An unpublished story
THE ULTIMATE EXPERIMENT
George Stewart, age 94, with his mane of white hair and flowing beard, looked the part he had chosen in life, that of a distinguished scientist. His mind wandered as he waited in his study for Virginia to arrive. He always anticipated her visits. Twice a week she came. Finally, the door to his study opened and she entered.
“Virginia, how are you doing?” he said.
Virginia was thirty-five of medium build and quite attractive. But it was the nurturing she gave her patients that revealed her inner beauty. She put down her nursing bag and replied, “How are you doing, Dr. Stewart?” although she knew the answer.
Virginia had been an oncology and hospice nurse for four years. The work was demanding and emotionally draining, but she derived comfort in knowing she helped the people she cared for to make their last days as comfortable as possible.
“I’m maintaining Virginia. I’m so very glad to see you my dear.”
Virginia smiled as Stewart adjusted his body in his hospital bed. She enjoyed spending time with Stewart, easily the most famous patient she had ever had. In 1975, he won the Nobel Prize for Physics. His breakthrough theories and research led to the proposal of string theory. At his advanced age, his brain was still nimble. But his body was riddled with colon cancer and the malignant fingers of death had spread to other organs.
Stewart lived alone in a grand old house. His wife died some years ago and he still deeply mourned her. His only child, a son near 70, lived nearby and would visit when he could. Stewart would have liked to see his two grandchildren more, but they had their own lives and families. He cherished the rare visits they managed. A nurse’s aide kept watch over him and tended to his daily needs.
When Virginia began managing Stewart’s care one month ago, he was given three months to live. “I’ll spend my final days at home,” he told his doctor.
Virginia was assigned Stewart’s case and, during her first visit, she told him, “I’m having a hospital bed delivered today to make you more comfortable. What bedroom do you want it set up in?”
“Oh my dear,” he answered, “I want to spend my last days with my very close friends. Set it up in my study.”
He could tell she did not understand his request. “Wheel me into my study and you shall meet them.”
She wheeled him up to the sliding double doors of darkly stained wood. When she opened them her eyes were greeted by floor to ceiling shelves overflowing with books.
“These are my very close friends. I have spent my life with their thoughts, their ideas, and their dreams. On these shelves are the works of scientists, philosophers and poets. I can gaze at their spines and recall the cherished words they hold. This is where I choose to spend my last days.” Over the days she cared for him she grew to understand how much these friends meant to him.
Now she saw Stewart as her patient and friend. As she tended to him, Virginia asked, “Have you received communion yet today?” She knew that Stewart was a devout Catholic and received the sacrament every morning from a visiting priest or lay member of the church.
“Yes, my dear. Monsignor visited me early this morning. I do so love visiting with that man. We prayed together and talked about my journey into the next life. I’ve worked hard in this life. I am satisfied with what I have accomplished. But I am so very tired. I look forward to the next life and being united with my dear wife.”
Virginia finished with her patient and left instructions with the nurse’s aide as to what needed to be done until her next visit. With her work done, Virginia packed her bag and prepared for her next visit. They said their good-byes, and then Stewart mentioned, “I’m expecting a visitor this afternoon, a former student of mine. His name is Donald Ball, and he has made quite a name for himself in the field of quantum mechanics and string theory. I have not seen him for thirty years or more. I can’t imagine what the purpose of his visit might be.”
“Just don’t overdo it Dr. Stewart. I’ll see you in two days.”
Whenever Virginia left Stewart, she never knew whether she would see him again. She knew the end was very close.
* * *
Donald Ball drove his rental car along the back roads of southeastern Pennsylvania. He chose this circuitous route to give him time to think, although his mind had been occupied with one subject for some time now. He wanted to talk about an extremely sensitive and private matter: his old teacher’s imminent death.
Ball had a collaboration to discuss with his mentor. That is why he traveled from California to Pennsylvania. He had in mind the ultimate physics experiment and needed Stewart’s help to prove a theory that, until now, he had not dared share with anyone.
* * *
Ball arrived at Stewart’s residence and parked on the circular drive. The nurse’s aide answered the door and led him to the study. The sliding doors were open. As he entered, he was immediately astounded at the number of books crammed into the room. However, he was more astounded and saddened to see the shell of a man that was once George Stewart.
Stewart smiled as his former student approached the bed.
Ball extended his hand. “It is a pleasure to see you again Professor. How are you?” He immediately gave himself a mental slap for asking a man who was dying how he was doing.
“I meant to say….”
Stewart waved a dismissive hand. “I understand Donald. When one is as close to death as I, life’s daily greetings can seem out of place. I’m glad to see you but I must admit I am puzzled by this visit. I cannot fathom why you would drop your important work at U C Irvine to come visit your old professor?”
