Katherine's Prophecy

by Scott Wittenburg

  Let’s not get carried away here, he thought to himself with a wry smile. He was just as much to blame as everybody else for this mess.

  But that’s just the point, he thought. He didn’t want to be a part of this anymore. The filth, the pollution, the hustle-bustle, the utter bullshit! He didn’t belong here. He wanted to be where living was enjoyable, not a chore. Somewhere plain and simple, without throngs of people everywhere you looked and noisy traffic everywhere you went.

  But where, if anywhere, did such a place exist? Walden Pond? Mars? Heaven?

  He laughed out loud. He wanted a utopia—a place that simply didn’t exist. It was a place in his mind, in his dreams. Like his Dream Lady. Neither existed. He would never see either as long as he lived.

  But he wasn’t about to let this fact get him down. So what if they didn’t exist? There was nothing wrong in pursuing them anyway, was there? It was a goal to strive for, however unattainable. It gave him hope—not only in himself, but in all of mankind. What was that song? “Ya gotta have hope.” That’s the key. Because without hope, you’re screwed.

  He heard the familiar click of the cassette deck as the tape reached its end. Lenny flipped it over, pressed “play,” and returned to the sofa. He glanced over at the clock. It was only 10:30. The fatigue he’d felt earlier had abated, no doubt partly due to his sudden renewed outlook on the future. The alcohol fix no doubt had helped, too. At any rate, he was on an emotional high and teeming with nervous energy.

  Draining the last of his beer, he got up and went to the kitchen for another one. It was going to be a long night.

  Lenny spent the next few hours staring out the window at the snowstorm and drinking beer. All this time, his mind never quit working; tossing this and turning that until he finally realized that everything was becoming a jumbled mess of incoherent pulp. The old brain had finally reached its Waterloo for the day.

  But the day hadn’t been a waste by any means, he decided.

  With a stretch and a long yawn, Lenny took one last look outside before getting up to turn out the lights. He found his way into the bedroom and hastily threw off his clothes then hit the sack. Within seconds, he was out like a light.

  CHAPTER 10

  Lenny was actually glad he had slept in so late. It was already past noon. He would have just enough time to eat, shower and shave, and get to the studio to set up for the session before his client arrived. It was going to be one of those beautiful, nonstop days.

  He remained in bed long enough to down the rest of his coffee then made breakfast. After showering and dressing, he put on his jacket, slung his camera bag over his shoulder and left the apartment in haste.

  When he stepped onto the street, a brisk breeze greeted him. He trudged the three blocks through the ugly brown slush to the subway station, deposited a token in the turnstile, and awaited the arrival of the “N” train to Manhattan.

  During the twenty-minute ride, Lenny realized he felt better than he’d felt in a long time. He was finally beginning to move forward with his life. His future, seemingly to be forever on hold, now seemed to be taking some kind of shape on the proverbial horizon. He didn’t know what the hell his future was, or where it would lead him, but he knew it was out there somewhere. Somewhere besides where he was now. It was a strange feeling—to be so sure of something so vague; yet that’s how he felt at the moment.

  Something remarkable was about to happen—that’s what his instincts told him. How he knew this, he didn’t know. It was just a feeling . . . a very strong feeling.

  Tonight, he decided, after he left Julie’s, he would go home and make a conscious effort to figure out where he was going to move to. He’d strain his brain—hell, even take out the old atlas if he had to—and attempt to pick out a destination. It seemed a ludicrous course of action, but what other options did he have? None, really. He couldn’t just sit around on his hands for God only knows how long and wait for the answer to suddenly appear out of thin air, could he? Of course not.

  Was he going to tell Julie that he didn’t yet know where he was going?

  No, that would never float.

  He’d have to lie. He hated lying, but he had no choice.

  He’d tell her that he was moving back to Ohio. To air out until he decided his next move. She’d never know the difference.

  Cool.

  The train screeched to a halt at Canal Street and Lenny got out. He fought his way impatiently through the crowd up to the street then stopped at a corner newspaper stand to buy a pack of cigarettes before proceeding down Broadway to the old stone and brick building. He entered and took the elevator up to the fourth floor.

