Chapter 2

Our conversation continued, after the breakfast rush. I became acquainted with Ellie's class schedule -- at least her Tuesday schedule. It was agreed that I'd pick her up, after class, in front of the college's main administration building at 4:50 p.m. the following day.

From there, we'd go, together, to the apartment she shared with another young woman, where she would shower and change before our date. We were going to have dinner at the local Japanese Steakhouse.

I was, of course, extremely concerned about whether this "date" was ever going to happen. Who was I going to be, tomorrow afternoon, when I met Ellie at the college? If I was Old Karl, then, of course, there would be no meeting at all. No date. The missing-in-action Young Karl would simply have stood her up.

It would also mean that I could never again return to the cafe. Not while Ellie was there. Not while I would be expected to explain myself to her; explain why I'd never shown up for our dinner date.

But, to my amazement, when I finally took my leave and drove back across the town to my own home, I continued, for the entire trip, to be "young" Karl.

Karl Erickson III, as I had dubbed myself.

The garage door opener was adequate to get me into the house unobserved. Happily, I'd never been particularly close to my immediate neighbors, so I was unlikely to have to explain myself to them. If I did see someone who knew Karl the Elder, I would simply stick to the script -- I was the visiting grandson. The neighbors knew that I had children -- and that I had at least one grandchild. I doubted they'd remember that my lone grandchild was a young woman. Nor would they remember that I only had the single grandchild. Let's face it, most people just didn't pay that kind of detailed attention to their neighbors' lives. I was confident that, in a pinch, I could simply bluff it through.

There were, however, some small problems to deal with. My driver's license, for example. The old man with the thick glasses and grey hair and beard was not exactly a dead ringer for the current holder of the license. I would be OK, of course, as long as I wasn't stopped for a traffic violation, or otherwise called upon to identify myself to people in authority.

Money was not a problem. I had an ATM card that didn't care how old its user was, so long as that user knew the access code. My pension and IRA deposits were direct deposits to my account, as was my social security check. I might look a little young for Social Security, but, by God, I'd earned it, and if absolutely necessary, I could prove, with genuine fingerprints, exactly who I was.

Naturally, there would be some fairly complex explanations that would be in order, at that point. It would be best, by far, not to make a high profile, at any point. It was always a good idea to steer clear of The Authorities. In my case, it was becoming something of a necessity.

As it happened, I did see someone from the neighborhood -- Mrs. Schmidt from across the street. When I walked out to pick up the mail, she asked me, with eyebrows arched, who I was.

I told her. I explained that Granddad was off on a trip, and I was house-sitting for the duration. It helped, I think, that I bore at least a vague resemblance to the old man who lived there.

She bought my story. Mrs. Schmidt, a young married woman in her mid-30s, couldn't help but betray a mild interest in me, similar to that displayed by the young waitresses at the cafe.

What a pleasure it was to be a young, handsome man again! But I knew her husband -- Mr. Schmidt -- was a vigorous young man in his own right, not to mention his being the father of her two children. Even if Ellie hadn't been in the picture, I would not have made a pass at my neighbor's wife.

After all, I had some standards. Still. I thought, perhaps Mrs. Schmidt's panties might have gone a little damp during our brief encounter. She certainly had shown more interest in Karl III than she ever had in Karl the Original.

I was delighted at having retained my new, youthful identity all the way home, and even in the absence of Ellie's being in my immediate vicinity! But my delight was tempered by troubled thoughts about what it all meant -- for the rest of my life, and for the people in my life who meant the most to me.

It was fine that the neighbors didn't recognize me. But what about close friends, there in the town? True, I had few close friends, but I did have those few. For example, a few men and women who belonged to the same book club that I still counted as one of my regular activities. What would happen when people who knew me -- knew me well -- were exposed to me? Who would they see? The old me, or the new one?

And what about my daughter, and my son-in-law? And my granddaughter? Surely they would see the "old" me, were we all to be together? True, they were 400 miles away, in their own home city. But we saw each other several times each year. Who would they see, if I visited them?

What if they were to visit me, here? They seldom did, now that my wife had died, but occasionally, they would come here.

