The Subtraction Of Real Numbers
By Drew Giorgi

His parents had been away and Poppy and Gram had come to look after him.

"We’ll be gone just two weeks, Alfred." He remembered his mother saying.

They were going on their second honeymoon. Poppy had just gotten out of the hospital a few months before, and Alfred’s mother had put off her summertime trip to be with his Poppy. Now, school was in session and sleep away camp was over. Poppy came to the house with his equipment: a bag full of medicine and a toolbox filled with items he would need to work on projects for his daughter’s house.

The second honeymoon hadn’t worked; his parents divorced some years later, when he was in his teens. It had occurred after his poppy had passed on.

His forehead could still feel the press of her wet mouth, the residue of the heavy lipstick she’d put on, before they left. His father had given him a hug. The still-frame of the backs of the happy couple marching off to their vacation was permanently etched in his mind.

Gram was in the kitchen taking inventory. Milk and juice were needed in the fridge, there was only enough chicken for two in the freezer, and the spice rack needed to be restocked, most notably with paprika, which Gram intended to use on the chicken.

In a division of labor the child found to be profound, Poppy took the list Gram handed to him and took the little boy to the grocery store. While they were gone, Gram set to reorganizing the kitchen and began her plans to give her daughter’s house a fall cleaning. She also prayed a rosary that the trip would enable her daughter and husband to solidify their bonds, but the little boy did not know this.

In the Chevy, he was treated to the kind of chit-chat he could only enjoy with his grandfather. Talk of Tom and Jerry–the number one cartoon cat and mouse in his life–and the life of frogs–he’d caught one in the backyard a week ago; it had died–erased the uncertainty of what it would be like to live with his grandparents for the next two weeks. It would be special time when he could demand his favorite foods, be dropped and picked up from school by his Poppy, and stay up late to see television shows his mother and father didn’t allow him to watch. A week into their stay, when he failed a math test, he didn’t even worry about showing it to anyone; it would go away.

Despite the easy pace that life now took, as his parents weren’t there to rush it along. Alfred often found that he had trouble sleeping. A pattern formed where his grandfather would put him to bed after he fell asleep in front of the late show, a show he didn’t even have a real interest in, but thought it was an adult thing to watch because it was on late.

In the early morning, Alfred would wake up and hear the scratching sound in the kitchen. He would slink slowly and softly partway down the stairs and, from an elevated vantage point, peer into the kitchen. The clock would read three a.m. and he would know that in twelve hours he would be finished with the next school day and one day closer to next summer. Standing below the clock looking out the kitchen window would be his grandfather. The scratchy sound he’d heard in his room was the noise created by the friction of the man’s slippers against the kitchen’s linoleum floor.

The inner world of the statuesque figure was not to be interpreted by the child’s mind, only physical presence could be admired. The clock counted unused time tick by tick. A mug of steaming coffee waited by his grandfather’s right hand. Occasionally, he would sip from it, but his gaze never wavered from the mysterious point it was fixed on that was outside. Often, Alfred looked out the windows of his own room before he crept down the stairs: He saw nothing but blackness.

From the stairs he would watch, checking the volume of his breathing. The blackness from outside seemed to reach in and obscure his grandfather’s features. The weak yellow light over the countertop, coupled with the rays of moonlight that pierced the kitchen window illuminated the man. The dark dampened his face, the inkiness of the night coloring in his cheeks. In the impressionistic lighting his face was more angular, powerful, and resolute. The glasses he wore were full of bright light that didn’t seem present.

He was inevitably dressed in his bright white and red striped pajama bottoms and a T-shirt that was pulled taut over his body. Though he was in his late sixties, he retained a sturdy physique from the yard and house work that he did.

Alfred would watch for about fifteen or twenty minutes. His grandfather would sometimes look through the cabinets, sometimes he would brew another mug of coffee, sometimes he would turn on the faucet and drink ice water. Then he would move out of sight, walking toward the kitchen table. The scratching sound of the slippers would grate against the child’s ears. The child would hear the sound of zippers, the knock of small objects being set on the kitchen table, and the short, sharp intake of a breath followed by a sigh. Shortly after, the countertop light would be turned off and Alfred would return to bed before his grandfather made his way up the stairs.

