Jess Walter - The Zero

At one corner of the house he could see her turn from side to side, as if checking herself in a mirror, the cup of yogurt in her hand.

Remy dropped the binoculars and looked down at himself. He was wearing camouflage pants and a black jacket. He pulled a black stocking cap off his head and stared at it. Did he own a black stocking cap? A green camo backpack was spread out in the grass. Remy opened the backpack and began flipping through it. He found a notebook and pen, gloves, a semiautomatic handgun, and a box of Dolly Madison Zingers, like Twinkies with yellow frosting. Remy opened the box, took one out, and had a bite. It was good: spongy yellow cake with filling and frosting. Then he cracked the notebook. There were two listings written in the notebook, in his handwriting: 0645 – light on. Subject Herote awake. Alone. 0724 – Subject out of shower, dressing in workout clothes . He glanced over at the backpack and saw, at the bottom… a full prescription bottle. Remy set the Zinger down, looked around the field, and then pulled out the bottle. He opened it and swallowed two of the capsules. He closed his eyes and curled up on the ground, hoping his psychiatrist knew what he was talking about and that this hallucination would dissolve. But with his eyes closed Remy could only see streaks and floaters, and when he opened his eyes he was still in the field. He fell back in the grass, discouraged.

“Fresca Two. This is Fanta One. Do you copy?”

Remy wedged himself into the deep grass, hoping the medication would kick in and this would all go away.

“I’m gonna make the call now.” It was Markham’s voice. “Wish me luck.”

Remy raised his head and looked all around the field. It was all still there, the house, the oak trees, the barn and corral, the highway behind, a creek bed to the right, lined with bushes, and on his left, a ridge, its base ringed by shade trees whose branches moved in the soft wind like fingers on a piano.

A few seconds later, Remy could hear a telephone ringing in his earpiece. He held the binoculars to his eyes and saw the woman in the big house skip across a room and pick up the phone on the second ring.

“Helloo,” her voice chirped in his ear.

“I’m looking for Lisa Herote,” he heard Markham say.

“This is she.” He watched her through the binoculars, her lips moving just slightly ahead of the words.

“Hi, this is Mike Brady, with Brady Florists here in town,” Markham continued. “We have an arrangement we’re trying to deliver for you from a…” Papers shuffled. “…Bishir Madain.”

“Oh,” she said, and through the binoculars Remy could see the woman put a hand against her chest, as if she’d just received a compliment. “Bishir? Really?” Her head cocked and she said, “Oh,” again.

“Yeah, sorry to ruin the surprise,” Markham said. “Unfortunately, our computer was down when he called and my kid wrote the information on a piece of paper and then spilled Dr Pepper on it… so we don’t have Mr. Madain’s credit card number or any contact information for him. We can’t deliver without-”

“Oh, I’ll pay for it,” she offered quickly, as if she were used to paying for Bishir.

Clearly, this hadn’t occurred to Markham, who coughed and cleared his throat. “Yeah, that’s against our policy. But if you just could give us Mr. Madain’s phone number, we can clear this all up.”

“I don’t have it,” she said. “I haven’t talked to Bishir in months. I have no idea where he is. That’s why it’s such a pleasant surprise that he’d send me flowers.”

“Oh. No idea where he is?”

“No. None. We had a difficult breakup,” she said. “He wasn’t exactly… committed to the relationship.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry,” Markham said over the earpiece. “And you have no idea-”

“No, none. I’m sorry.”

“That’s too bad.”

“I mean… I assume he’s still in San Francisco. Is that where the call came from?”

“San Francisco,” Markham said, perking up. “Yes.”

“That’s where he said he was moving.”

“Okay, well-”

“Do I get my flowers?”

In his earpiece, Remy heard the line go dead and then:

“Fresca Two, this is Fanta One. How was that? Pretty good, huh?”

Remy ignored him.

“Come on, Brian. I did okay, right? Come on. I know you’re down there. I’m staring right at you.”

Remy wedged himself down in the grass again.

“Hey, did you open those Zingers yet? I’m starving up here, man. I ate all my corn nuts already. You were right. I shouldn’t have gotten corn nuts. Can I have a Zinger?”

Finally, Remy said, “They’re all gone.”

“No they’re not,” Markham said. “No way you eat a whole box of Zingers before eight in the morning. It’s physically impossible. Come on, man.”

“Leave me alone,” Remy said again. “This isn’t even real.” He took off the headset and threw it down in the grass.

It was quiet in the field, but for the rustle of deep grass. Remy looked at the prescription bottle again; then ate another bite of Zinger instead. He couldn’t believe how good it was. He grabbed the box to see the ingredients. There was no mention of the things he could taste: cake, cream, and frosting… it was as if those things didn’t really exist, as if what he believed was a piece of frosted yellow cake was really nothing more than this list of sugars, acids, preservatives, sulfates, and yellow dyes.

“I saw that, you stingy jerk.” Markham’s voice was a tiny whine from the headset lying in the wet grass. “I know you’re-”

LYING NAKED on the queen-size bed, on top of the covers, Remy looked around the hotel room. It was a big room, with a window overlooking a park. He wasn’t sure where – it didn’t look like anyplace in the city he’d ever been. A grove of willows stood guard outside the window, above a meandering river. Remy’s clothes were piled on a chair and a wine bottle sat on the nightstand, half-full, next to a glass with nothing but the dark red rim around the stem. He sat up and poured himself another glass of wine.

Then he heard the toilet flush. He looked at the bathroom door, which was closed. Behind the door, the water ran.

Remy pulled the cover across his lap. A few minutes later, she came out of the bathroom. It was Nicole, April’s boss.

“Oh, Jesus,” Remy said.

“That’s better,” she said. She was wearing a short, red silk robe, tied at the waist. She was holding a glass of wine, the same color as her painted finger and toenails.

“Whew boy,” she said. “I’m not used to the sex taking that long. With Troy it’s more like getting a flu shot.” She took a slug of wine.

“Oh, God,” Remy said. “I didn’t… did I?”

“Oh, I think you did.” She smiled, and then cocked her head. “Oh, no. Are we having second thoughts, hon? I was afraid of that.”

“No. I can’t do this,” Remy said.

“Well, probably not for a few hours, no.”

“Look, I’m sorry but this was wrong… I shouldn’t be here.”

Nicole stood staring at him, and finally took a sip of wine. “Look, if it’s any consolation, no one wants to have done it right after they’ve done it.” She shrugged. “Except maybe teenagers.” She winked. “And women of a certain age.” She set her wine down on the nightstand. “I’ll tell you what… I’m going to go now… I’m not really into the whole… regret part.”

She returned to the bathroom and began getting dressed. Remy caught flashes of her in the mirror, as she wrestled her way back into a pair of unlikely string underwear, and thrust her legs into a pair of black pants. She came out buttoning a pink suit jacket.

Remy was trying to figure out how to explain himself. “Listen, I’m not myself these days. I shouldn’t have… I’m not… entirely in control.”