Lost in the Mail: Just in Time

The doorbell’s sudden ring jolted John from an article he’d been reading on electrodynamics. Nestled comfortably in his study, it was Saturday morning, and the Berkeley professor was alone and undisturbed until that moment. A sigh of annoyance escaped him as he glanced at his watch; it read eleven fifteen. His daughter, Amanda, was at work, and his wife was out with friends for brunch.

John set his magazine aside, then heaved himself up and lumbered out of his study. Ahead, down the hallway, he could see their mailman, Terrance, through the window, which brought a smile to his face. For as long as John could remember, he loved getting mail, especially the plethora of scientific magazines he had subscribed to over the years.

He smiled at Terrance through the window as he opened the door. “Good morning, young man.”

Smiling and affable, Terrance had been a neighborhood favorite ever since he’d taken over for their previous letter carrier, who had retired. Like John, Terrance was tall and broad. When they first met, both had agreed that it was nice to talk with someone eye to eye once in a while, rather than having to constantly look down.

“Hey, Mr. Noles,” Terrance said, handing John a bundle of mail. “You hit the jackpot today. Just look at all your magazines.”

John smiled at the pile of mail in his arm. “This will keep me busy all weekend.” His face turned serious as he looked at Terrance. “And I hope you’ve taken care of our bills?”

Terrance laughed. “Of course. As usual, I left them with the Paulsons next door.”

“That’s great. I’ll thank Bill and Sandy tonight. We’re invited over for barbecue.” John was about to thank Terrance when he noticed him holding out a letter. “What’s this?”

“It’s why I rang the bell,” he said, showing John a letter. “They’re renovating the post office and found this tucked between equipment.”

John took the envelope and examined it. Thick and weighty—and affixed with three John Steinmetz twenty-cent stamps—the envelope was postmarked December 12, 1983. Scribbled in cursive with somewhat poor penmanship was John’s address, but the envelope bore the name Luis Alvarez, a professor of physics at Berkeley during the 1970s and 80s.

Owned by the university, John’s house had been home to several professors over the years, including Luis, a 1968 Nobel Laureate, and his family. John, however, couldn’t hide his surprise when he glanced at the sender’s name on the letter: Richard Feynman.

John nodded, narrowing his eyes in thought as he looked at Terrance. “Interesting. Very interesting,” he said, musing over the letter again. He mumbled to himself, “After all these years…” then, after a long pause, he shrugged. “Well, I thank you. My Saturday just got a whole lot more interesting.”

“I bet it has. Oh… and our station manager sends her apologies.” Terrance gestured toward the letter. “You know… because we lost it.”

“Nobody’s perfect,” John replied, turning the envelope over, glancing at the back. He looked up at Terrance and smiled. “Better late than never. Anyway, stay cool in this heat.”

“Thanks. I will.” Terrance turned and strode across the street.

John turned and went inside, dumping the armload of mail unceremoniously on a hallway hutch. The excitement over the magazines from earlier had almost become an afterthought as he stared at the letter. Should I open it? Do I even have that right?

 The letter wasn’t addressed to him, and although Luis had died long ago, his family might still appreciate it. Its age and the fame of both professors weighed heavily on John. The letter might be a part of history, and the decision to open it or not seemed fraught with significance.

He returned to his study and collapsed into his leather recliner with a sigh, noting Feynman’s poor handwriting. On the wall opposite his recliner sat a large chalkboard, scribbled with his own equations and handwriting only another physicist could read and appreciate.

Stacks of papers, books, and magazines filled every surface, all organized in a manner that only made sense to John. This included an old mahogany desk, crafted by his grandfather before World War I, that sat prominently in the room’s center. To his right, a large bookshelf filled with hundreds of books covered the wall.

What could Feynman want with Alvarez? They had worked together on the Manhattan Project. Was the letter personal, or was it a professional matter? Since it was addressed to Luis in his capacity as a department head at Berkeley, John guessed it was likely the latter. On the other hand, the fact that Feynman wrote it himself, and not typed by a secretary, suggested that it might be personal.

If either man were still alive, John wouldn’t even consider opening the letter. But the mystery got the better of him, and decided to open it.

He stood and retrieved the chrome-plated letter opener from his desk, carefully inserting the sharp blade. With ease, it cut a smooth opening across the envelope’s top. With reverence, he eased the pages out, unfolding them. Strangely, John found himself breathing heavily, his heart rate elevated.

The handwriting suggested the letter was personal, causing a pang of guilt to course through him. When he saw the mathematical equations on the remaining pages, however, his guilt faded. He glanced over the equations, recognizing the math, but not the intent, then returned to the first page and sat down.

Dear Luis,

Your letter was a welcome surprise, and it brought a smile to my face. I apologize for not writing back sooner; I’ve only just returned to California. You are correct, old friend, it has been too long. But please know, I’m never too busy to help a friend, despite what others might say. So, next time, don’t hesitate to reach out.

