Six Dead Spots

by Gregor Xane

"Didn't you say this would only take a few minutes."

  "I decided to take some additional pictures." Dr. Peel stood up and stretched. He groaned as if he'd just woken from a pleasant nap. "I didn't realize that this thing had so many options. I had to try them all."

  "How many additional pictures?" Frank asked. This was beginning to sound expensive. He didn't like the idea of paying extra money just to satisfy this man's intellectual curiosity.

  "Just a few hundred."

  "How many?"

  "Just over three hundred."

  "That can't be necessary." Frank tried to sit up. The plastic constraints pinched his skin.

  "Not absolutely necessary," Dr. Peel said. "No."

  "Would you mind getting me out of these straps?"

  Dr. Peel stepped from behind the shield-wall and unsnapped buckles.

  "How much is all this going to cost me?" Frank asked. "Three hundred sounds a bit excessive."

  "It won't be too bad. They're really pushing this device nowadays. I get the first few thousand snapshots at a reduced rate. Admittedly, I did go a bit overboard. So, I don't mind passing the savings down to you."

  The doctor patted Frank's arm. "Come on. Hop up. The best thing about this machine is that the images are developed instantly. I really can't wait to see these."

  • • • • • •

  Frank dressed and walked into the screening room. Dr. Peel was already standing in front of an over-sized monitor, flipping through images of what Frank assumed were detailed cross-sections of his body. They looked like elaborate, ultraviolet Rorschach blotters. He saw faces in his internal organs, ant colonies in his veins, storm clouds in the folds of his brain tissue.

  "These are great images, huh, Frank?" Dr. Peel didn't turn to acknowledge Frank's presence. The swirling vortices of Frank's interior transfixed him.

  "Finding anything?" Frank asked.

  Dr. Peel pressed a button on a remote control and flipped through a series of pictures before answering.

  "Uh, no. Hold on." A dozen more images flashed by. "I'll be with you in a minute."

  Frank watched the man's face as he examined the images. He detected a boyhood joy beneath the colored shadows splashing across his features.

  "You're not much of a gadget man, are you, Frank?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "You're not into gadgets? Pocket computers? The latest phones?"

  "No."

  "I'm a gadget man. That's why I'm probably the only doctor in the country who's gone through the trouble getting certified to run these imagers. I've got to have the car alarms and the electric toothbrush. I'm almost obsessive about electric razors. Always have to have the newest models. I have one of those with the vacuum built in. It sucks up the hair as you go. My wife's happy not to see the little hairs all over the sink."

  "I don't have an electric razor," Frank said. "It just feels like the safety razors give you a closer shave."

  "You're wrong there," Dr. Peel said, face glowing with wonder as hundreds of splices of Frank's body flashed by on the screen. "This new one is great, with the vacuum. It gets as close—"

  "Excuse me. But are you finding anything?"

  "Oh, I'm not looking. I mean, I finished looking a few minutes ago. I wasn't able to find anything at all. Everything looks good."

  "What now?"

  "We wait." Dr. Peel switched off the monitor. "We'll have the results from the tissue scan in a few days. We should know more at that time."

  "When are those tests due back, again?"

  The Banana put his hand on Frank's shoulder and guided him out to the waiting room. "Don't stay up worrying about it, Frank. My office will call you with the results when they come in."

  "When should that be, exactly?"

  "A few days." Dr. Peel escorted Frank through the automatic doors and out to the sidewalk. He waved to Frank as the doors drew closed, calling after him, "It could be a week. Maybe two."

  Chapter 5

  A boy and a girl held hands on a park bench. Their eyes were closed. Their lips were puckered. They sat frozen in place, about to share a first kiss, dressed in their Sunday best. The boy wore a rumpled suit and the girl a spring dress with a matching yellow handbag. Blurry trees and fuzzy green grass surrounded them. A family of pigeons pecked at the sidewalk. And above their heads, scrawled in formal script, were the words Demon Purse.

  Frank sat back in his chair, crossed his arms over his chest, and stared at this image on the monitor. He considered for a moment and clicked his mouse.

