Einstein's Secret

by Irving Belateche

  “Exactly. He was ready to commune with nature, so he came up here for a year and lived by two rules. He wouldn’t leave, and he’d only eat what he could hunt, grow, or pick.”

  “Wait—I’m missing something. How did this keep you busy?”

  “I restored the cabin and made it a destination spot. It’s not exactly Disneyland, but, believe it or not, quite a few people drop by to check it out.”

  She walked over to the display case and flipped open what must’ve been a guest registry on top of it. “Twenty-five people last week. Not a bad week, considering how oppressively hot it was. During the fall and spring, it’s about a hundred a week.”

  I moved over to the case. Inside were the works of Thoreau, Emerson, Fuller, Whitman, and other transcendentalists.

  She closed the registry. “In my third year in the doctoral program, I wrote a journal article on transcendentalism. While I was researching it, I found out about Corbin and this cabin. His adventure had fallen through the cracks of history.”

  At the end of the display case, I saw something that startled me. It didn’t fit with the theme of the cabin, but that wasn’t why it startled me. It startled me because it was another strange coincidence. Two coincidences.

  It was an issue of Life magazine from 1955, the year of Einstein’s secret, and on its cover was a photo of Dwight D. Eisenhower, the subject of Alex’s bestselling biography.

  I didn’t know it, but synchronicity was at work. I was far from understanding what these coincidences meant, but I was already entangled in their vortex. “How is that Life magazine connected to Corbin Gray?” There was definitely too much concern in my voice.

  “Take a closer look.”

  I did, and saw that in the lower corner was a photo of a scraggly mountain man with the caption: Back to Nature. So that, at least, was a partial explanation for the coincidences.

  “That’s Corbin?” I said.

  “Yep.”

  “And what did he discover up here?”

  “That there was a timeless quality to life. And that you could only get to it if you lived outside of society.”

  “Outside of history,” I said, almost instinctually.

  “Exactly. And that was the subject of my next journal article, and that article helped me get the job at William & Mary.” She looked over the cabin. The delight on her face let me know that restoring the cabin was enough of a reward of its own.

  *

  On the hike down, she filled me in on what happened to Corbin Gray. “He finished school and went back home to North Carolina, where he worked for a few years. But the pull of this place was too much. So he moved to Sherman Valley, bought a small place, and went back to living off the land.”

  “Is he still alive?”

  “Yeah. He’s in his eighties now. But I had a really hard time tracking him down. He’d kept to himself all those years, and for the longest time, I thought he was dead.”

  Like Clavin, I thought, and I didn’t want to ask any more questions for fear of discovering more coincidences.

  We reached the bottom of Jackson Hill, bantered a little more, then said our goodnights. Neither of us talked about seeing each other again, but our parting was so natural that it implied we would. I hoped so.

  Chapter Five

  “I’ve got some bad news,” McKenzie said.

  With that one line, the opportunity to put my career back on track crumbled. I could never have imagined a scenario where I’d be fired before I’d even started, yet it sounded like I was just about to live through one.

  “I had to make some changes because the University adjusted our budget,” McKenzie said. “I’m dropping your two classes from the schedule.”

  He looked down at the schedule of classes, as if he were still perusing it, still deciding whether this was the best course of action, even though he’d already made his decision. “I’m sorry,” he said, without emotion. “But we won’t be needing you this year.”

  My mouth went dry. Though this was well within the parameters of my contract—there was a standard clause that said my classes could be canceled at any time—this never happened unless a course didn’t attract enough students.

  McKenzie looked up from the schedule and waited for me to respond.

  “You’re canceling my classes for both semesters?” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “Can you reconsider me for next semester?”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t. The budget is for the entire academic year.”

  “Is there a non-faculty position available?” I was desperate. I had given up my job at USC and moved across the country for this.

  “I’m sorry. We don’t have anything, but you’re welcome to try other departments.”

