Excerpt from Einstein's Formula
Anyone spending time in the South immediately experiences the humidity. Seventy-five, eighty-five percent is normal; this means rain for most places. There was no rain. Moisture from other downpours, transpiring trees and thick green shrubberies saturated the air, coating everything in the dark with chilling dew. A moss-damp smell of mildew, not altogether unpleasant, permeated the night.
Ty’s apartment was one of six small complexes in a large two-story house sitting among ancient oaks and dark green magnolia trees. The house was in the middle of a city lot on the corner of Magnolia and 1st streets, only a few blocks from the campus. Along with a small bathroom, the apartment had a small kitchen and a large bedroom space. The dividing wall between the kitchen and the bedroom held a Murphy bed that, when stored, allowed greater floor space. There were two entry points to the apartment—the front door, seldom used except to get to his mailbox, and the routinely used backdoor.
Ty sat at his small desk, writing an arrangement for his college jazz band. In the night’s calmness, his mind summoned melodies and chords that were ever accompanied by singing cicadas and rhythmic croaking—night creatures reclaiming their times and spaces in the outside darkness. It was 1:45 in the morning. He always felt the serenity of late hours was best for creating music. The brightness of a day carried distractions: classes and the dead times in between, visits in the music building lobby, talking to those on long breaks from practice rooms, belabored phone chats, commiserating conversations or shared complaints voiced in the student union. So much of a day was taken up to fill moments. The narrow street he saw through his window just above his desk daily hummed with traffic, more diversions. But now, in his early morning quietness; lone cars sporadically passed, tires quietly hissing on the pavement in longing sighs to reach home.
Tyrone worked into the morning, mentally recalling instrument sounds and placing them on the staves. A directional fan might have handled the hot sticky air inside the room just fine if he had one, but he didn’t. Instead, he opened the small window above his desk wider to capture any breeze. He intensely concentrated on the music: a sax solo at this measure, a drum to fill a few bars later, brass and woodwinds to follow in the last chorus. As he mulled over filling the score, subtle sounds were insinuated into his awareness. It was a minor distraction, hardly enough to cause him to stop to investigate. Continuing his writing, he gradually discerned a distinctive nonmusical sound coming from just outside the window. He stopped, but heard nothing. He started to write and then, there it was again, a scratching sound. Intensely listening, Ty thought the sound might be footsteps on the street’s graveled shoulder. But, he thought, footsteps have rhythm to them. A steady pace creates a tempo. This sound was erratic, perhaps an animal scratching in the gravel. Tyrone turned off the lights to better see through the dark. He peered in the direction of the commotion. Just under a street lamp he could see a figure—a woman. She moved one or two steps one way, and then quickly retraced her steps to go back the opposite way. With a quick about-face, she ended where she began. Although her path was well lit, it appeared a way forward eluded her. He waited a while longer to decide whether she was in distress.
“Are you OK?” he finally called out. There was no answer. The woman continued her puzzling movements. He called out again, this time louder, “Lady, do you need help? Are you all right?”
She answered, but not in his direction, “Could you help me? I need help. Please help me.”
“Stay right there, I’m coming to you,” Tyrone called back.
Tyrone walked to the woman, but she didn’t seem to notice as she continued to look at the ground. He spoke and she slowly looked up. Her eyes glistened under the light, but they appeared dull and unfocused and looking beyond him.
“I don’t know where I am,” she spoke in a whimper.
“Where do you want to be?” Tyrone asked.
She looked at her feet, kept turning in a tight circle as though a step outside the circle was a fall into oblivion.
“I…I’m not sure.” She looked at Tyrone. “Here.” She handed him her purse. “I must have something in there to tell where I need to be.”
He opened her purse to find a small wallet bulging with pictures and plastic cards. He rifled through a few cards to make sure the name on each was the same.
“Says here you’re Francine Richards. Do you have a driver’s license?”
She helplessly watched him go through the wallet.