And would it make any difference, if I were with Ellie, at the time? Who would I be, then?

These were frightening questions. Also frightening was the fact that, for all I knew, the whole "Young Karl" thing might wear off at any moment. So what, if I was still Young Karl this afternoon? What if I became Old Karl tonight, while Ellie and I were at the Japanese Steakhouse?... Perhaps while Ellie had excused herself for a few moments, to go to the ladies' room?

The anxiety that all this uncertainty produced was considerable. But it was outweighed by my tremendous enthusiasm for this relationship. Ellie and I had clicked so amazingly, and on such short notice, that there was something other-worldly about it. That was a fact, even if one were to set aside the incredible transformation my body had undergone. We seemed to be kindred spirits already, despite our having never even seen one another outside the confines of "Restaurant."

Of course, I had seen Ellie there earlier, on several occasions; but only as an old, old man. A man who, now, she wouldn't be likely to associate with me in any way. If she saw that old fellow, she might remember having served him breakfast on a few past Sunday mornings. But that would be all that she would know of him.

When I picked up Ellie at the college, I was still the young man who was, quite continuously, receiving her loving looks and occasional incredulous gazes. I was unaccustomed to finding myself so obviously attractive to anyone -- of any age. But this was more than just the fact that I had miraculously shed fifty years overnight. The looks I was receiving from Ellie were truly remarkable. I wasn't being treated as a casual first date.

She was stealing glances at me that were -- not to put too fine a point on it -- smoldering. Torrid. She seemed amazed that we were together. Finally, her staring became disconcerting, however pleased I was to find myself the object of her entire attention. "What is it?" I asked. She had twice forgotten to provide me with directions, as I drove us to her apartment. She was, instead, simply staring at me, from the passenger seat of the minivan.

She snapped out of it, finally. "I can't explain it," she said, finally. "You're going to get the big head, if I tell you what I'm... what I'm thinking."

"Just tell me," I said, almost becoming impatient with her at this point. We had been very forthcoming, up until now. When I'd spoken to her, that morning in the restaurant, neither of us tried to disguise the fact that we were responding to one another, in a way that was unusual. Yes, it was all quite thrilling, but somehow, I found it a little bit shocking, too. Ellie's complete, disarming admission, then, that she was interested had made her seem even more attractive than she already had been.

But, now. She was looking at me as if she'd seen a ghost, or perhaps a vampire.

"What is it, Ellie? Just tell me!"

"I'm an artist," she said, suddenly. It was a statement from out of nowhere, and seemingly a non sequitur of the first order.

"An artist?"

"I'm studying something practical in college -- well, it's not really practical. It's kind-of artsy-fartsy, and it won't qualify me for anything in the job market... I'm studying American Literature... But I have a Fine Arts minor. I'm a painter... I'm pretty good! Maybe not -- like -- somebody who's going to be a great artist, but I do... well. I do representational work. Portraits. I've actually even sold a couple. Only to -- you know -- regular people. Friends. Acquaintances. But they were legitimate sales, and the buyers were very pleased with their purchases!"

"Well, that's... interesting. I'd like to see some of your work."

"You're going to. You're going to see one of my paintings -- tonight."

"Tonight?"

"Tonight, yes. Right now, I mean... At the apartment."

"All right. But you still haven't... told me what it is, that's making you look at me so strangely."

"Just wait," Ellie said. "... Right up here -- at the corner -- turn left. That building, up there, on the left -- the two-story apartment building? That's it. Just park here, on the street."

"I won't be long," Ellie said. "I just want to take a quick shower, and change clothes."

"OK."

"My roommate's not here. Sit down, there, on the couch. Let me show you something, before I take my shower." Ellie opened a small closet off the living room, bent to reach something on the floor at the back wall, and emerged with a small portrait, perhaps 18 inches tall, on canvas. The painting was in an inexpensive plain frame. Saying nothing, she brought the portrait over to where I was seated, handed it to me, and disappeared down the hallway.

It was a portrait of -- me. Well, the new, improved me. Young Karl.

