distant, yet so deep. A soul memory of little hands on his head.
Brother mine.
From his crown, his hand would drift down to his right side, where stars were supposed to be inked when he got to college. Then his fingers would drift a little more to the still-tender scar where the colostomy used to empty out, and he vowed no stars would be at his side.
Ever.
Which didn’t stop him from getting tattoos. His first design was a little red hen inside a house. He put it on the cap of his shoulder, with Gallinero in pretty script beneath. On his other shoulder, in stronger letters, he had Nathan inked. A week later, he went back and had the Hebrew name put under it, Natan ben Hieronim. Nathan, son of Jerome. In the ancient lettering, it felt like a protective charm as well as a tribute. He believed fervently in the power of names, just as he believed the persona of Mo kept Geno safe.
He wanted more ink. Wanted to cover himself in wards and spells and magic. He didn’t mind the pain of being tattooed. It was the vulnerability in taking his shirt off and lying down while the artist worked, together with pain. Maybe when his body got stronger he’d feel differently. For now, he had his parents’ hands on his shoulders.
It was enough.