Marc Stiegler - Kath in Winter

Illustration by Steve Cavallo

He opened his eyes to a vision: she sat before him, the woman whose smile could light a galaxy.

Although Ross Herrick smiled at her, she did not move. Although he murmured a greeting, she did not reply.

A reply would have astonished him. She was, after all, just a picture—a picture of the greatest actress ever to grace the Silver Screen. The present Kath didn’t look like that photo any more, of course; the photo was sixty-two years old, and the living, breathing Kathleen Tepper was but an ember of the woman he now gazed upon.

By all accounts, however, she still sparkled. Her fire might now be an ember, but it was a shining ember indeed. Their mutual friends had told him this, though he himself had never met her.

He would meet her soon. Tomorrow, in fact, when he would attend a party. The hostess had promised that Kath would appear.

Ross glanced at the clock, noting the time with horror. He went into hyperdrive, pulling on khaki slacks, struggling to pull a polo shirt over his muscular shoulders, grabbing his leather jacket and duffel, and tugging a comb through his dark curls as he ran out the door to his Jeep. His plane for Seattle left in less than two hours. He wanted very much to meet Kath, and this would probably be his only chance. She was, after all, very old now. She couldn’t have much time left.

Kath fought off the sharp pain that stabbed behind her eyes, and examined herself in the mirror one last time. The scarf around her throat did an excellent job of disguising the progressive collapse of her neck muscles. Without the scarf, she looked like an aged turkey; but with the scarf in place, she looked more like her vision of herself. The word “spry” popped into her mind unbidden. Kath, she said sternly to her reflection, five years ago you would have withered anyone who called you “spry” with your famous patrician glare. She reviewed her present assets—she was still tall and slender, and osteoporosis had not yet distorted the straight iron of her back. Her mind was as sharp as… she stuck her tongue out at herself, fluffed her once-famous locks, and stepped out into the melee. At least, she viewed it as a melee, though the other participants no doubt thought it was a party.

She had never been much of a party-hound; she liked them even less now. Consequently, she always astonished herself on the rare occasions she accepted such invitations. But her grand-nephew Timmy was trotting off upon a long journey, and her niece Dolly had begged her to come and see him off. And since Kath considered it a good possibility that Timmy’d get himself killed on this expedition, she figured she could acquiesce this once. After all, even if Timmy did survive his attempt to climb Everest, Kath herself might not be around to celebrate his return. The thought displeased her enough to force her into the bright defiant smile she had perfected when Spence died, long ago.

Still, there was a positive aspect to attending a party thrown in honor of mountain climbers. They were a healthy lot, strong, vigorous and handsome in their own way. She enjoyed watching them… even if watching was all she did nowadays. She remembered the days when she would have—“Aunt Kath, I’d like you to meet someone,” Timmy spoke from stage right, just outside her field of vision.

She turned to him. “What’s that, Timmy?” she asked, not having heard him clearly. Hah, and people wonder if I’m senile! she thought to herself. No wonder, she concluded sourly.

“Kath, this is Ross Herrick, the leader of my expedition.” Timmy stepped back and a new character—no doubt this Mr. Herrick fellow-moved forward. He extended his hand. She could see, even without her glasses, just how rough—and how strong—his hand was.

Kath adjusted her social smile, took the proffered hand, and said, “A pleasure, I’m sure, Mr. Herrick.” She looked him over, and her smile grew warmer. He fit her stereotype for climbers to a degree—he was strong, and he had a dancer’s grace about him. But he was rather short, and plain rather than ruggedly handsome. Still, his smile lit his countenance, and dark hair and eyes had always caught her fancy. Spence, now—

He covered her hand with his other hand. “Meeting you is a great pleasure for me, Miss Tepper.” He looked away and laughed, as to himself. “At the risk of sounding trite, I must tell you that I have fallen in love with you at least a dozen times, in your different characters.”

“Goodness me, Mr. Herrick, you’ll make me blush.” She could feel it, too—she was blushing, of all absurd things. She couldn’t quite understand why, and she conceded to herself that she was sadly out of practice at this game. While Mr. Herrick was not by any means the first person to offer her such lavish, and silly, praise, his eyes were so dark with their intensity, it made her feel… warm… and…

Suddenly the warmth turned to ice in her stomach. His eyes, Mr. Herrick’s eyes, reminded her of Spence. Spence could always make her blush. “Of course, whatever greatness I achieved is ancient history, Mr. Herrick. As you must know, I retired when cybervid made film obsolete, twenty years ago.”

His eyes were still upon her. “I know, Miss Tepper. Frankly, your absence is cybervid’s loss. I, for one, prefer the old films.”

This Mr. Herrick was a most impertinent man! She concentrated hard on controlling her throat, to suppress the frail quaver that had encumbered her voice over the past decade, and set forth to put him in his place.

She affixed him with her finest highbrow stare, long enough to ensure that he understood his fate. She turned away and strolled to Dolly’s southeast bay window. It was a crisp evening; in the distance she could see Mt. Rainier, its stark white glaciers glowing in the twilight. As she had known he would, Mr. Herrick followed her, a moth too near a flame to save himself.

Kath watched the dusk slide up the flanks of the mountain. Spence had often compared her to Mt. Rainier; both of them were volcanoes, he would say, cloaked in wintry snow.

Mr. Herrick whispered reverently, “She is beautiful, isn’t she? The view from her peak still dazzles me, even though I have been there many times.”

Kath cleared her throat, and proceeded to the attack. “It amazes me, Mr. Herrick, every time I hear about people ready to commit acts of suicide, like climbing mountains, when there is no need.”

Mr. Herrick picked up the gauntlet quite smoothly. “All people contemplate acts of suicide, Miss Tep-per—even you.”

Kath responded in her best theatrical voice. “Why, I should say not! I demand, Mr. Herrick, that you produce examples.”

Mr. Herrick’s eyes pondered her, as he formulated his answer. Kath smiled serenely. Do your worst, Kath thought with glee.

“You are letting old age kill you,” he said quietly.

Her hand rose reflexively toward her throat; but she forced her hand down and glared at him instead.

He continued. “Death is on the verge of becoming obsolete. But typically, people of your age—” he glared back at her, challenging her in his turn—“people of your age reject the alternative to death out of hand. As if the alternative could be any worse.” He stopped, and waited for her reaction.

“And just exactly how would one avoid death, Mr. Herrick?” Could he actually be a follower of one of these New Age religious groups? Surely not! Not a man with Spence’s eyes, please, no.