  The tenants of the building were an eclectic mixture of artistic types trying to eke out a living in the city just as he was. On his floor alone were ten subdivided loft spaces; the media of choice ranging anywhere from sculpture and ceramics to stained glass. Lenny was the only photographer on the floor.

  He unlocked the door and entered his studio. The space was long and narrow—eighteen by forty feet. The ceiling was high and made of galvanized metal with ornate patterns painted over in white. The floors were of well-worn and highly varnished hardwood.

  Lenny went over to the small desk and laid his camera bag down on the floor beside it then picked up the phone and disengaged the call forwarding to his apartment. Sitting himself down in the director’s chair, he quickly reviewed the details of the upcoming session scrawled down in his appointment book.

  The client’s name was Heather Thompson; seventeen years old and in need of a modeling portfolio. She had absolutely no experience in modeling, but wanted to give it a shot. (Didn’t they all?) He was going to shoot three rolls of film—two in black-and-white and one in color—and somehow attempt to make this kid look like a seasoned professional model in the process.

  He recalled her appearance: cute, average height, but had terrible hair—a hideous-looking perm which had all but grown out, but not enough to hide the fact that not long ago all of her hair had looked that bad. Lenny had suggested to Heather’s mother, who had accompanied her to the consultation, that she either have the ends of her daughter’s hair cut off, or use whatever she could find to try and straighten the stuff out. (Motor oil, perhaps?) Modeling agencies, Lenny had explained after seeing the pained expression on Heather’s face, absolutely despised permed hair. The straighter, the better.

  Lenny checked his watch. It was 2:45. He arose from the chair and went over to the makeshift dressing room, which was little more than a Formica counter and makeup mirror enclosed by a long black shower curtain hanging from a curved bar, forming a sort of alcove. He turned on the lights and checked to make sure that the counter was clean and that there was an ample supply of Kleenex, Q-tips, and spare makeup.

  He then went over to the far end of the studio and took down the roll of white seamless paper from the stand and replaced it with a roll of gray. He placed a stool in the center of the floor about ten feet from the seamless background and switched on the power pack to the lights. After adjusting the umbrellas on the light stands, he test-fired the flash units and took a couple of readings with a flash meter then went over to his camera bag lying on the floor. He took out his Nikon and attached the 105 millimeter lens to it then secured the camera to the tripod.

  Lenny spent the next half hour selecting the props he’d be using and setting them off to the side. He’d just wiped down and dusted everything off when he heard a knock at the door.

  Early, he thought. That’s good.

  He went over to the door and opened it. Before him stood Heather Thompson and her mother; each one carrying what appeared to be the entire junior’s department at Bloomingdale’s. Heather’s hair, he noticed immediately, was considerably shorter than it had been the last time he’d met with her.

  “Hi, come on in,” Lenny greeted.

  “I’m afraid we’re a little early,” Heather’s mother said apologetically.

  “Oh, that’s all right,” Lenny replied.
“Better early than late. Punctuality is an absolute must in the modeling business.”

  He led them over to the garment rack standing against the wall next to the dressing room. “You can hang Heather’s clothes on this.”

  “I hope I didn’t bring too much,” Heather said with a guilty smile. “But you told me to bring a variety of clothing changes.”

  Lenny said, “No problem. We’ll just go through these and narrow it down a bit. Your hair looks great, by the way!”

  “Thanks. I’m glad you suggested I get it cut. All my friends at school really like it. I think I do, too.” she added.

  “You know you do, Heather.” her mother corrected her. “Now let’s show Mr. Williams what you brought.”

  “Please, Mrs. Thompson. Just call me Lenny. I feel old enough as it is.”

  She smiled at him. “Okay, Lenny. Show Lenny the black dress, honey,” Mrs. Thompson told her daughter excitedly.

  Heather proudly held up a sheer black dress. The price tag was still attached to the sleeve. “We just bought this,” she told Lenny. “And it’s one thing that I definitely want to wear—if that’s all right with you, that is,” she added.

  Lenny looked it over. “Sure, it’s beautiful. We’ll use it for the elegant look. What else have you got there?”