Ball knew this conversation would be extremely difficult. He had practiced what he would say since he first conceived the idea, when he first heard of Stewart’s condition.
Motioning for Ball to take a seat, Stewart asked the nurse’s aide to bring some tea.
When they were alone, Ball began to explain his visit. “Professor Stewart, I have always respected you as an outstanding scientist. No, respect is the wrong word. I have always been in awe of your intellect. And I have always respected you as a man, a person of honesty and integrity.”
Stewart smiled, “I appreciate your comments, he said, “but I’m sure you didn’t travel three thousand miles just to compliment me on the life I have lived.”
Ball hesitated, and then said, “Um, professor, this may seem like an odd question, but are you still a religious man?”
This question took Stewart by surprise. “Why yes, I am. I must say I find this conversation most puzzling.”
“Professor, I am here because you have three qualities I am seeking in an individual, someone I need to help me prove a theory of mine. It is a theory that goes beyond science to the essence our very existence. You meet my criteria. You are a highly intelligent physicist, you have led an honorable life and you are dying.”
Stewart said, “This conversation is becoming more and more bizarre. I presume you can explain your comments.”
Ball nodded, “I will try my best Professor. “As you know, I am working at the Super-Kamiokande detector used for detection of neutrinos. I am also conducting a graduate-level course in string theory. While teaching this course, I formed a theory on a subject that I never put much credence in: the existence of heaven.”
“Now I am truly lost,” replied Stewart.
“You see Professor, I have never been a religious man. I was not raised in any faith. But as a scientist, the more I think about life the more I find it difficult to picture our life force, that energy that each of us possesses, coming to a complete end with our death.”
“I can appreciate your observation on life. But I cannot fathom the connection between string theory and heaven.”
Ball began to explain his theory.
“One of the estimations of string theory, as you well know, is the existence of not four but eleven dimensions. Presumably, some of these dimensions are too miniscule to be observable. I began thinking about the existence of alternate universes. I thought of our own universe with its three physical dimensions and the fourth, time. I envisioned two alternate universes, each with three dimensions. I assumed time to be a constant for all three dimensions, ours and the two unknowns.”
Stewart interrupted. “That theory,” he hesitated, “would explain the presence of ten dimensions. You are left with one unexplained ….” The startled expression on Stewart’s face told Ball that he now comprehended the connection between string theory and heaven.
“That is correct, Professor Stewart. We are left with one dimension, one universe that is infinite, a universe of energy, and a universe where physical reality does not exist. The one remaining universe is heaven.”
Both men fell silent. Ball continued, “I have thought about the next aspect of my theory a great deal. As I said, I am not a religious man. But I appreciate the good and the evil in the world. If the one remaining dimension is heaven, then what comprises hell? Could it be a continuum of the heavenly dimension, or does it not exist?”
Ball paused for emphasis, and then continued, “I propose that hell does not exist. The reward for an errant life is oblivion. Your life force is dissipated for some other purpose and your consciousness; your existence is lost.”
Stewart looked at Ball and said, “I must admit your theory interests me. I now see why you require a man who, some would say, led an honorable life and why you require the help of someone about to die. But what is your need for a scientist?”
“History is overflowing,” Ball said, “with people who have vowed to communicate with the living after their death. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, the author of the popular Sherlock Holmes stories, considered those works a minor representation of his entire output. He was primarily concerned with the afterlife and communication from the beyond. What happened after he passed? Nothing.
“Harry Houdini spent a good part of his life trying to contact his departed mother, and in the process debunked quite a few mediums. He vowed that he would communicate to his wife from the next world – nothing.
“But these people weren’t scientists. Even if they had been, the level of technology did not exist to allow them to communicate from that singular dimension. I’m asking you, Professor Stewart, after you pass, to send me a sign. Something that we will now plan. Something that will prove my theory.”
Stewart’s eyes twinkled as he said, “I think I know just the event.”
* * *
A few days after Donald Ball’s visit, Virginia noticed a steady decline in George Stewart’s condition. Every time she saw him she thought it would be the last. Each time she approached his bed, Stewart appeared as a corpse, his complexion gray. Only the occasional rise and fall of his chest signaled that his body still harbored life.
“How are you today, Professor Stewart?” Virginia did not expect an answer but he opened his eyes.
“I don’t think I have long for this world, my dear,” he said with great effort. “But I am at peace. I have one request of you before you leave.”
Two hours later, while making another visit, Virginia was paged by the nurse’s aide caring for Stewart.
