Einstein's Secret Read online

  My eyes went to a headline halfway down the page: Long-Time Resident Talks About Friendship With Einstein. In the first paragraph was the name of the long-time resident, Henry Clavin. In one quick gulp, I read the four-paragraph story. Clavin was quoted as saying that Einstein was both brilliant and friendly and liked to talk about politics. There wasn’t much more to the story than that.

  I immediately started to calculate Clavin’s age. I remembered that he’d been forty when Einstein died, so if he were still alive, he’d be ninety-eight.

  But he wasn’t ninety-eight. He died in that car accident in 1970.

  “How’d you find this?” I said.

  “Every couple of weeks, I run a search program on unsecured servers in D.C. and its suburbs. The federal government is so huge that there’s a hell of lot of information passing through those networks. I search for keywords associated with two things. Fifties memorabilia or documents dealing with historical figures or events. I find a lot of stuff that way.”

  “You mean you were looking for Clavin.”

  “No—that was a total fluke. My search flagged the newsletter because there’s an article in there about another resident. He collects movie posters from the nineteen fifties. And the only reason that newsletter was on a government server was that a Commerce Department employee has her mom in that retirement community and she gets their newsletter in her email.”

  I looked back down at the newsletter and saw the headline at the bottom of the page, A Valuable Hobby. Skimming through the article told me that resident Milt Taylor had collected movie posters as a teen, kept them all, and now believed they were worth thousands.

  “I want you to go up there and talk to Clavin,” Eddie said.

  I have to focus on UVA and on a real career was my immediate reaction. This is a fresh start.

  But Einstein beckoned. “Why are you into this?” I said.

  “I wasn’t until I found that newsletter. I’ve dealt in some Einstein memorabilia, nothing of any real value. Just junk like that Fame magazine. That’s how I knew about Clavin in the first place. But here’s the weird thing. I stumbled onto that newsletter two days ago, right when the one person who’d be most interested in Clavin moved to Charlottesville—you.”

  That had been at the back of my mind since he’d shown me the newsletter. This was one of those coincidences that was so big, you wanted to believe there was a grand synchronicity to life.

  And I’d soon learn that there was. Not to all lives, but to lives that were entangled in a special kind of vortex. A vortex that, at that moment in the Caves, I could never have imagined existed.

  “Why don’t you go it alone?” I said. “You found the smoking gun.”

  “I will go it alone if you don’t want to help. But this is all about Einstein’s secret, and you’ve got the home field advantage. If I talk to Clavin, maybe I get the right answers, maybe I don’t. I don’t even know the right questions. But if you’re there, you’ll make the right connections. If you’re there, that little newsletter could lead to a discovery that changes everything we know about Einstein’s work.”

  The game was over. Eddie had won. “I can’t go right away,” I said. “I have to meet with McKenzie in the morning. Then Tuesday, I start classes.”

  “It can’t wait.”

  “Why not?”

  “Clavin’s in the hospital with an infection. A bad one. At ninety-eight years old, he might not last another hour, much less another day. That’s why I texted you; this clue might be gone forever.”

  I took a deep breath. I didn’t want to confess that my lack of urgency stemmed from wanting to salvage my career. “The odds that Clavin knows what Einstein wrote on those pages are slim. And even if he did know at one time, it was a long time ago, and the odds that he still remembers are even slimmer.”

  But under any other circumstances, those odds would have been more than good enough for me.

  Eddie stared at me for a few seconds, giving me a look that said, Come on, really, you’re not curious?

  I handed the newsletter back to him, and he put it in the file.

  “I’m driving up there to talk him tomorrow,” he said. “I think you’re making a mistake by not coming with me.”

  *

  As we snaked through the tunnels on our way out of the Caves, an obvious question came to me. “Why’d you bring me down here to show me the newsletter?”

  “I keep my valuable stuff down here.”

  That didn’t make any sense. “It was a printout. You can print out a million copies.”

  “I can’t explain that to you without filling you in on a couple of other things.”

  “Go ahead—I’m all ears.”

  “I was going to explain it all on our trip to Rockville.”

  “Why not now?

  “It’s going to take time.”

  “Okay, how about answering this question. Clavin’s death was well documented. Was it faked?”

  “That’s part of what I wanted to explain on our trip.”

  This was getting annoying. “You’re not talking conspiracy, are you?” Asking him that was a not-so-subtle insult. As historians, we both knew that the vast majority of conspiracies were complete perversions of history. Conspiracies were the domain of kooks who created them by taking known facts and adding their own.

  “Please. Have more faith in me than that,” he said.

  I didn’t press him anymore, which was a good thing. Not that he would’ve explained anything about was going on right then anyway. If he had, it would’ve made a conspiracy look like a rational explanation by comparison, and it would’ve made me run as far away from him as possible.

  We climbed out of the Caves and exited Grace Hall. I expected him to push me to go Rockville one last time, but he didn’t. Of course, he didn’t have to. It was the only thing on my mind.