  Heather proceeded to show him the rest of her wardrobe and Lenny narrowed down the changes to four: the black dress, a preppie plaid outfit, jeans and tee shirt, and a swimsuit.

  When they were done selecting the outfits, Mrs. Thompson asked, “When do you think you’ll be done with the session, Lenny?”

  “I’d say in a couple of hours or so. You’re welcome to stick around, if you’d like.”

  “I would, but Heather won’t let me. She thinks I’ll just make her nervous, which is probably true. Besides, I have several errands to run.”

  “Okay, we’ll see you at around 5:30, then.”

  Mrs. Thompson turned to Heather. “Good luck, honey. And don’t be nervous!”

  “Bye, Mom,” Heather replied with a typical teenage girl pout and a gesture of her hand for her mother to scram.

  Lenny showed Mrs. Thompson to the door then went back over to Heather. “We’re going to start with a basic headshot. Why don’t you put on the preppie outfit and I’ll be setting up in the meantime.”

  “Okay.”

  Lenny went over and loaded the camera with a fresh roll of black-and-white film. After making a few adjustments and setting up a fan for a few windblown effect shots, he killed the rest of the time thumbing through a magazine until Heather was finally set to go.

  The headshots took only fifteen minutes to shoot. Heather, in spite of a little nervousness at first, warmed up quickly and ended up posing quite naturally, greatly speeding up the pace. Lenny then took some three-quarter and full-length shots of her in the plaid outfit; occasionally directing her poses and facial expressions. Before long she was posing on her own without direction, and it soon became apparent to Lenny that Heather Thompson was a bona fide ham once she was in front of a camera.

  Next, Lenny photographed Heather wearing the jeans and tee shirt, her hair up in a ponytail. Everything went smoothly, and at one point Lenny lauded her on her obvious natural talent. Heather beamed with pride and thanked him enthusiastically.

  The shoot continued without a hitch. Lenny shot an entire roll of Heather in the black dress and felt certain he had a decent variety of usable shots. Heather modeled like a pro, her self-confidence seeming to grow in leaps and bounds with each frame he shot.

  Lenny waited as Heather changed into her final outfit: a white two-piece swimsuit with strapless top. Moments later, she came out and approached him, her hair wetted-down and poker-straight.

  “I’m ready. How do I look?” she asked.

  Lenny looked her over and was relieved to discover that she looked absolutely stunning in a swimsuit—not many girls did, especially in the dead of winter. Not only was it apparent that Heather had been to the tanning booth recently, but she was as fit and trim as an athlete.

  “You look great, Heather! Nice job with your hair, too. Now, why don’t you stand over here and we’ll get something on film before your hair starts drying out.”

  “Okay!”

  Heather went over to where Lenny indicated and stood while he made a quick lighting adjustment. He went over to the camera and began framing just her head in the viewfinder.

  “Hold it right there,” Lenny commanded. Heather was looking off-camera, to the right side. Her head was lowered slightly and her eyes were soft and contemplative. He shot a couple of quick frames.

  “Beautiful! Now try it from the other side.”

  Heather moved her head slowly to the left, keeping her chin tilted downward. A perfect mirror-image of her former pose. Three more frames.

  “Great! Now look straight-on.”

  Heather’s head turned slightly until she was looking directly into the lens. Her eyes never blinked as she stared straight ahead at him—sultry and seductive. Click, whirr, click, whirr.

  “Excellent! Chin down just a tad,” he ordered, clicking a couple more frames off.

  “Hold it there just a little bit longer.”

  Lenny backed up a step until Heather’s shoulders just barely came into view. He took another shot; the motor drive whirred the film forward.

  “Now look to your right again—get your chin up,” he told Heather, his eyes never leaving the viewfinder.

  He backed up several steps until he could see her from the waist up.

  “Now, straight-on again.”

  When Heather turned to face the lens, Lenny’s heart suddenly skipped a beat. She seemed to look different now, all of a sudden. Her eyes—they seemed larger. No, wider. That was it, he decided. Wider. They look absolutely awesome! So soft, so . . . mature. She seems a bit older all of a sudden, doesn’t she? he thought.