It was not until the stoic face at the window turned its focus on Alfred that the pattern of faithfully watching his grandfather stopped.

"Come on down, Pal," he said. "I see you."

The profile had been ominous, but the voice was sweet and the direct gaze was friendly.

The boy approached hesitantly at first, for he had been caught. Poppy got a mug down from the cabinet and made him some tea. He put the tea on the table and the boy sat down. Poppy tousled the boy’s hair. The medicine bag was on the table. The boy wanted to ask about it, but the presence of the bag cowed him into silence.

Poppy sat down. He removed needles and syringes containing prescribed measurements of medicine from the bag. He began to work with the prepared dosage.

"Just my daily requirements, nothing to be scared of, Alfred."

But Alfred was scared all the same, terrified of the needles and the alien liquid that could pass through them. He associated shots with pain and remembered the doctor pricking his finger at his last checkup. It was for a test, the woman said.

"Your grandmother is afraid of needles, that’s why I have to do this while she’s asleep. You’re not afraid of needles, right?"

"No," but he knew then, and his memory knew now, that the fear was in his terse voice. And he knew it betrayed him

"Nothing to be concerned about, Alfred," Poppy reassured him. "This keeps me alive. Insulin."

He rolled up his T-shirt, exposing still-muscled flesh that had been used by the military, the teamsters, and that was now being used by his mother for projects on her house. The glasses flashed as his head tilted down; the needle was inserted and breath held. The boy winced and shut his eyes. Then he heard the sigh.

When he opened his eyes all the drug paraphernalia was gone, zipped up tight in the case. The boy swore he felt the stab in his own belly and believed that the pain would linger forever.

"Now I have to ask you something really important."

Alfred was surprised at the change in tone.

"Important?" the boy focused on the bag. "Important about this?"

"No," Poppy said. "More important than this. This is today, I’m talking about your future. What happened with your math?"

He was stunned. It was three in the morning, surely there was a time of day when one didn’t have to worry about math; besides, his parents weren’t even home.

"You had a tough time with your test."

The accuracy of the statement rifled through him. He tried to hide behind his mug, despairing that he had failed and his grandfather knew about it. It was the first time he had ever failed and had known about his grandfather’s awareness of it.

"I have trouble carrying the ones," he said. "I always forget what I’m doing."

The small boy found failure hard to admit to, even at three in the morning. He felt the pressure of tears building up behind his eyes.

"Don’t get upset, Alfred." Poppy said. "It’s difficult."

"I know. I work really hard, but it is very difficult."

He was ashamed now because he could see the tears coming to his eyes, distorting his vision.

"I looked through the test," he said. "You make it even more difficult because you don’t go through the steps. You attack the whole problem at once. These are big problems and you need to take the appropriate steps to solve them."

He told the boy to get the test and his math book. They worked on the problems together methodically till the dawn’s warm fingertips stroked the earth and rendered the countertop light pointless. As Poppy shut off the countertop light, Alfred realized he had done an entire page from the next unit in his math book all by himself. Poppy had been able to clarify what had been so opaque in class and had provided further instruction that developed skills Alfred would need in the coming weeks.

He watched the medicine bag get carried away. More important than that? How could anything be more important than that, he mused on it. And the memory came back to him as he recognized the malignance of the straight razor bathed in the weak hue of the yellow light. He knew he had to remember to carry the ones, to keep with the process and trust the steps he had to take. Perhaps the empty apartment, the debt, and the bleak prospects were that first part of the process. The loneliness of one carried to the prospects of tomorrow.

He stared into the blackness outside.

It had taken him a long time to get where he was; it was a situation he didn’t quite understand and wanted to rush through. It would take even longer if he hoped on finding any solutions. He recalled the exact moment when the needle pierced the soft flesh of Poppy’s belly. Recalled the repetition of the sighs he had heard associated with the act he had finally seen after such a long wait. More important than that? He put the razor down and shut off the waning bulb. In the darkness, he prayed and waited for the warmth of a new day.