“Aha,” he pulled out her driver’s license. “You’re Francine Richards and you live in Martinsville. How did you get here? Do you have a car? Are you a student here?”
Her helpless stare caused him to stop the questions.
They crossed to his apartment’s side of the street.
"Can I get you something to drink?" he asked once they were in the apartment, as he pulled a chair away from the table and carefully had her sit.
“Yeah. Some water would be great,” she said.
He quickly got water and watched her drink. Her long, thin fingers wrapped around the water glass and continued to shake. Slender arms told of her frailty. She was attractive even in her bewildered and somewhat disheveled state. She appeared to be in her early twenties with the delicate molded face of a Barbie doll. Her sad brown eyes continued to look past him,
She drank the water without stopping.
“Want some more?” Ty asked.
“No thanks.”
“We’ve got to call somebody to get help.” Ty looked through her purse again. “Here we go. Your checkbook.” He showed it to her. “This is your checkbook, right? I’ll call this number here.”
Tyrone dialed the number on the blank check 555-2312. He waited while the phone rang. Once, twice, three times; a voice on the other end answered.
“Hello. Richards’ residence,” the male voice said.
“Hello. This is Tyrone Broadbent in Hampton. I have Francine here…”
“My goodness. Is Miss Richards okay? She hasn’t been in an accident has she? Please wait…” There was silence on the other end.
“This must be your house, they’re getting somebody.” She did not react. Her long dark hair partially covered the right side of her face and had become frizzled in the dampness of night.
“Hello. Who is this?” an excited voice spoke.
“This is Tyrone Broadbent. I’m a student in Hampton. Francine is sitting in my kitchen. I think she needs some help. She seems confused.”
“Thank heavens,” the voice said. “We’ve been worried sick about her. She missed her medication and without it she could have a stroke or wander off and die. Please let me speak with her.”
Ty handed the girl the phone. “I think this is your mom.”
Francine slowly took the phone. “This is Francine. Please help me.” She began to cry."
Anyone spending time in the South immediately experiences the humidity. Seventy-five, eighty-five percent is normal; this means rain for most places. There was no rain. Moisture from other downpours, transpiring trees and thick green shrubberies saturated the air, coating everything in the dark with chilling dew. A moss-damp smell of mildew, not altogether unpleasant, permeated the night.
Ty’s apartment was one of six small complexes in a large two-story house sitting among ancient oaks and dark green magnolia trees. The house was in the middle of a city lot on the corner of Magnolia and 1st streets, only a few blocks from the campus. Along with a small bathroom, the apartment had a small kitchen and a large bedroom space. The dividing wall between the kitchen and the bedroom held a Murphy bed that, when stored, allowed greater floor space. There were two entry points to the apartment—the front door, seldom used except to get to his mailbox, and the routinely used backdoor.
Ty sat at his small desk, writing an arrangement for his college jazz band. In the night’s calmness, his mind summoned melodies and chords that were ever accompanied by singing cicadas and rhythmic croaking—night creatures reclaiming their times and spaces in the outside darkness. It was 1:45 in the morning. He always felt the serenity of late hours was best for creating music. The brightness of a day carried distractions: classes and the dead times in between, visits in the music building lobby, talking to those on long breaks from practice rooms, belabored phone chats, commiserating conversations or shared complaints voiced in the student union. So much of a day was taken up to fill moments. The narrow street he saw through his window just above his desk daily hummed with traffic, more diversions. But now, in his early morning quietness; lone cars sporadically passed, tires quietly hissing on the pavement in longing sighs to reach home.