  Chapter Four

  We parted ways, and I walked across the Lawn, planning to drive back to my apartment. After my little tête-à-tête with Eddie, there was no doubt about how I was going to spend the rest of the evening and probably a good chunk of the night. I’d be digging through my notes on Henry Clavin and searching online for anything that I’d missed.

  Like the fact that he was still alive.

  Students were strolling along the brick walkways, laughing, chatting, and enjoying the evening breeze. Charlottesville was always hot and muggy in late August, so any breeze, even a warm one like this evening’s, was welcome.

  So welcome, in fact, that it inspired me to try and change my plans for the night. I veered south, toward the Iliad, ready to ask Laura out. It would still be coming on too strong, too soon, but it was better than succumbing to the lure of Einstein’s secret.

  *

  She was behind the counter, reading, but this time she looked up when I walked in and she definitely looked surprised to see me. “Was there something wrong with your order?” she said.

  “Nah. I was just wondering if I you’d like to grab dinner when your shift is over? You know, to let me make up for taking the job from you.”

  “It’s going to take dinner every night, plus subsidizing my rent, to make up for that.”

  “Can’t do that. Don’t get paid enough.”

  “Yeah, that’s the worst part. I’d kill for a job that pays less than working here.”

  “I hear that teachers in Finland get paid top dollar.”

  “Thanks for the tip.”

  “No problem. Dinner will be packed with helpful tips like that.”

  “That sounds irresistible.” She brushed her hair away from her eyes. “My shift ends at eight.”

  “Great, I’ll swing by then.”

  “Just meet me at Jackson Hill at nine. You can join me for my hike.”

  “…Okay. You hike at night?”

  “You catch on quick.”

  I laughed. “Where’s Jackson Hill?”

  “Google it. And bring sandwiches for the dinner part.”

  I liked
this woman even more this time than the first time I’d met her. And I had liked her a lot that first time.

  *

  When I got to Jackson Hill, Laura was already there. She was wielding a flashlight and a blanket, waiting by her car in the small, unpaved parking lot.

  I stepped out of my car, and she pointed her flashlight at the bag I was holding. “What’d you get?” she asked.

  “A turkey and cheese. A veggie. And a tuna salad.”

  “You covered all the bases.”

  “To make sure, I also got a slice of chocolate cake.”

  “Kind of defeats the purpose of a hike.”

  “Yeah, but in a good way.”

  She smiled, then walked over to the head of the trail. “The view from the top is unbelievable.”

  “But it’s night.”

  We started up the trail. “That’s the point,” she said. “The top of the hill overlooks Sherman Valley, which hasn’t been developed yet. So there’s no light pollution. You can see the night sky and the stars and what darkness really looks like.”

  “You like the dark?”

  “I like the dark of night.”

  “You’re not secretly a vampire.”

  “You’ll see when we get up there.”

  “You mean, if you’re a vampire?”

  She looked over her shoulder at me, and flashed another smile. “See why I like the view.”

  We fell into silence as we settled into a steady pace. The air was cool and invigorating. She followed the trail like an experienced hiker, so I just followed close behind her, in her footsteps.

  After a little more than an hour, we made it to the top: a small plateau that overlooked a dark valley. And just as she’d said, the dearth of lights from the valley below highlighted the open sky above, dark and speckled with bright golden stars. It was a striking view.

  She unfolded the blanket, and I pulled the sandwiches out from my bag. I also pulled out a bottle of wine and cups.

  “I brought a bottle of water, if you don’t like wine.”

  “Who doesn’t like wine?”

  We sat down.

  “This beats a restaurant on the Corner,” she said.

  “Yeah…”

  “But it’s a bit romantic for a casual get-together?”

  I grinned.

  “I can make it less romantic,” she said. “I’m thinking of going to law school next fall.”

  “And you invited me up here to talk you out of it.”

  “Yep.”

  “Guess what? I think it’s a good idea.”

  “So does everyone else.”

  “But you’re still not convinced.”

  “You know how some people feel that there’s something they have to do?”

  Like hunt down Einstein’s secret at all costs. “Yeah.”

  “I’m one of those people. I’ve wanted to teach since I was a kid, and I’m good at it.”

  “What about teaching high school?”

  “It’s an option. I’m a sub already.”

  She took the veggie and I took the turkey and cheese. Then I poured us each a cup of wine.

  “My mom was a high-school history teacher,” she said. “And my dad was a math teacher.”

  “So it runs in the family.” I was hoping she wouldn’t ask about my family. “What do they think of law school?”

  “I’m too old to worry about what they think.”

  “So they’re against it.”

  “I wish they were, but they think it’s a great idea. They’d love me to be a teacher, but they think it’s impossible to get a university appointment, and they think high-school teaching is a much harder life than it used to be.”

  “You’d have to leave Charlottesville to go to law school, and my bet is you love it here. I mean look at this view.”

  “That’s just it. I wouldn’t have to leave.”

  “UVA is a tough law school to get into.”

  “Are you doubting my qualifications, again?”

  “I gotta stop doing that.”

  “Yeah, especially because I already got accepted.”