  Horns sprouted from the children's foreheads.

  Frank clicked the mouse again and the horns disappeared.

  The phone rang and Frank swiveled in his chair to answer it.

  "This is Carl," the voice on the other end said.

  "Who?" Frank asked.

  The line was silent.

  "Are you there? Hello?"

  Frank heard a deep inhalation and then, "It's Carl."

  "Yes?"

  "From Dr. Peel's office?"

  "Oh, sorry." Frank had no idea why he was apologizing.

  "That's okay," Carl said.

  Frank waited for Carl to continue. He dialed down his stereo, turned his back to his computer screen. "Are you there?"

  "Yes."

  "What can I do for you, Carl?"

  "I was calling with your test results."

  Frank flipped his mouse over and unscrewed the bottom. He removed the batteries and rolled them between his palms. He waited and waited for Carl to continue, but then grew tired of waiting.

  "And?" Frank asked.

  "That's it," Carl said. "I just called to give you the test results."

  "And what were they?"

  "They didn't find nothing."

  "They found nothing?"

  "That's what I said."

  "No, it's not," Frank said, but decided not to press the point. He didn't want to start an argument with Carl. "When can I come back in?"

  "Are you sick?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "What are your symptoms?"

  "The spots."

  "The spots? Why would you come back for that?"

  "Because they're still there."

  "But Dr. Peel said there is nothing wrong with you. The tests turned up nothing."

  "So, that's it?"

  Frank heard Carl flipping through his chart. "The tests show that there is nothing physically wrong with you."

  "No more tests are scheduled?"

  "No."

  "Dr. Peel is just giving up?"

  "No. I wouldn't call it that. He ran tests and—"

  "I know." Frank sighed. "Well, does he think it's psychological then?"

  "That's what it says," Carl said, rustling pages, "at the bottom here."

  "So, does the doctor have a referral for me?"

  "Yes, you have an appointment with Dr. Vo on the twenty-fifth."

  "Can you ask the doctor if he can refer me to someone else?"

  Dr. Vo was the only psychiatrist in town, and he had a reputation. The man had divorced his wife and was now living with a former patient twenty years his junior.

  "He's the only doctor in your plan for this geographical area. That's the best we can do. Unless you want to drive to Spring City to see someone else?"

  "That's the closest?

  "That's the closest."

  "No. I can't do that."

  "The twenty-fifth," Carl said.

  "What time on the twenty-fifth?"

  Frank received no answer.

  "Carl? Hello?"

  The line was dead.

  Chapter 6

  Frank was going to a party. He shaved, showered, and put on fresh clothes. He pulled open a clear Mylar bag, reached inside and pulled out a cheap plastic mask. He stretched its rubber-band over his head and let it snap against the back of his skull.

  Frank drove slowly to his brother's house, hoping to pass someone on the streets. He wanted to see a reaction to his mask. But he didn't see a s
ingle car out on the road.

  The only person he saw was a young girl riding a bicycle, but she went past him and around a corner so fast that he wasn't sure that she had noticed him. Frank had even stuck his masked face out the window at her, made an effort to see her expression, but he wasn't able to make out her features. Her face was oddly flat and pasty. He imagined her eyes, nose, and mouth sliding over her chin and onto her dress.

  Frank turned the car around and followed the girl. He wanted to confirm that what he had just seen was indeed a hallucination. He turned the wheel and the corner just in time to see the girl roll up into a driveway. She dropped her bike behind a black sedan and ran inside the open garage. Frank was only able to catch another quick glimpse of her face, her cheek, as she turned away. He saw only blurred skin, no depth, no nose, no color, and no eyes. The garage door closed and Frank sped up as he passed the house.

  He tried to shake the faceless girl from his mind as he turned around and headed back toward Steve's. He looked into the rear-view mirror and ran his fingers through his hair. He had a vision of himself, an hour into the future, surrounded by masked strangers. His hair was wet in this vision and he didn't know why. But his imagined future self went on slicking his hair back anyway, tight to his head, charged with an odd, grimy sense of superiority.