I wasn't all that accustomed, just yet, to examining my own new appearance, but I'd had all day to get more-or-less familiar with the new me, and this -- this painting -- was dead-on!

But when had she had time to paint it? I had seen Ellie, earlier that day, at the cafe, but, so far as I could tell, she had never "seen" me -- the Young Karl -- until two days ago, just last Sunday morning. Before that, it had been only the 76-year-old Karl who had eaten his casual breakfasts there; who had, perhaps, cast an admiring glance in the direction of this lithesome young woman, but whose existence, to her, had likely never registered at all.

I wanted to ask the question, but I could hear the shower running, down the hall. My questions would have to wait. I looked at the portrait again. It was quite good. I was no art critic, but it was a faithful reproduction of my actual appearance. The texture and lighting, it seemed to me, were quite professional, and the painting appeared to be of professional quality in every respect.

After a short time, the sound of the shower ceased. A few minutes later, Ellie, clad in a terrycloth robe, waved gaily as she swiftly moved from bathroom to bedroom, down at the end of the hall.

When she had gotten dressed and had returned to the living room, I was full of questions. "When did you have time to paint this?" I said. "It's amazingly good. But... we've only known each other for two days... When?"

"I painted it months ago," Ellie said. "In February, it was."

"But... I didn't know you, in February,"

I could have said, "I didn't exist in February," but, of course, I had "existed" in February, in some abstract sense. I had existed as an old man, living alone, just a few miles from the apartment I sat in, now, with Ellie.

"No, you didn't know me in February," Ellie said. "But I painted this portrait from my... from my imagination."

"It looks the way I looked as a..." But I couldn't finish the sentence. I had almost said that the picture looked like I had looked, "as a young man," but of course such a statement would make no sense to Ellie.

And it wasn't entirely true, anyway. The portrait resembled my appearance as a young man, but it was, essentially, a poor likeness. The portrait looked the way that Young Karl looked, right now -- today. The portrait was an exceptionally accurate likeness of me as this slightly different Karl. This Karl who was apparently fifty years younger than he was supposed to be. But this young Karl was slightly different from the young man that I had been, fifty years before.

Different.

Ellie spelled it out. "I painted this portrait before we met. When you came into the restaurant, I was astounded! You were exactly like the man in my portrait! You were him!"

"But... who is he?" I asked, still not following Ellie's strange statements.

"He's... you, I think," Ellie said. "When I painted him, he was just... an ideal."

"An... ideal? Your ideal?" The concept seemed strange to me, on several levels. First of all, the young man in the portrait was pleasant-looking. He looked sweet-natured, peaceable -- even handsome. He was the kind of young man that three waitresses, in a small cafe, might giggle over, behind the cash register, as he drank his morning coffee and read the sports pages of the local paper.

But... an ideal? Hardly! It was a portrait of what was, perhaps, a young man of above-average physical attractiveness. Nothing more. He was handsome, perhaps, if you happened to like blond men. The majority of women, in my experience, weren't particularly partial to blond men.

Ellie, though, looked at the portrait thoughtfully, and then looked up at me as my eyes left the portrait and met hers. "Yes," she said. "... My ideal. I painted this... ideal man. And then, there you were!"

"I don't... know what to say to that," I said softly. And I didn't! I didn't know. What should I say? Should I modestly waive off the compliment -- the apparently sincere assertion, by this incredible young woman, that she had painted a portrait of her ideal man, and that I -- Young Karl -- was that man?

How could it be? How could it be that she would anticipate me, that way? And not even me -- not the real Karl at all. She had painted the decades old, long-since-expired version of Karl, or close to it, anyway. Back at the house, I had old photographs of myself, dating back to the dark ages -- the 1960s, anyway. I could show those photographs to Ellie -- represent them as being photos of my grandfather, perhaps, when he was a young man.

She would likely see how closely they resembled her portrait; how much the pictures looked like her painting of Young Karl, of... me. The resemblance was quite close, but it wasn't perfect. The real-life Young Karl -- the one from 1960 or thereabouts -- was not the same man as the one that Ellie had painted.