“The professor passed away.”
Virginia went to pronounce him dead. She had lost a patient and a friend. Then she fulfilled Stewart’s last request.
* * *
Donald Ball was at work when his phone rang.
“Hello, Dr. Ball?”
“Yes, this is Dr. Ball.” He did not recognize the voice.
“This is Virginia Madison. I’m a visiting nurse. I have been taking care of George Stewart.”
Ball knew immediately the purpose of the call.
“George Stewart passed away today. He told me it was very important that you know when he died.”
“Thank you for calling. He was a good man and friend. He will be missed.”
“He was a good man. Good-bye.”
Donald Ball hung up the phone. He sat alone in his office for a long time thinking of what might occur. He felt a chill of anticipation.
* * *
Two days later John Coolidge, a graduate student working for Dr. Ball, sat at the computer console connected to the Super-Kamiokande detector. He had seen what the computer images of past neutrino events looked like and detected a few events himself. He was reading a physics textbook when the alarms began to sound. As he looked at the monitor he said out loud, “Holy shit, I’m going to be famous.”
* * *
Ball looked up from his work as his normally reserved graduate student came running into his office. This usually calm student was in an extreme state of agitation.
“Professor, you’ve got to come quick! We’ve just recorded a unique event. Nothing like this … you’ve got to come!”
“Calm down John. Now tell me what has happened.”
“We’ve detected a new form of neutrino! It is not any of the three known types – electron, muon or tau!”
Now Ball was getting excited. “Tell me about its chirality – its orientation.”
“That’s the strangest part, Dr. Ball. It has none. It is not left-handed as all neutrinos are. I’ve got to get back. Are you coming? There might be more events.”
“I’ll be right there, son.”
After the graduate student left Donald Ball sat for a moment alone. He was simultaneously excited and numb. He cried, and then he laughed. He also felt calmness he had never experienced before. He knew this was a unique event. Because it seemed inexplicable, the event would probably be deemed the result of faulty sensors. But Ball knew better. The new neutrino was the type of particle Stewart had agreed to generate from beyond the grave.
THE END
December 22, 2025 at 8:15 am
The Legend
of
French Creek
I pulled a small pad and a pen from my shirt pocket. “Mind if I take some notes?”
“Hell no. Most around here know the story – it’s no secret.”
He began his tale.
“Grandpa first told me this story when I was young. Wanted to scare the hell out of me, I suppose. Used to enjoy doing that a lot. Starts back in the late 1700’s when some people moved in that weren’t welcomed in this neck of the woods. They came from England. Some kind of pagan cult called Drubids.”
“Do you mean Druids?” I asked.
“Ya, something like that. Anyway, they wanted to be left alone so they built a house way out in the woods. There was men and women, but no children. Young, they was. Maybe eight or ten of them.
“Seems the locals, being of the religious type, didn’t take too kindly to these pagans. Then the trouble started. Farm animals turned up missing, some cows and sheep. The locals suspected treachery by the pagans, but they kept their peace. Then, within two weeks’ time, three children went missing. A group of townsfolk paid a visit to the pagans. The heathens said they knew nothing of the animals or children disappearing. But the locals thought they were acting suspicious.
“This all happened in the spring. Then came the massacre.
It was the night of the summer solstice. The nearest residents to the pagans reported a red glow in the forest that night. Some of the local men, well-armed, went to investigate. They approached the pagan camp and saw the men and women dancing naked around a fire. There was a pile of cut-up carcasses, no one could tell what they were being thrown into the fire.
“One of the men, nervous I suppose, shot into the air and the pagans made for the cabin. The story goes that the men surrounded the cabin, and then someone threw a blazing brand onto the roof. The cabin caught fire. Screams could be heard coming from the house. Some of the pagans tried to escape through the door and windows, but they were shot and fell back into the inferno. While they waited on of the men poked around in the fire. Found bones, small human bones so the story goes. The men of the town remained until the house collapsed. By morning, it was just a smoking ruin. They left and said little of what they had done to anyone outside the community. Some of the curious would visit the site of the pagan compound, but that ended after a while. And as time passed, the story faded but was not totally forgotten.
November 23, 2024 at 7:02 pm
I am once again straying from the purpose of this blog to reflect on my human experience in this f—ked up world. This has happened before, and I can guarantee, it will happen again.
In regards to the Catholic Church, I envy those believers who maintain their beliefs no matter what they hear during mass, even if it goes against their knowledge, or what is revealed in the press.
I strayed from the Catholic Church for twenty years or more. But when my daughters were born I decided to reenter the religion, wanting them to have some religious education as opposed to nothing. If they continued to practice their religion into adulthood, it was up to them.