  Frank pulled the car to the curb and walked up the steps to Steve's porch. He knocked on the screen door. Bodies moved in shadow across drawn shades.

  Steve's wife, Jill, answered the door. Her mask covered almost her entire face. It was silver and did nothing to conceal her pained grin.

  "Frank," she said.

  "Yes."

  "Hold on a minute, Frank. I'll be right back." Jill left the door open a crack and walked away.

  Her shadow moved across drawn shades. She stomped over to Steve's shadow, waved her hands, and pointed to the door.

  "Hi, Frank," Steve said, poking his head through the screen door. His mask was red, with plastic feather eyebrows. "I'm glad you could make it."

  "Is everything all right?" Frank asked. "It didn't seem like Jill was expecting me."

  "She wasn't. My fault. You just surprised her, that's all."

  "Are you sure?"

  "It's nothing personal." Steve lifted his mask and winked. "She's just worried about not having enough food."

  "I don't want to cause you any problems." Frank turned and pointed to the street. "I can go."

  "No." Steve opened the door. "I'm glad you could make it."

  Frank stepped inside. Candelabras flickered in the foyer. He heard laughter, ice tinkling in glasses, echoing down the hallway. Steve led him into the living room and the voices stopped. The party-goers looked at Frank and whispered amongst themselves shamelessly, like schoolgirls.

  "Everyone," Steve said, raising his glass to the silence. "This is my brother, Frank."

  No one moved or said a word.

  "He's in graphic design."

  A woman in a catcher's mask coughed. She leaned in close to her date and whispered something in his ear, looking at Frank the entire time. She sat with her legs tucked up under her on the couch. Her skirt was bunched up around her waist. Her garter belt and stockings matched exactly the color of her skin.

  Her date wore a black satin robe with a hood. His mask had a pig's snout and slanted eyes. He sipped his drink and nodded as he listened to his date's whispers.

  Frank moved his eyes from the stockings to a broad coffee table. A miniature city of wineglasses and half-finished bottles of wine towered over candy trays filled with multicolored pills and tablets. A gum ball machine stood with civic pride as the centerpiece, its geodesic glass sphere filled with half-blue, half-purple capsules.

  Steve nudged Frank's arm. He nodded to the pharmaceutical metropolis and said, "It's not quite as extravagant as it looks. The gum ball machine is mostly filler, over-the-counter painkillers. If you want anything, just ask someone what it is before you take it. Almost everyone here is a pharmacist or a doctor."

  "I'll remember that." Because I'm sure they won't let me forget it. Frank turned away from the crowd in search of a drink.

  "Scotch?" Steve asked.

  Frank followed Steve to an ancient, baroque dining table, its base a charging bull carved from a great mahogany block. This makeshift bar served as a neighboring city, a megalopolis of silver and glass, of polished decanters and shining jiggers, dark bottles of gleaming liqueur, sparkling trays of fruit, meat, and cheese.

  Steve was nudging Frank again.

  "It's a rental," he said. "Jill would never allow such a thing as a permanent fixture in her home."

  "I wasn't going to say anything," Frank said.

  "I know. It's a little over the top."

  Steve packed a glass full of ice with a pair of gaudy metal tongs. Its pincers were clapping angel wings.

  "Where do you even rent such a thing?" Frank asked, stepping back from the table, peering underneath at the rippling, muscled wood.

  "There's a place out in California called Events." Steve tipped a bottle of whiskey into the glass. "They have all kinds of great stuff. There's a catalog around here somewhere. Remind me later, I'll find it for you."

  "You shipped this thing all the way from California?"

  "I am a drug dealer." Steve finished building the drink with a smile. "It's good to see you out."

  "Yeah."

  Steve handed over the Scotch.

  Frank sucked down half of it and held out his glass for a refill. The glass looked like a rental, too, lead crystal, etched with dancing ivy and tangled nymphs.

  "Whatever happened with that opera gig?" Steve asked. "You ever hear anything back?"