As you’ve requested, I have omitted any reference to your premise to safeguard your privacy to the fullest. To start, I was rightfully skeptical when I read your hypothesis, as I’m sure you can understand. Rarely, if ever, do bold claims like this one (and some I’ve made myself over the years) come to fruition. You know this, of course, but have never shied away from difficult concepts, and I’m honored that you’ve sought my expertise.

You were correct; your equations contained an error that remained elusive for many days. It wasn’t until I was able to sit and devote enough thought that I identified it, which also contributed to my late reply. As you can see on the following pages, I’ve corrected the error and rewritten your equations.  

I must admit, your equations intrigue me. They possess a beautiful symmetry, an elegance that fills me with awe and wonder. One can only hope that your experiments prove fruitful someday. Should you succeed, your discovery could reshape our understanding of the universe. Yet, we both know how difficult that path can be from concept to reality. Many wondrous ideas grace the minds of people like us, but so few ever blossom into something real.

As I’ve written before: ‘Nature’s imagination is so much greater than man’s; she shows us only the surface of her beauty.’

Good luck, Luis. And rest assured, I will keep your hypothesis and equations between us.

In kind regard,

Richard.



The short hairs prickled up along John’s arms. He reread the letter again, then sat back and studied the diagrams and equations. After a long while, he reached the last page, but still only had a cursory understanding of what Luis was trying to solve. From what John could tell, the equations were incomplete; Luis had intentionally left out key components. Without them, no one, including Richard Feynman, could fully understand Luis’ intent. What have you discovered, Luis?

Like many physicists, Luis had engaged in various experiments throughout his life, some of which were likely known only to close friends and family. John himself had several ongoing experiments in his basement workshop.

But John was acutely aware of the challenges alluded to by Richard in the pursuit of publishing meaningful, peer-reviewed work. Every physicist he knew, including himself, had harbored many game-changing ideas that eventually failed the test of time. The path from brilliant insight to validated theory was fraught with uncertainty and disappointment, a journey as thrilling as it was often unfulfilling.

Yet something in Richard’s words resonated with John. The fact that Feynman had devoted enough time and energy to the idea suggested that Luis might indeed have stumbled onto something meaningful. The questions that lingered in John’s mind were unsettling: Had Luis abandoned his pursuit of this idea simply because he hadn’t heard back from Richard? Or had he perhaps discovered his own mistake, only to find a fatal flaw that ultimately disproved his hypothesis?

The physicist in John couldn’t allow either question to fester unfulfilled. He had to see this mystery to its conclusion.

 Abruptly, John stood, crossing his study with a determined gait. He set the letter on his desk and then stood before his chalkboard, examining six months of relentless mental work. Without hesitation, he grabbed the eraser and wiped the board clean. He knew he had the equations backed up, both as photos on his phone and in hard-copy, neatly organized in a three-ring binder on his bookshelf.

He then turned and withdrew the first page of equations from the letter, and began to work, scribbling furiously like a man possessed. In no time, John found himself in his zone. All other sounds and concerns from the world around him receded from his consciousness.

Although John wasn’t specialized in eigenstates of quantized systems, he had sufficient knowledge to expand on Luis’ equations. The original mistake had led to incorrect eigenvalues, an issue that Richard had addressed and fixed. Now, the data fell into place, but without the underlying framework and notes from Luis, John’s efforts to unravel the mystery were in vain.

 Fortunately for John, he was acquainted with Luis’ son, Walter, who had also become a Berkeley professor, specializing in Earth and Planetary Science. Now retired, Walter had gained fame for his own theory that an asteroid impact had caused the extinction of the dinosaurs.

It was also a fortunate coincidence that John’s wife, Lucy Emmons-Noles, was a Berkeley professor as well, having studied under Walter Alvarez during her degree in archaeology. If Luis had maintained any notes about his research, and if Walter had kept them, John was hopeful he might allow him access. If needed, John could always appeal to Walter’s natural curiosity as the dedicated scholar they knew him for. How could he possibly say no?

 Morning had become early afternoon when something in the periphery of John’s vision tugged at his sub-conscience. He ignored it, focusing on his work. In his haste, he had already broken several pieces of chalk. Despite its inconvenience, and the occasional nail scratch on the board, something he detested, John preferred the old-school use of chalk over dry erase markers; it was a hazard he accepted and knew well.

Eventually, someone cleared their throat to his right. John turned and found his wife, Lucy, standing in the open double doorway, a bag of groceries in her arm, an eyebrow raised in amusement. “Who are you, and what have you done with my husband?”

John stared, blinking, becoming aware of the chalk dust that covered his hands, chin, and dark, button-up dress shirt. “What?”

“What?” Lucy replied, her expression incredulous. “First, you dumped the mail on the hutch without sorting it—something you’ve never done. And second, you’ve erased your chalkboard.” She grinned, teasingly adding, “Where is the John I know?”

He ignored his wife’s well-founded questions—questions born from years of knowing him and his particular habits. He set the chalk down, rubbing both hands on his pants, and showed her the letter. And for the next several minutes, John almost couldn’t contain himself as his words tumbled out in a rush, his voice filled with excitement.

