Some Fantastic (working title)
an excerpt

Anyway, it spread. A little red rash, all over town. Not from person to person, just random pop-ups here and there. Not everyone got it, either – I decided to space it out a little, but in enough numbers and well enough spread out, so that everyone in the town knew about it, and everyone in the town either had it or knew someone who did. Only then did I take it to the next step.

Five days after Phyllis’s visit to old lady Rothbert’s house, the rashes began to change, starting with those who had gotten it earliest. They got brighter in the middle and lighter toward the edges, and in the right light, they almost seemed to glow. The red in the middle intenstified as time went on, until it became more defined – less like an amorphous blotch, more structure to it. It became clear that there was some kind of order, some kind of meaning behind it.

Everyone waited. You could see people at work – secretaries, movers, traffic cops, nurses – stopping, sitting down, and staring – at their arms, their legs, at a mirror – staring and waiting to see what this rash would become.

Caroline Liebowitz stopped answering the phones at the electrician’s office after the mark became so red that she could see it through her skirt. Glancing around her, she hitched it up a little, so that she could see the mark more directly. She watched it for an hour, maybe two, never moving, never looking up, never heeding the ringing of the phones. It got clearer and clearer while getting brighter and brighter. The blotch formed shapes, the shapes formed curves, the curves formed… a script. Cursive script. Letters. A name. The mark turned black.

Paul Cather didn’t see his mark when it changed. He was swimming, on his very last lap of the day, when his teammates saw the red glow from the water. They shouted at him that something was wrong, something was happening, the rash was getting worse. Paul ran to the bathroom and twisted around in front of the mirror, contorting himself to see what had happened to his back. His mark had already blackened when he saw it. He swore, and looked around to see if anyone else had read it. He put on his shirt, ran to his bike, and pedaled home as fast as he could.

Evelyn Miller had just sunk back against her pillows and propped up her swollen ankles when she saw the glow from her stomach. Terrified that something had gone horribly wrong, she called out to her husband. They both stared at it, transfixed, and they both saw it turn black. He was puzzled, but relieved. She clutched a pillow, trying to hide her panic.

On and on it spread. New people manifested the rash, and more rashes were defined into the mysterious black script, the inexplicable names written on their skin. The clinic was flooded with half the town demanding to know what was happening, while the other half stayed at home, accepting it as yet another curiosity, a typical hazard of living here, no more unusual than anything else that’s happened before.

But the people at the clinic, that’s the important part for me, because in this particular case, it’s absolutely essential that they understand exactly what it means. For this one, at least, to work, they have to figure it out. Otherwise I’m just scaring for the sake of fear, and I think I’ve evolved a little beyond that over the years.

At the clinic, they all start talking to each other, so eventually they’re going to have to see the patterns. Betsy and Jim Wilkins, they give the first clue. These two have matching marks – both on the inside of the left wrist, both smallish but neat and precise. Betsy’s says, “Jim.” Jim’s says, “Betsy.” A couple more married couples come forward. Is that it?, they ask. The name of the person you’re married to?

But Caroline Liebowitz isn’t married. She’s got a very clear, if somewhat scrawled, “Timothy” written just above her knee. Phyllis (who has yet to manifest a mark, but feels it her duty as a civic leader to be there) and the other gossipists among the crowd see the alternative connection immediately, knowing as they do exactly how many nights a week Caroline’s car isn’t parked in her own driveway. Of course, it takes another fifteen minutes for Phyllis to find the delicate way to suggest it.

Then come the objections, the outrage, from the crowd of those who have the mark – outraged mothers who refuse to believe their teenagers could be capable of it at such a young age, girls from the college who insist on their virginity but are believed by no one, and Betsy, who knows but doesn’t say that ever since Jim’s shell shock experience in Desert Storm, such a connection is quite impossible. But, of course, who is to believe any of them?

Then someone remembers old lady Rothbert. Remarkably, it isn’t Phyllis. Someone takes the time to trace it back, and they find her, the original record, the point where it all started. And if they can believe anyone of being innocent of this particular accusal, it’s going to be old lady rothbert, alone in her house full of cats for the last fifty years or more. But no one’s seen the old lady since her first visit to the clinic – even Phyllis had forgotten all abou ther. So they must go. They must go see old lady Rothbert.

Phyllis heads the brigade, the doctors and nurses just behind her, the crowd of clinic patients trailing after them. When they ring the bell, nothing happens. A small brown cat walks through the flap, but old lady Rothbert doesn’t come. Phyllis directs Jim Wilkins to go to his truck to get his locksmith materials, and while everyone waits, Phyllis stands facing the door, peering in the window, twisting her hands. As Jim works on the lock, the town holds its collective breath. Jim opens the door, and Dr. Lawrence peers in first, delicately, respectful, corncerned. Phyllis pushes him aside and marches in. They find old lady Rothbert sitting at an antique vanity in her bedroom, the mirror obscured with dust. Stacks of old crumbling letters sit on the table, disordered, and the old lady holds one in her left hand, her right arm extended next to it. She doesn’t notice the new people in the room. She just stares at the letter, and at her arm, transfixed. Phyllis snatches up a stray letter and runs her eyes over it, skimming through, catching random phrases. “Don’t worry about me… sewn your picture on the inside of my uniform… haven’t even seen any Nazi troops yet… for the wedding… hope to come home soon.” Dr. Lawrence knelt over poor old Eleanor Rothbert, as the others filed in and looked over his shoulder. They saw two identical marks – one on the yellowing paper, the other on wrinkled skin – both enscribed with the same name, both written in the same angular, cursive script. “Francis.”

When Dr. Lawrence wrote up his report for the newspaper, with data and personal stories collected from over two hundred of the afflicted, he drew this conclusion: “The special case of Miss Eleanor Rothbert illustrates the common factor among all the cases described here. The tie of marriage is ruled out, as historical documents have confirmed that no marriage license has ever been issued to Miss Rothbert, and the war record and death certificate of Private Francis Brooks rule out the possibility of connection via current sexual relations. After confidential interviews with two hundred and thirty-four subjects, I can conclude with relative confidence that the name enscribed on a subject’s skin is indicative of an individual for whom the subject has romantic feelings. Furthermore, the observed exclusivity of the names (i.e., the phenomenon by which only one name is observed on the skin of each subject), combined with information gathered from personal testimonials, indicates that these romantic feelings must be remarkably intense; colloquially, the subject’s skin manifests the name of the person with whom they are ‘in love.’ The cause of this phenomenon has yet to be identified.”

Anna finished reading this, and she set the newspaper back down on the counter, next to the sink. She looked in the mirror and tilted her head to see the left side of her neck, where the red blotch on her skin started to glow. She watched it, heart racing, waiting for the mark to define itself, to give her a name. The mark turned black. “Oh.”

She turned toward her closet, rummaged around for a minute, and then from the very back, she pulled a large woolen turtleneck sweater. She pulled it over her head and tugged the neck up as far as it would go. She looked in the mirror again and arranged her hair to cover the single letter that remained visible on the edge of her chin. She bit her lip, gathered her books, and walked outside. I followed her, of course… just as I always do.