  Of course, I’m welcome to, I thought, but I kept my anger in check. I hoped he’d offer to recommend me to another department. That would be helpful, especially at this late date.

  But he didn’t offer. Instead he stood up, indicating the meeting was over.

  I didn’t follow his lead. I remained seated. So he walked around his desk to usher me out.

  “Any suggestions?” I said, a bit too aggressively, then stood up to mask it.

  He opened the door. “It’s a rough market and you might look at other career choices.”

  My jaw clenched. Anger was pushing me to defend myself, but before I dug myself into a deep hole, McKenzie said, “The job market for PhDs is bad and getting worse. That’s why we’ve chosen to limit the number of graduates from our program.”

  I nodded and stepped out of his office.

  “Unfortunately, even though we’re all historians, we couldn’t have predicted that,” he said, then shut the door.

  *

  I might as well have been wearing blinders when I walked back to my car. None of the sights and sounds that I passed registered. My jaw was still clenched and my thoughts were dominated by anger at McKenzie.

  I told myself to get out of that frame of mind and regroup. I was officially unemployed and needed to get a job. I may not have gotten teaching gigs, but I’d always had a job.

  As I drove back to my apartment, I considered and quickly dismissed calling USC to see if they’d take me back. A well-qualified candidate had already replaced me, and I knew there were no other openings on the project. Also, it didn’t help that I had committed to the length of the project, ten years, but had left after four.

  My best option was to look for a non-faculty position at UVA. My second-best option was to check the other colleges within striking distance. The good part was that Virginia had many colleges. The bad part was that finding a position, faculty or non-faculty, was, as always, a long shot. Especially considering that the academic year had already started.

  The third option was the private high school circuit. Teaching at a public school, other than as a substitute, was out. Public schools required certification, which I didn’t have.

  And the last option was any job in Charlottesville, a prospect that didn’t sit well. I’d always worked for a university, even though it hadn’t always been teaching. If possible, I wanted to keep that record intact. It had helped me land the UVA job, and it would help me land future adjunct jobs. That is, if McKenzie hadn’t permanently damaged my record by firing me.

  *

  I stepped into my apartment and plopped down on the couch. I was in no mood to start a job search, but when my anger toward McKenzie started growing again, instead of stewing in resentment, I got up, grabbed my laptop, and started my search.

  After about fifteen minutes on the UVA jobs website, I realized that this didn’t have to be an anonymous, long-distance job search. I could go to the Human Resources office and apply in person.

  So I located the office on a campus map, printed out a few copies of my curriculum vitae, and opened my front door, ready to head out, when my cell phone rang.

  It was Eddie, and he didn’t waste any time. He told me he was heading up to Rockville in an hour and asked if I’d c
hanged my mind.

  The calculation of the pros and cons of going with him took a fraction of a second. What did I have to lose? A day or two of job hunting. What did I have to gain? Everything I’d devoted my life to.

  “I’ll go,” I said.

  Chapter Six

  As soon as we pulled out of Charlottesville, I told Eddie about my lovely morning. Not because I was looking for pity, but because I was angry. “McKenzie fired me. He said the University ‘adjusted’ his budget and he had to drop my classes.”

  “That doesn’t sound right. The budget for this year was set last year.”

  “So you’re saying he had another reason?” Like, maybe, it was because he saw me fraternizing with you.

  “Yeah—he’s an asshole.”

  I thought Eddie would follow that up by launching into a bitter screed, detailing how McKenzie had mistreated him. He didn’t. Instead, he got right down to business. “So tell me what else you know about Clavin.”

  “I pretty much told you everything.” I still wasn’t ready to give Eddie a sneak peak at the information I was withholding. I planned to put that information into the book I’d write if I ever uncovered Einstein’s secret.

  “I resurrected Clavin from the dead for you,” he said. “A miracle like that deserves a reward. Tell me what else you know.”

  He had a good point.