  He glanced down at her mouth. Her lips were parted slightly. He could just see her white teeth gleaming behind those full, parted lips—minuscule sparkles of white light from where the modeling lights struck and bounced off the tiny air bubbles of her saliva. Her lips looked much fuller than he recollected them being. No lipstick—all natural pink. He could’ve sworn that Heather had worn red lipstick, hadn’t she?

  His eyes skimmed down to where her hair lay on her well-defined shoulders. Wet, poker-straight locks of rich brown matted against her creamy-white soft skin. Lots of thick long hair shimmering in the light, falling randomly onto her collarbones and on down to her breasts; clinging to the rounded curves and falling out of his field of view. Beautiful shoulders. Beautiful collarbones. Beautiful breasts. Beautiful long hair . . .

  Long hair?

  Heather’s hair was short.

  Lenny’s eyes shot back to Heather’s.

  But those weren’t Heather’s eyes. Heather’s eyes were brown. These eyes were blue. And beautiful.

  And vaguely familiar . . .

  His Dream Lady! he thought. In the flesh!

  Lenny lowered the camera and stared straight ahead. What he saw was Heather Thompson standing there with a bewildered look on her face: Short hair, brown eyes, her swimsuit top intact.

  “Is something wrong?” Heather asked, puzzled.

  Lenny blinked his eyes a couple of times and struggled to regain his composure. “Uh, no. Nothing’s wrong.” he replied distantly.

  “How come you quit shooting? If you didn’t like my pose, I wish you would have at least told me, instead of just standing there staring at me. I’m not a mannequin, you know!”

  “Jesus, Heather, I’m sorry! I . . . just sort of, lost it there for a minute. I suddenly feel a little dizzy, actually . . .”

  Lenny set the camera down on the floor and brought his hand to his forehead, his equilibrium off-kilter.

  “Are you all right?” Heather said with sudden concern.

  “Yeah, I’ll be okay,” Lenny replied, forcing a weak smile. “Why don’t we take a little break?”

&nbs
p; Heather stepped over and placed a hand on Lenny’s arm. “You don’t look so good, Lenny. Your face is as white as a sheet. Maybe you should sit down for a while.”

  “I think I will. Would you do me a favor?” he asked.

  “Sure.”

  “There’s a deli next door. Could you go get me a Coke and whatever you’d like?” As it suddenly registered that she was wearing only a swimsuit, he said, “On second thought, I’ll go myself—you’re not dressed. What would you like to drink?”

  “A Coke would be fine. But I don’t mind going—I can just throw my coat on . . .”

  “No way,” Lenny objected. “Your hair is soaking wet and it’s freezing cold outside. Why don’t you just relax a few minutes and I’ll be right back.”

  “Okay,” Heather shrugged, “I’ll get some money . . .”

  Lenny managed a grin. “It’s on me.”

  He went over and put his jacket on then headed for the door.

  As Lenny walked down the hallway to the elevator, his head was spinning. He pressed the down button and leaned against the wall.

  “Christ!” he breathed out loud. “What in the hell just happened in there?”

  He felt disoriented as he entered the elevator and rode down to the first floor. It wasn’t until he stepped out onto the street and felt a blast of cold air in his face that he began feeling halfway normal again. He went next door to the deli, picked up a couple of cans of Coke then headed back to the studio, trying to make sense of it all.

  When he returned to the studio, Heather was sitting on one of the director’s chairs reading a magazine. Lenny went over and handed her a Coke.

  “Thanks. Are you feeling any better?” she asked.

  “Yeah. We’ll get started again in a few minutes.”

  Lenny popped the tab and took a slug of Coke then went over to his desk and sat down. He took a cigarette out and lit it up, staring at the wall.

  He thought back and tried to recall at what point Heather Thompson had become his Dream Lady. He wasn’t sure. He recalled that he hadn’t recognized her at first; perhaps because he’d only seen her in the form of a dream before; a vague entity such as images in dreams were. What had really thrown him was the fact that not only had she appeared while he was quite awake, but that his Dream Lady had appeared in living color as well. Dreams were perceived in black-and-white, he’d read somewhere.