Tyrone worked into the morning, mentally recalling instrument sounds and placing them on the staves. A directional fan might have handled the hot sticky air inside the room just fine if he had one, but he didn’t. Instead, he opened the small window above his desk wider to capture any breeze. He intensely concentrated on the music: a sax solo at this measure, a drum to fill a few bars later, brass and woodwinds to follow in the last chorus. As he mulled over filling the score, subtle sounds were insinuated into his awareness. It was a minor distraction, hardly enough to cause him to stop to investigate. Continuing his writing, he gradually discerned a distinctive nonmusical sound coming from just outside the window. He stopped, but heard nothing. He started to write and then, there it was again, a scratching sound. Intensely listening, Ty thought the sound might be footsteps on the street’s graveled shoulder. But, he thought, footsteps have rhythm to them. A steady pace creates a tempo. This sound was erratic, perhaps an animal scratching in the gravel. Tyrone turned off the lights to better see through the dark. He peered in the direction of the commotion. Just under a street lamp he could see a figure—a woman. She moved one or two steps one way, and then quickly retraced her steps to go back the opposite way. With a quick about-face, she ended where she began. Although her path was well lit, it appeared a way forward eluded her. He waited a while longer to decide whether she was in distress.
“Are you OK?” he finally called out. There was no answer. The woman continued her puzzling movements. He called out again, this time louder, “Lady, do you need help? Are you all right?”
She answered, but not in his direction, “Could you help me? I need help. Please help me.”
“Stay right there, I’m coming to you,” Tyrone called back.
Tyrone walked to the woman, but she didn’t seem to notice as she continued to look at the ground. He spoke and she slowly looked up. Her eyes glistened under the light, but they appeared dull and unfocused and looking beyond him.
“I don’t know where I am,” she spoke in a whimper.
“Where do you want to be?” Tyrone asked.
She looked at her feet, kept turning in a tight circle as though a step outside the circle was a fall into oblivion.
“I…I’m not sure.” She looked at Tyrone. “Here.” She handed him her purse. “I must have something in there to tell where I need to be.”
He opened her purse to find a small wallet bulging with pictures and plastic cards. He rifled through a few cards to make sure the name on each was the same.
“Says here you’re Francine Richards. Do you have a driver’s license?”
She helplessly watched him go through the wallet.
“Aha,” he pulled out her driver’s license. “You’re Francine Richards and you live in Martinsville. How did you get here? Do you have a car? Are you a student here?”
Her helpless stare caused him to stop the questions.
They crossed to his apartment’s side of the street.
"Can I get you something to drink?" he asked once they were in the apartment, as he pulled a chair away from the table and carefully had her sit.
“Yeah. Some water would be great,” she said.
He quickly got water and watched her drink. Her long, thin fingers wrapped around the water glass and continued to shake. Slender arms told of her frailty. She was attractive even in her bewildered and somewhat disheveled state. She appeared to be in her early twenties with the delicate molded face of a Barbie doll. Her sad brown eyes continued to look past him,
She drank the water without stopping.
“Want some more?” Ty asked.
“No thanks.”
“We’ve got to call somebody to get help.” Ty looked through her purse again. “Here we go. Your checkbook.” He showed it to her. “This is your checkbook, right? I’ll call this number here.”
Tyrone dialed the number on the blank check 555-2312. He waited while the phone rang. Once, twice, three times; a voice on the other end answered.
“Hello. Richards’ residence,” the male voice said.
“Hello. This is Tyrone Broadbent in Hampton. I have Francine here…”
“My goodness. Is Miss Richards okay? She hasn’t been in an accident has she? Please wait…” There was silence on the other end.
“This must be your house, they’re getting somebody.” She did not react. Her long dark hair partially covered the right side of her face and had become frizzled in the dampness of night.
“Hello. Who is this?” an excited voice spoke.
“This is Tyrone Broadbent. I’m a student in Hampton. Francine is sitting in my kitchen. I think she needs some help. She seems confused.”
“Thank heavens,” the voice said. “We’ve been worried sick about her. She missed her medication and without it she could have a stroke or wander off and die. Please let me speak with her.”
Ty handed the girl the phone. “I think this is your mom.”
Francine slowly took the phone. “This is Francine. Please help me.” She began to cry."