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By Root 964 0

belonged to someone younger than his thirty-two. Dressed more conservatively, his long hair trimmed and pulled back, you might notice the defined structure of his cheekbones; in the right circles, his narrow face and his deepset eyes might be considered vogue, even beautiful. But you didn’t immediately notice beauty. Too many other superficialities demanded your attention. His clothes were secondhand, well-matched but often stained with paint or plaster. He wore heavy jewelry, silver rings on his fingers and frayed hemp on his wrists and neck. Most distinct of all was the tattoo, a Celtic circular pattern that wound from shoulder to just below his elbow in dark green ink.

From his dress you could draw immediate conclusions that he made no effort to dispel: In high school he’d been a pothead; he’d grown up a kid who rode his skateboard on curbsides until the local police banned him from the harmless sport, and then he persisted anyway, with that air of martyrdom only an adolescent can achieve; he would have had parents with money who provoked a hatred of materialism almost as strong as his hatred of the government. He did not wear deodorant because he didn’t believe in masking the body’s natural functions with modern hygiene, which was really just another facade people put up. His girlfriend wore ankle-length dresses and did not shave her legs.

Not that any of this was true. He didn’t talk about himself, so there wasn’t a lot to go on.

During the last week of school he tried not to be an intrusion, and in return I tried not to notice that he was. He did little to upset the apartment. His furniture—what he’d salvaged of it—was in storage. Aside from his duffel bag, he’d brought one extra pair of shoes and the military khaki green knapsack he carried on his shoulder wherever he went. He only ate the food we expressly made for him. He kept his bathroom things in a Kroger bag stuffed under the futon.

“You know there are some students on campus talking about opening a gallery,” Zoë said. She was holding up the bottom of her mattress while I blasted it with Lysol. Every night since Eli had arrived, Zoë had scoured the Columbus craigslist for job openings and I’d scoured the mattresses for bedbugs. “I also saw an ad for lawn maintenance.”

“It’s December.”

“True.” She dropped the mattress and frowned. “Yeah, why would somebody post that?”

“Lift,” I commanded. She lifted the other side of the mattress. I fumigated.

She said, “I wonder if Kathryn has any openings at the library.”

I waved my hand in front of my face trying to dispel the antiseptic fog. “You’re not telling the landlady, of all people, about Eli.”

“Yeah. She wouldn’t be too thrilled about the idea of someone living with us.”

She said this as if it were news. Already we were making Eli park four blocks away so the sight of the old Volkswagen wouldn’t rouse suspicion. At that moment I realized two things: (1) Eli was not just between apartments, he was broke; (2) Eli was going to be staying for a very long time.

“Zoë.”

“Oh, sorry—lift.” She lifted the mattress. I pushed it back down.

“What do you mean living with us?”

She feigned innocence. “I didn’t mean anything. I mean he’s living with us until he finds a new place.”

“You said Christmas break. You said he just needed a place for the holiday.”

“I know what I said, but it’s just that everything’s gotten a little more complicated.”

“What about Michael,” I countered. “What does he think?”

“Michael? Why would he care? It’s not like I’m attracted to Eli.” She frowned. “That would be so clichéd, to be in love with Eli. Everybody’s in love with Eli.”

We heard the front door open and shut. The subject was closed.

I found Eli in the kitchen, investigating Zoë’s latest bulgur wheat soup experiment.

“Is it food?” he asked.

“It’s edible,” I said. “It’s nutritious.”

Tentatively, he lifted a spoonful to his mouth. The phone number written on the back of his hand was two days old. The ink had begun to fade, but I was willing to wager that the 9 and the 3 and the first letters of the owner’s name—CAL—might last