E L I X I R by Gary Braver Chapter 2 NOVEMBER 1986, CANTON, OHIO Karen Kimball couldn't put her finger on it, but the guy in the tan sportcoat looked vaguely familiar. It was the eyes. The heavy lids, the dark blue flecked with stars. It's hard to forget eyes, no matter what happens to the rest of the face. These were eyes she knew from long ago. And the way they followed her. Not leering, not lewd, just a kind of a warm speculation. But he was too young to be making eye at her. She mopped the table in the booth across from his and chided herself. Here she was an overweight fifty-nine year-old divorcée with three kids and a grandchild -- not some teeniebopper flushing at each foxy guy who passed her way. She dried her hands and pulled out her pad. "Would you like something to drink, sir?" He eyed her waitress outfit, "Aren't you the owner?" Everyone in town knew that. "One of my girls called in sick, so you're going to have to settle with me. What'll it be?" "I think I'll have a black cow." "A what?" "Guess you stopped making them. Make it a Heineken instead." For a moment Karen felt a blister of irritation rise. He was putting her down for not having a bar that made fancy mixed drinks. But as she headed away, it occurred to her what he had asked for -- a black cow: root beer and vanilla ice cream. She hadn't heard that name for years. Not since the days she had worked at the Lincoln Dairy, when she was a junior in high school. Karen got the beer and returned, now feeling a low-grade uneasiness. She took his order, all the while studying his face. A good face: open and pleasant, with a thin, slightly crooked mouth, sharp cleft chin, thick brown hair, and those blue starburst eyes. Jesus, I know this face, she told herself. And that look: Each time their eyes met she could feel something pass between them -- something that went beyond customer and waitress. She moved into the kitchen, and through the small window of the swing door she again studied the guy. She knew he knew her, though she could not place him in any context. And he seemed to enjoy his mystery. He looked to be in his thirties, so maybe he was the son of some friend, a guy she hadn't seen since he was a child. She called Freddie over. "You know that guy in booth seven?" Freddie peered through the door. "Never saw him before. Why, he giving you trouble or something?" "No, just looks familiar." "Whyn't you ask him?" She nodded, and for several moments let her mind rummage for a connection, watching him look around as if for familiar faces. The way he moved his head and ran his hand through his hair, and the slant of his chin. And those eyes. Those eyes. Jesus! It was driving her to distraction. Maybe she'd seen him in the movies or on TV. But what would he be doing in the Casa Loma? It was a nice family place, but not the Ritz. She stared through the glass concentrating as hard as she could, feeling it almost come to her -- like a bird swooping in out of the dark, then just before landing turning sharply and flapping away. This is ridiculous, she told herself. She delivered other orders, trying to look neutral but checking him out from the corner of her eye. By the time his meal was ready she had worked up the nerve to ask. "I don't mean to be impolite, but do I know you?" The man smiled coyly. "You might." "You from around here?" "Not anymore." That same teasing smile. He sipped his beer. "It's just that you look familiar." "Well," he began, but decided to continue playing coy, letting her twist in the breeze. "I guess not," she said and walked away, thinking, The hell with this! If he was somebody she was supposed to know, then, damn it, let him fess up. No way she was going to get into a mind game with some jerk looking for a little action before he blows back out of town. Karen delivered his order without a word or a glance. She placed it on the place mat and turned on her heels just as cool and professional as she could be. But as she moved away, the man began to softly sing a refrain: "Sometimes I wonder why I spend the lonely nights dreaming of a song. The melody haunts my reverie. . ." Karen pretended not to hear and headed across the floor and into the kitchen without looking back. Freddie glanced up from the stove at her. "Hey, you okay? You look like you seen a ghost." Karen was leaning against the wall staring out through the window. The eyes. That slightly crooked mouth. The little scar at the corner of his left eyebrow. "Can't be," she said aloud. "What can't be?" She shook her head to say it was nothing. That song. "Stardust." Suddenly she was in the gym at Alfred E. Burr Junior High school dancing to Helen O'Connell and the Jimmy Dorsey Band. It was her favorite. She had said his eyes were like stardust. Continued on . . .
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