  “I’m not going to share whatever you tell me with anyone else,” he said. “But if I know what you know, it’ll help when we talk to Clavin.”

  That was another good point. Good enough to prod me into opening up. After all, talking to Clavin was a coup, and he’d provided it. “It turns out that Einstein had formal meetings with Clavin,” I said. “On Saturdays, on and off.”

  “How did you find that out?” Eddie’s curiosity was palpable.

  “I was able to find some of Ruth Meyer’s appointment books.” Ruth Meyer had been Einstein’s long-time assistant, for over twenty-five years, and she’d been meticulous about keeping his schedule. She was the one who had called the ambulance, instead of letting Einstein die at home as he’d asked.

  “What were the meetings about?” Eddie said.

  “I have no idea. She usually penciled that information in, so Einstein could prep, but with Clavin’s meetings, there was nothing.”

  “Do you have a theory about it?”

  “Not really, but I did notice a pattern. Meyer didn’t book any other appointments after Clavin’s. And I don’t mean for the rest of the day. I mean for the one or two days that followed. Of course, that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Maybe Einstein took those Sundays and Mondays off. But it was odd that he only took them off after meeting with Clavin.”

  Eddie glanced at me. “Maybe he was working with Clavin on a really complex proof and they worked on it for days. Was Clavin a mathematical genius?”

  “I looked for hints of that, but couldn’t find any. I guess it’s possible he was some kind of savant, like in Good Will Hunting.”

  “Maybe we’ll find out when we get to Rockville.”

  Now that I had forked over some information, it was my turn to do a little interrogating. “You said you’d tell me why there was an obit for Clavin in 1970 even though he didn’t die in that car accident.”

  “I’m not sure I can explain that yet.”

  “You mean you don’t know why.”

  “I mean that I’m not sure you’re going to like the reason.”

  “What difference does it make whether I like it or not?”

  “I don’t want to sour you on this mission before you talk to Clavin.”

  “Guess what? Not telling me is souring me.”

  “I’ll tell you after you talk to him. Believe me, it’s better that way.”

  I could’ve whined like a baby But you promised to tell me, but I didn’t want to argue with him. So I just stared out the window at the passing countryside. I guess you could’ve called it sulking. I didn’t. I thought of it as showing restraint so the car trip didn’t degenerate into my demanding the explanations he was clearly withholding.

  We didn’t talk much until we were almost there. Then we laid out a plan for questioning Clavin and, even though I’d been sulking, Eddie wanted me to take the lead. We’d introduce ourselves as social workers so we could ask Clavin about his life. Then hopefully those questions would lead to small talk and we could ask him if he’d actually read Einstein’s final words on those precious sheets of paper and did he know what happened to them? If a nurse came in while we were there, we’d tell him or her that we were Clavin’s nephews, out of earshot of Clavin, then make a quick exit.

  *

  We arrived at the hospital in Rockville in the early afternoon, well within visiting hours. We found Clavin’s room on the third floor and walked right in.

  He was sleeping, and that gave me time to take in his appearance. His face was gaunt and pallid. His neck, thin and feeble. Wispy white hair covered his flaking scalp. I was so disturbed by his appearance that I had to willfully force myself to ignore my natural instinct to just leave the poor man alone.

  “Mr. Clavin,” I said.

  He didn’t stir, so I leaned in. “Mr. Clavin.”

  His eyes blinked open a couple of times, then closed.

  I tried again. “Mr. Clavin.”

  His eyes blinked open again, three or four times, and this time they stayed open. They had a distant, unfocused look, as if the man behind those eyes didn’t know where he was.

  “Mr. Clavin, we’re here to check up on you,” I said. “To see how you’re doing. Can you understand me?”

  “What?” His eyes were trying to focus on me.

  “Can you understand me?”

  “S-Speak up.”

  “Do you have problems hearing?”

  He nodded.

