managed to be every year on the anniversary of their first encounter. They ought to be together today and every day. They ought to travel to Europe, to see it all. For three long years he’d slogged through school, resenting the separation, and now he knew it was time to change things. He didn’t want another year to go by during which they would be apart.
In two hours he was supposed to begin a round of examinations, writing his long answers in the blue books that all students were given. There was no point to this, for he would not become a scholar in his life, or advance to law school or business school. “I’ll see you later,” he said to his roommate, and then he walked out of his room and onto the campus.
The place was oddly quiet; everyone was inside studying. Martin walked and walked down to the playing fields, where a long time ago his young father had once kicked a football, and where, an even longer time ago, hisgrandfather had done the same thing. Martin sat down on the grass, and that was when he saw the man. He was walking along with his hands behind his back—a rumpled old man in a navy cardigan with wildly sprouting white hair and a mustache. He appeared to be lost in thought.
Albert Einstein
, Martin realized.
He imagined going up to this brilliant, world–famous physicist and pouring out his heart to him. Perhaps Einstein would have something consoling to say, something philosophical and transcendent that would put Martin’s problems in perspective. But Professor Einstein was walking away, his hands shoved in his pockets, already lost in some spiral of thought that Martin couldn’t even begin to imagine.
Martin gazed after him. Then he suddenly stood and broke into a run, heading away from Einstein, away from the college entirely, across the expansive green playing fields and directly over to the Western Union Office in town, where, his hand shaking slightly, he stood and wrote out the following telegram to Claire Swift:
COMING HOME TO YOU FOR GOOD STOP MEET ME AT GAZEBO AT EIGHT STOP MARTIN
That evening, May 27, 1952, a soft, windless night in upstate New York, Martin stepped off a train onto the platform at the Longwood Falls station and walked across the town square to the gazebo, where Claire sat in a sleeveless dress the color of butter. He buried his face against her shoulder. “For
good
?” she asked quietly, and all he could do was nod.
Chapter Four
A BBY PUSHED THE pause button on the cassette player, stopping Martin Rayfiel and his story in the middle of a sentence. She had been sitting at her desk, legs up, not moving, for the better part of an hour now, and as she shifted in her chair she felt light–headed—whether from the wine or the lulling effects of Martin’s voice, she couldn’t say.
Abby sat straight in her chair and pulled herself closer to the desk for a better look at the photos that lay at the top of the stack of things inside Martin Rayfiel’s open briefcase. First she saw an old, faded black and white photograph of a shyly pretty girl; on the back Abby read, written in a careful hand, “Claire 7/12/49.” Next she found a picture of a handsome boy, someone right on the precipice of adulthood. It was Martin, she knew, and hewas as striking when he was young as she’d imagined. In the picture he was standing against the sloping silver side of a car, his arms crossed, tall, lean, black–haired, and transparently, soulfully unhappy. And no wonder: when Abby turned the photograph over, she saw the words, “Martin on his first day at Princeton, 1949.”
Abby looked further, found a few other photos: Martin in front of his parents’ house, Claire with her sister, Margaret, in their little yard, but none, in this top layer of things in the briefcase, of Claire and Martin together. Of course not, Abby thought; they had no one who approved of their relationship, no one they could speak to about it, no close friend to whom they could casually hand a camera and
In two hours he was supposed to begin a round of examinations, writing his long answers in the blue books that all students were given. There was no point to this, for he would not become a scholar in his life, or advance to law school or business school. “I’ll see you later,” he said to his roommate, and then he walked out of his room and onto the campus.
The place was oddly quiet; everyone was inside studying. Martin walked and walked down to the playing fields, where a long time ago his young father had once kicked a football, and where, an even longer time ago, hisgrandfather had done the same thing. Martin sat down on the grass, and that was when he saw the man. He was walking along with his hands behind his back—a rumpled old man in a navy cardigan with wildly sprouting white hair and a mustache. He appeared to be lost in thought.
Albert Einstein
, Martin realized.
He imagined going up to this brilliant, world–famous physicist and pouring out his heart to him. Perhaps Einstein would have something consoling to say, something philosophical and transcendent that would put Martin’s problems in perspective. But Professor Einstein was walking away, his hands shoved in his pockets, already lost in some spiral of thought that Martin couldn’t even begin to imagine.
Martin gazed after him. Then he suddenly stood and broke into a run, heading away from Einstein, away from the college entirely, across the expansive green playing fields and directly over to the Western Union Office in town, where, his hand shaking slightly, he stood and wrote out the following telegram to Claire Swift:
COMING HOME TO YOU FOR GOOD STOP MEET ME AT GAZEBO AT EIGHT STOP MARTIN
That evening, May 27, 1952, a soft, windless night in upstate New York, Martin stepped off a train onto the platform at the Longwood Falls station and walked across the town square to the gazebo, where Claire sat in a sleeveless dress the color of butter. He buried his face against her shoulder. “For
good
?” she asked quietly, and all he could do was nod.
Chapter Four
A BBY PUSHED THE pause button on the cassette player, stopping Martin Rayfiel and his story in the middle of a sentence. She had been sitting at her desk, legs up, not moving, for the better part of an hour now, and as she shifted in her chair she felt light–headed—whether from the wine or the lulling effects of Martin’s voice, she couldn’t say.
Abby sat straight in her chair and pulled herself closer to the desk for a better look at the photos that lay at the top of the stack of things inside Martin Rayfiel’s open briefcase. First she saw an old, faded black and white photograph of a shyly pretty girl; on the back Abby read, written in a careful hand, “Claire 7/12/49.” Next she found a picture of a handsome boy, someone right on the precipice of adulthood. It was Martin, she knew, and hewas as striking when he was young as she’d imagined. In the picture he was standing against the sloping silver side of a car, his arms crossed, tall, lean, black–haired, and transparently, soulfully unhappy. And no wonder: when Abby turned the photograph over, she saw the words, “Martin on his first day at Princeton, 1949.”
Abby looked further, found a few other photos: Martin in front of his parents’ house, Claire with her sister, Margaret, in their little yard, but none, in this top layer of things in the briefcase, of Claire and Martin together. Of course not, Abby thought; they had no one who approved of their relationship, no one they could speak to about it, no close friend to whom they could casually hand a camera and
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