  “Congratulations.” That was impressive, but I didn’t want to add that, or she’d think I was doubting her qualifications once again.

  “I deferred for this year because I was hoping to get your job,” she said.

  “So we’re back to that.”

  “The one thing you wanted to avoid.”

  “Yeah.” Though I was glad we’d avoided talking about my family.

  “So how’d you get into the history of science?”

  I looked up to the sky and pointed to a spot just above the horizon. “That’s Ursa Major. The great bear. And that over there, that’s Orion.”

  “It started with astronomy,” she said.

  “You catch on quick.”

  She grinned.

  “From astronomy, I went on to chemistry and physics, but it turned out that I was good at the general principles, but not so good when it came to the nitty-gritty.”

  “So history gave you a way in, without having to do the nitty-gritty.”

  “As my dad used to say, where there’s a will, there’s a way.”

  “Tell me about your dad.”

  So, I had brought up the one thing I didn’t want to talk about. The attraction I felt toward her must’ve caused me to slip up, and my instinct was to pull back before it was too late. But Laura’s hazel eyes, sincere and direct, drew me further in.

  “He died when I was really young,” I said. “I was five, so I didn’t really know him.”

  There was an awkward silence, and I saw a tear form in her eyes. “I’m so sorry, Jacob.” She turned away to wipe the tear, then looked back.

  “No big deal.” I pasted on a self-conscious smile. “It was a long time ago.”

  So long ago that I had just one memory of my dad. We were in a movie theater and he was glued to the big screen up front. I looked up at him and saw that he was bathed in blue light. He laughed at some hijinks unfolding up on the screen, then looked down at me.

  His eyes were the bluest eyes I’d ever seen, then and since. They were alive with joy, a true incarnation of happiness. I laughed with him, so I could be part of his happiness, and not because of anything going on in the film. I don’t remember the film.

  I learned later than my dad had loved movies and had started taking me to see them when I was three. Once I knew that, I replayed that memory of him, the only one I had, over and over again. My dad laughing in a dark movie theater with me by his side, sharing in his joy. I treasured that memory as if it were a classic film itself.

  To end that train of thought, I focused back on Laura. She was looking down at the valley, sipping her wine, taking her cue from me about when to start up the conversation again.

  But when I looked down at the valley, the vast darkness of the night engulfed me with a feeling of absolute loneliness. The same loneliness I’d felt during my freshman year of college. All my new friends were looking forward to going home for the Thanksgiving break, but I wasn’t. I had no home to go back to. My mom had died right before I’d left for college. She’d been everything to me.

  “How long ago did you graduate from the program?” I finally said.

  “Five years ago,” Laura answered. “And I lucked out when I finished. I got a one-year appointment at William & Mary. But they had nothing the next year. Then I was stupid. Or arrogant. I had an offer at a community college in Miami, but I didn’t take it. I held out for a better job that never came.”

  I appreciated Laura’s long answer. It was just what I needed.

  “Let me guess, the person who took that job is still there,” I said.

  “Yep. And from what I know about him through a friend at Florida State, he loves it.”

  “Well, nothing you can do about it now.”

  “Except go to law school.”

  “The perfect alternative.”

  “You found another alternative.”

  “
I fell into it. A few years ago, I saw an opening for a job at USC. They’d gotten a National Science Foundation grant and they were looking for people to administer it. I applied and got the job.”

  “What’s the job?”

  “Developing science curriculums for high schools.”

  “Kind of up your alley.”

  “Yeah. I liked it just enough to make me lazy. I stopped hunting down every single teaching gig.”

  “Well, it doesn’t take much to stop the hunt when you feel you’re hitting your head against a brick wall.” She stood up. “Let me show you what I was working on when I should’ve been applying to every opening in the country.”

  *

  She took me down another trail, on the east side of the hill, and though I didn’t know it yet, she was about to show me the real reason she loved Jackson Hill. “Back in the fifties, this entire area was real wilderness,” she said. “There weren’t any hiking trails, and even hunters didn’t come up this way.”

  After we’d gone about three hundred yards, the trail leveled off, and the thick patch of forest gave way to a tiny clearing and a small log cabin.

  “Welcome to Gray’s Cabin,” she said, and opened the cabin door. “After I moved back from Williamsburg, this is one of the projects that kept me busy. You know, while I was holding out for that perfect job.”

  She stepped inside and flicked on a light, revealing a windowless cabin that had the clean, neat look of a museum exhibit, which it basically was.

  At the far end of the cabin was a small cot, covered with a clear, protective plastic sheet. Along another wall ran a counter displaying metal plates, a metal pot, an iron skillet, and utensils. Catty-corner to the counter was a black, wood-burning stove. And along the opposite wall, there was a glass display case containing books.

  “Corbin Gray built this cabin,” Laura said. “He was a UVA student in the fifties who wanted to live in the real wilderness for one year. No modern conveniences allowed. So he spent one year building this and the next year living in it.”

  “Was he a beatnik?”

  “He was an transcendentalist.”

  “Emerson and Thoreau,” I said, trying to remember what else I remembered about transcendentalism.