Photographic Equations

Rain pattering against the asphalt and his umbrella, Roger rounds the corner of the five-story brick apartment building and trudges into the alleyway . . . the green dumpster brimming with trash bags right where he said it would be. His shoes slapping at a few puddles along the way, Roger lifts the leftmost trash bag—aluminum cans and glass clinking around inside—and finds the little black notebook underneath, the front and back covers neatly sealed together with a button strap. A few raindrops splashing against the front, he picks the notebook up, wipes it against his flannel shirt, and—his pocket just large enough to accommodate it—places it into his jean pocket. The acrid stench of rotting food finally getting to him, Roger backs away from the dumpster and continues his route home.

With a glance at the clock and a quick smile, Susan—Roger’s wife—greets him at the door, rain dripping off the folded umbrella and onto the welcome mat where dark spots already begin to form. “Let me grab that for you,” she says, her expression one of desperation as she—holding one hand beneath the umbrella to catch any loose water—hurries into the bathroom.

“Thanks, Hun,” Roger says, a waft of homemade bread entering his nose and reminding him of the meal she had promised him earlier.

Stairs thumping with the excitement of a hungry eight-year-old girl, his daughter Mary makes her way down from the second floor, landing in front of him, on the hardwood floor, with a bang. “I’m starving!”

“Don’t I get a ‘hello’?”

“After we eat!” she exclaims, spinning around and zooming into the dining room as Susan reappears from the bathroom just in time to watch her go.

“She’s not the only one,” Susan says, looking back at Roger with a slight frown.

“I had to pick something up after work,” Roger says, patting the bulge in his right pocket. “Present for the boss.”

Susan nods. “You said his birthday was next week, I remember. Well, come on.”

The low-volume drone of a kids show on the TV behind him, Mary’s gaze flitting back and forth from it to her math homework on the coffee table in front of them, the two of them sit on their knees on the carpet while—on the other side of the table—the less-than-a-year-old sofa taunts Roger with its plush cushions.

Mary sighs, her pencil falling defeatedly to the paper with a snap. “I don’t get it.”

“Your teacher gave you an A on your last assignment.”

“Because I answered the questions correctly.”

Roger frowns.

“If I draw a curvy line like this: 8, and then two straight lines like this: 3, I’m supposed to write 24 in the box, but I don’t really get it.”

“You remember how addition works, right? 8 x 3 is the same as writing 8 + 8 + 8; it’s just shorter and more convenient.”

“But they’re just lines.”

Roger laughs, staring thoughtfully at his daughter for a moment, and then reaches into his pocket . . . the little black notebook taking some wriggling before he can free it from his jeans. He places it on the table in front of her, gesturing to it.

Unclasping the strap, Mary peels the front cover open . . . the first page—thin and narrowly lined—sticking to it and rising with it for a moment before falling back to the bed of pages. “It’s empty,” she says, looking up at him.

“Just wait . . .”

Soon, the page begins to fill with symbols, letters, and numbers . . . every white space utilized as Mary’s jaw drops with the shock of someone seeing magic for the first time . . . her fingers flipping through the pages as the same phenomenon occurs again and again.

“Right here,” Roger says, pressing his finger down at the top of one of the pages, “is the equation for life itself . . . the reason why we’re here right now. And right here,” he says, flipping back a few pages, “is the equation for a flower. Here, the equation for love . . . for music . . .”

“What is this book for?”

Gently reaching forward with both hands and grasping the ends of the notebook—Mary recognizing his intention and retracting her hands—Roger closes it, reclasps the strap, and returns it to his pocket. “When you get a little older, I’ll tell you, but in the meantime, try to think of the lines as parts of a picture, and if you draw the picture just right, you can understand everything.”

The leaves beginning to turn, a maple tree—not far from the bench on which he sits—already mostly yellow with a few leaves scattered at its base, Roger breathes as regularly as he can while a couple of children play on the playground in front of him . . . the monkey bars patterning the wood chips with the shadow of a jail cell.

The rustling of clothing behind Roger, a man walks around the end of the bench and seats himself next to Roger, the sun glinting against the rims of his glasses as he stares interminably forward. “The $20,000 was contingent on your not reading it.”

Playing a game of tag, a young boy throws himself into a tube slide . . . reappearing moments later at the bottom where he hops and dashes across the wood chips.

“If the notebook is what you say it is, you must have known I would read it.”

The man smiles. “Nothing from the book can be copied out of it, as I’m sure you’ve discovered.” He extends his hand toward Roger, palm up, Roger digging the notebook out of his pocket and giving it to the man. “Our business is concluded.”

Another day home from work, Mary now a little taller and a little older sidestepping her way down the steps with an alacrity rivaling her younger self, Roger catches her as she leaps from the third step into his arms, twirling her around. “How’s my big girl today?”

“I had a hard time in art class today, Daddy. I wanted to draw one of those pictures from your little black notebook, but I couldn’t do it. Teacher got kind of mad at me.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, ruffling her curly hair, Mary batting his hand away for the umpteenth time with an irritated expression. “You know what it looks like in your head, right?”

Mary nods.

“That’s all that matters.”