So my girls and I attended church. My former wife was non Catholic, but enjoyed the Christmas and Easter masses.
One Sunday, while my oldest daughter, Annie, was in high school she heard a sermon delivered by a deacon. She was so upset by what she heard that she refused to receive communion. I would later develop an intense dislike for this person by the nonsense he spewed. And all we could do, as a sea of bobble-heads was to agree or remain silent.
Time passed, my girls went to college, and I attended mass alone.
One Sunday, the priest preforming the mass announce that, for the following week, there would be homework, as in bringing a pen. That next Sunday there were post cards in all the pews meant to be sent to our congressmen pleading to vote against abortion.
My church’s mass had suddenly become ‘Big Brother’. The faithful filled out their cards and at the same time studied what all around them were doing. Those who had not done what was told were identified when the cards were collected. I remember thinking, “Is this legal?”
I can point out other incidents making no sense to me. As the Sunday shortly after it was revealed that the priests in Europe and Ireland were molesting children just as our homegrown clergy. The second collection was to support the European parishes.
There was another incident when for weeks church members stood in front of the congregation and told how they were tithing to the church. Since doing that all of life’s matters had come to a happy conclusion. Eventually, the head priest announced that some parishioners him what he did with this extra money. He announced that he used to money in times of emergency.
What was I missing?
I live outside Philadelphia and what tears me apart is the abuse of children by priests. When the abuse became known, the priests were transferred to where they could continue their despicable act. I realized there were priests’ acts I found repulsive, and at the same time, I was expected to confess my sins to someone performing acts I could not comprehend. If I had committed these acts, I would be jailed and considered a sexual pervert for the rest of my life. But if I were a priest I would maybe receive counseling and then off I go to another parish full of children.
Finally, I really get upset when I see my former parish drive crosses into the ground to represent aborted children. I firmly believe a women has the right to decide what to do with her own body and her future. Do I believe that abortion is right, no? But I also believe women should have the right to choose. And for some, this choice may haunt them for the rest of their lives.
August 11, 2016 at 8:22 pm
I wrote this article in anger and despair, then decided not to publish it. But only today this article appeared in the Washington Post.
https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/acts-of-faith/wp/2016/03/15/in-groundbreaking-case-franciscan-friars-charged-with-allowing-abuse-of-at-least-80-kids/?hpid=hp_hp-more-top-stories_aof-friars-225pm%3Ahomepage%2Fstory
Here is another article which should sicken everyone, especially a parent.
https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/acts-of-faith/wp/2016/03/03/abuse-survivor-advocates-see-hope-in-spotlight-and-in-new-report-alleging-widespread-cover-up/?hpid=hp_hp-more-top-stories_aof-payout940p%3Ahomepage%2Fstory
How could my piece possibly relate to writing? Easy, it is life. And even when writing fiction, the roots of reality take hold and form the story.
I was raised a Catholic, my children were raised in the church, but I no longer attend mass. I was frustrated, then sickened as I sat on Sunday morning listening to discussions I could not challenge. Being told statements that were not true, or not researched. Making no sense to what I knew to be the truth.
I once found comfort in the presence of the church. The physical building offered peace. Even the smell of the church, in quiet moments of solitude, I found solace. Now, I question this source of salvation I once held dear. Wondering where the truth ends and the lies begin.
My faltering began with the first exposure of child abuse in this area of Pennsylvania, by priests. I could not wrap my mind around such an announcement. I realized that I was expected to confess my sins to someone, who potentially, had committed acts worse than I could imagine. When the Philadelphia Inquirer published their first article about these unspeakable acts by priests from the pulpit we were told not to read the article. As it turns out, this heinous crime was being committed by thousands of priest all over the country, then revealed that this practice was committed by priests all over the world.
I know that if I had committed these acts, I would have been jailed. When released put on Megan’s List, and my life ruined. Yet when the holy commit these crimes, they are transferred to a new parish where they could continue these unholy acts.
During one mass after the revelation of these crimes, I listened to the celebrant tell us that pedophilia was a disease. I would say a disease that should have been dealt with before too many innocent lives were ruined. In reply, I would ask this question, “Does the church consider homosexuality a disease?” For most of these acts come under that definition. Now every time the church I once attended plants small white crosses in the soil representing the thousands of children aborted, I wish they would also plant little black crosses to represent the thousands of children, living children, whose lives have been damaged by those they pictured as the holiest of holy.
I am sickened by an institution I once held dear. I did not write this article gain attention, but rather, to explore a past my life once held important, but now causes nothing but confusion.
March 15, 2016 at 9:34 pm
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