Lucy shrugged. “Great. Walter will be thrilled.” She turned to leave the study, adding over her shoulder, “Go get cleaned up. We’re having dinner with the Paulsons, remember?”

John stared in disbelief at her back. How could she simply shrug off such a potential discovery? And with his mind in a whirlwind of equations, how could he possibly settle down for regular conversation over dinner? John could almost picture his wife and neighbors snapping their fingers to get his attention, as had happened before. He wasn’t proud of it, but once an idea took hold of his imagination, focusing on anything else became nearly impossible. The world around him would fade away, and the concept would consume him, leaving little room for everyday concerns.

                                               ***

It was Sunday morning as John slowed the car, searching the addresses along Benvenue Avenue, south of campus.

“There, ahead on the corner,” Lucy said, pointing.

John pulled over and parked.

Dinner with the neighbors the previous evening had gone better than expected. They had shared his fascination with the letter and agreed that opening it was appropriate. They had even encouraged him to reach out to Walter late yesterday afternoon, just before dinner. To his surprise, Walter’s response to the letter was less than enthusiastic, at least by what John could tell over a phone. Nonetheless, Walter had agreed to a meeting, sounding eager for the company, and invited John and Lucy over for morning coffee.

Lined with plum and Chinese Pistache trees, Benvenue Avenue was quaint and quiet in the cool morning air, save for the cheerful birdsong that greeted John and Lucy as they exited their Tesla. Known for its architecture, Berkeley had its stately Victorians, dark-wooded Craftsman bungalows, and Storybook houses, many of which were built before the Second World War. Sprinkled among them were newer, mid-century modern homes constructed in the 1960s.

Walter and Milly Alvarez’s residence was no exception. Well-maintained, their two-story home was a perfect fit for the charming neighborhood, with the front door centered on a modestly sized front porch.

On time, the Noles climbed the steps precisely at nine and as Lucy reached for the bell, Walter and his wife, Milly, appeared at their screened door. “Welcome John and Lucy,” Milly said, unlocking the door. “I think it’s been five years since we last saw you.” She opened the door, allowing the Noles to step in.

“The fundraiser for breast cancer, I believe,” Walter added, smiling at the couple.

“Yes, it was the fundraiser,” Lucy said, turning to look up at John, who towered over everyone. “You remember that, don’t you?”

“As forgetful as I am, I do remember,” John replied, amiably.

Walter shook his head. “Father was the same way. Always forgetting things. He had too much running through that brain of his. You physicists are all the same.”

John shrugged in a helpless gesture, conceding Walter’s point.  

“Please, have a seat,” Milly said, gesturing to a large sitting room to their left. “Would either of you like tea or coffee?”

Lucy looked up at John. “He’ll have coffee,” she said, then turned to Milly. “And I’ll have tea. But please, let me help.”

“Oh, it’s no bother,” Milly said, heading down a hallway. Lucy followed while John and Walter sat on two chairs opposite a couch.

                                               ***

For nearly an hour, they talked over coffee, tea, and freshly baked chocolate chip cookies, but John found himself unable to focus on the conversation. Instead, he resorted to his usual tactic of nodding his head and pretending to listen. He was sure that Lucy had noticed; she always seemed to.

When Walter finally brought up the subject of the letter, Lucy retrieved it from her purse and handed it to him. John observed Walter as he read it, searching for any hint of a reaction. But the man, whom John guessed was in his early eighties, offered no expression, his face an unreadable mask.

After a minute, Walter quickly skimmed the equations, then shrugged, and, somewhat surprisingly, handed the letter back. He looked at Lucy, then at John. “Living under the shadow of a famous physicist, I have witnessed many such ‘discoveries’ before. That letter is just one of many examples over the years. If you like, I could show you.”

Sighing, the tinge of disappointment running through him didn’t surprise John. As a physicist, he knew disappointment and, in his heart, knew Walter was right.

Walter must have seen John’s disappointment and added, “But you’re welcome to his research.” He gestured to a box on the floor near the coffee table.

John pulled the box closer while everyone continued to talk.

Filled with dozens of notebooks and binders, John sifted through them, noting their labeled dates. One binder marked ‘1980-’ with no end date caught his attention.

Incidentally, John had read on Wikipedia that both Luis and Richard had died in 1988. If Luis had kept his research with regard to the letter, it would be in the binder John placed on his lap.  

Opening the cover, he found the binder organized by three colored tabs, each labeled by the year. First was 1980, then 1981, but the final tab, near the back, had something else entirely. Luis had drawn a smiley face on the tab.

John flipped to the section, noting the title scribbled across the top. ‘Mercury and a Cyclotron: Methods for Achieving Time Dilation?’ He furrowed his brows and began reading Luis’ hypothesis under the title.

As he read, goosebumps rippled across John’s body. He flipped through the equations—those absent from the letter—and stared in disbelief. John hadn’t noticed his labored breathing, nor the bead of sweat on his forehead, but Lucy had from the alarmed look on her face when John looked up at her.

Great Scott, Luis! You’ve discovered how to travel through time!