  “We’re the social workers from the hospital,” Eddie said, in a voice much louder than mine. Hopefully not so loud as to attract the attention of a passing nurse.

  “Oh,” Clavin said, but it was hard to know if he’d understood.

  “We’re the social workers,” I repeated.

  “Y-Yeah,” he said, weakly.

  “We wanted to ask you a few questions and find out how you’re doing?” I said.

  “O-Okay.”

  “Do you know why you’re here?”

  His eyes focused on me. “I-I’m sick. I-I don’t g-get sick a lot.”

  Eddie whispered to me, “We made contact. Get into it before we lose the connection.”

  “Mr. Clavin, we wanted to clear up some questions about your past,” I said. “There’s a lot of paperwork to fill out.”

  Clavin’s eyes wandered away from me.

  I forged on. “You lived in Princeton, New Jersey before you moved to Maryland. Is that right?”

  “No,” he said.

  That threw me off. “So you don’t remember living there? I know it was a long time ago.”

  Clavin’s eyes ticked over to his IV bags. He had three going.

  I waited for him to respond. He didn’t. “Do you remember living in Princeton, New Jersey, Mr. Clavin?” I said.

  “I went there.” His gaunt face tightened into a fragile smile.

  “That’s good. We’d like to ask you more about it.”

  “W-Where?”

  Uh-oh, I thought, but forged ahead anyway. “Princeton, New Jersey. Do you remember living there?”

  “I-I went there.”

  I glanced at Eddie. He’d resurrected Clavin, but the old guy was in bad shape. Maybe he had Alzheimer’s or dementia.

  “Keep going,” Eddie said under his breath.

  “Do you remember your job there? In Princeton?” I said.

  Then, in a moment of sudden lucidity, Clavin barked out, “Who are you?”

  “A social worker from the hospital.”

  “Oh.” He stared at me and his eyes sharpened. “You’re here because of Albert.”

  I was stunned and glanced at Eddie. “Here we go,” I w
hispered—

  Just then, a nurse walked into the room.

  “Hello, gentlemen,” she said. “I’m glad to see Mr. Clavin has some visitors!”

  Damn!

  Eddie quickly stepped up to the nurse, shook her hand, and in a low voice, said, “We’re Henry’s nephews.”

  I forced a smile her way, then looked back to Clavin, hoping to keep him focused on Albert until we could get the nurse to leave.

  She moved past Eddie, over to the IVs, and checked them. “Your uncle is doing a little better than when he came in,” she said. “But he’s got a long way to go.” She leaned down and spoke directly into Clavin’s left ear. “Mr. Clavin—I’ll come back in thirty minutes, so you can enjoy your nephews.” Then she turned to us. “Can I have a minute with you two?”

  We followed her out to the hallway where she pulled up to confer with us. “We’d like a family member to talk to his admitting doctor,” she said. “Your uncle has septicemia. It probably started as a urinary tract infection, but it’s spread fast.”

  Her words registered, but I was focused on her nametag, Andrea. Eerily close to Nurse Ander, the nurse who’d been on duty the night of Einstein’s death. Another coincidence.

  “At his age, infections can get out of hand pretty quickly,” she continued. “And it looks like that’s what happened. We’ve got him on an antibiotic, but it’s hard to find the right one when it’s gone this far, even with the cultures we’re taking.”

  “Could he die from this?” Eddie asked.

  “Easily. If we can’t reverse the infection, he’s going to go into septic shock. That’s why we need to have a family member involved. His assisted living facility didn’t have any next of kin listed.” She lowered her voice to emphasize the gravity of the situation. “I’d like you to check in at the nurses’ station and set up an appointment with his attending physician.”

  Eddie didn’t respond, putting me on the spot.

  “Sure,” I said, still staggered by her name.

  She nodded appreciatively.

  “Before we check in with the nurses’ station, we’d like to visit with him a little longer,” Eddie said. “While he’s still awake.”