  "Yeah. I already started working on it."

  "You did?"

  "Couple of weeks ago."

  "You should have told me. I would have bought you a drink."

  "Come on."

  "It's the biggest job you've had in a while. It could turn into an annual thing."

  "I don't know."

  "The city's throwing money at that opera house these days. Part of their big five year urban renewal initiative."

  "It's bullshit."

  "Yeah. But why not cash in on the bullshit while you can?"

  "Excuse me." Frank took the bottle from Steve's hands and replenished his Scotch. "I've got to go to the restroom."

  Steve sipped his drink, nodded toward the hallway. "You know where it is."

  • • • • • •

  Frank zipped up and turned to the sink to wash his hands. He found the liquid-soap pump dry and turned in circles in search of an alternative. He drew the shower curtain and spotted a bar of soap across the wide Jacuzzi tub. He had to bend over and really reach to grab hold of the slippery shell-shaped thing. The shower nozzle drizzled on his head, water dribbled down the inside of his shirt.

  Frank washed up and returned the soap to the dish. He grabbed the doorknob before drying his hands and his hand slipped, opening the bathroom door.

  He heard voices coming from the bedroom across the hall, angry whispers.

  "Keep your voice down," Steve said. "He's in there taking a piss."

  Frank pushed the door, almost closed it, after hearing this. He pulled the hand towel from the rack and listened more closely while drying his hands.

  "I can't believe you asked him here for this," Jill said. "It's not happening with him. If that's what you're after. He's your fucking brother."

  "Half-brother. Technically."

  "It's still fucking sick."

  Steve laughed.

  "I just wanted to see the guy around people for a change. He's not going to stay that late, I can tell you that. It's obvious he's uncomfortable."

  "He better not stay all night."

  "I can't believe you'd think I would ask you to do something like that."

  "I don't know with you sometimes, Steve."

  "Come on."

  "You are the creep who got me into this."

  "Creep!" Steve said in
a voice belonging to a low-rent cartoon vampire.

  Jill giggled and Frank heard sickening kisses, a playful struggle.

  Frank slowly hung the towel on the rack, listening carefully for the sound of footsteps returning to the party, and seriously considered making a run for the front door.

  Steve and Jill shuffled past the bathroom in short bursts, pushing each other like fighting siblings.

  Frank counted to thirty before he dared to open the door and stepped into the hall.

  The voices didn't stop when he entered the living room for the second time, and he was grateful to be ignored. He returned to the rented bar and fixed himself another Scotch. He sipped and turned to observe the mingling party-goers. They talked quietly in small groups.

  A man pointed at pills in the palm of his hand. His date smoked and gave her opinion of each one. In the corner, a couple tangled together, dressed in matching satin military attire, sparkling gold braids, and flashing medals. Their masks were the color of dull tank steel. The eye holes were trimmed with raised plastic rivets.

  Frank turned away out of an irrational fear that they would be upset if he'd been caught staring. Steve and Jill were standing a few feet away from the couple. Steve had his shoulders hunched and was gesturing with upturned palms, trying to convince Jill of something, failing in his attempts at discretion. Jill's arms were folded and she shook her head, eyes half-closed. Steve finally threw his arms up in defeat and stomped off to the bar and began moving bottles from the bar top over to the nearby kitchen counter.

  Frank at first thought that Jill had given the order to end the party early. But when he looked around to gauge the reactions on the faces surrounding him, he found eager smiles and nods of approval.

  A shirtless man, wearing a cowl fastened around his neck with a bow tie, stepped forward and helped Steve clear the table.

  Once it was clear, Jill appeared from the kitchen with a rag and a can of furniture polish. She sprayed and wiped the table down. When she was finished, Steve unfurled a red tablecloth and covered the table.

  A woman dressed in overalls and a mask covered with leaves and plastic birds handed her glass to her date and performed a cartwheel, which ended gracefully with her feet planted on the tabletop. She unsnapped her shoulder straps and her overalls dropped, revealing flesh and bristly floral negligee.