The Pain Killer

By Bruce Heydt

2

Heydt

Howard Gordon Wells was well acquainted with pain and suffered from a wide variety of unwelcome ailments in diverse regions of his body--until the chance purchase of a mysterious urn gave him the unique and supernatural ability to make his wishes come true. It seemed like a foolproof opportunity to rid himself of every bellyache and back spasm.

Things are not so simple, though. Every pain has a cause and, quite often, a purpose. And every wish has side effects and unforeseen consequences. Soon, Howard learns to appreciate the truth of the old adage, "Be careful what you wish for."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Sep 14, 2022
• ISBN: 9798885409339

Book preview

cover.jpg

The Pain Killer

Bruce Heydt

ISBN 979-8-88540-932-2 (paperback)

ISBN 979-8-88540-933-9 (digital)

Copyright © 2022 by Bruce Heydt

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Christian Faith Publishing

832 Park Avenue

Meadville, PA 16335

www.christianfaithpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

To the Reader…

Prologue

One of a Kind

Mage

Take as Needed for Pain

Milgram's Progress

Relapse

The Fall and Rise of Howard Wells

Flatland

Reassessment

The Mechanics

Captain Smith's Bad Advice

Impervious

Rerun

The Food of the Gods

Nazis and Saints

Social Distancing

A Hardening of the Heart

Sin and Redemption

A Pearl of Great Price

The Prodigal Urn

The Lost Sheep

Heaven and Hell

The Twinkling of an Eye

About the Author

To all who hurt

Where then does wisdom come from?

Where does understanding dwell?

It is hidden from the eyes of every living thing,

concealed even from the birds in the sky.

Destruction and Death say,

Only a rumor of it has reached our ears.

God understands the way to it

and he alone knows where it dwells,

for he views the ends of the earth

and sees everything under the heavens.

—Job 28:20–24

To the Reader…

Ifirst wrote this story several years ago for people of a different world than yours. At the time of its publication, my Author, known to me simply as Christopher, stipulated that it should not be shared with anyone living farther back and higher up, as you do. Christopher reserved for himself the privilege of expressing the ideas addressed within these pages to the people of your world—in his own time and in his own manner.

Years have passed, however, and his best intentions of completing the project in a style better suited to your world have been repeatedly thwarted by the intrusion of other duties upon his time and a mental stupor brought on, likely as not, by an excess of church committee meetings. Just recently, he has admitted both to himself and to me that he is unlikely ever to complete his intended treatment of these particular themes. In recognition of that sad truth, he has lifted his earlier prohibition against the wider distribution of this monograph so that it might serve as a reasonable substitute. I therefore offer it to you now for your consideration and amusement.

Elisha Bookbinder

Prologue

In the beginning , Professor Howard Gordon Wells knew pain the way a suburbanite knows an intrusive neighbor. It often turned up uninvited during the night and then lingered on into the morning as a throbbing ache in his lower back. As often as not, it accompanied him to the university and followed him throughout the day, distracting him from his lectures, fouling his mood, and contributing to his reputation as being short-tempered and something of a grouch.

Less frequently but more dramatically, it sometimes showed up as a kidney stone, diverticulitis, or a flare-up of gout, any of which could leave Wells incapacitated and correspondingly surly. At such times, Mary Jane, his wife, often felt the consequences of Wells's ailments herself, bearing the brunt of his wrath. She learned to keep her distance whenever she noticed him hunched over or favoring one foot over the other or climbing the stairs by placing both feet on each step when he retreated to the bedroom to lie down. Whenever these symptoms erupted, a prolonged stay with her mother supplied Mary Jane with a satisfactory excuse for distancing herself for a weekend or longer, as need dictated.

But other of Wells's pains escaped Mary Jane's immediate notice because they weren't the sort of ailments that produced overt, visible signs or evoked low-grade tantrums. They included heartaches of an altogether different sort than the burn he felt whenever he got careless and put habanero sauce on his enchiladas or thoughtlessly bit into a fresh apple, a sure precursor to an intense episode of angina, although his doctors couldn't explain the connection. No, these invisible pains stemmed from different sources than his physical ailments: worry over the approach of deadlines or the dread of another chewing out by his unsympathetic department head.

Sometimes, to be sure, these psychological stressors produced an increase in stomach acid that in turn led to ulcers, just the sort of thing that was guaranteed to send Mary Jane packing. But more often, Wells endured his anxieties in restless silence, lying awake in bed long after his caring but unaware wife had passed into restful sleep. Wells envied the ease and speed with which slumber came to her, leaving her blissfully unaware of his own forlorn sighs that passed unheard in the night, as well as his frequent trips to the bathroom to fetch an antacid tablet or to the kitchen to pour himself a cold glass of water or to the living room to watch the television in an effort to get his mind off of his worries and discomforts.

In just this manner, the years passed. Over time, the restless nights grew ever more frequent. The pains visited his body more regularly and stayed longer after they arrived. At first, Wells fought back. He adjusted his diet, steering clear of tomato sauce, carbonated beverages, tea—two whole pages of favorite foods that his doctor had urged him to purge from his daily menu. He got out and walked more, checked his blood pressure daily, and took off from work as often as his schedule allowed as an antidote for stress. None of it helped in the least, and eventually, the endless medical appointments, as well as the inconclusive test results that followed, got to be a source of stress in themselves.

He stopped investigating his pains and set his mind instead to tolerating them. He learned to live with the pain the way other folks bowed to the sheer, inconvenient necessity of lawn mowing in the summer and snow shoveling in the winter, neither of which Wells could accomplish himself any longer. Instead, he paid for an expensive maintenance service, which amounted to yet another form of pain.

In place of a cure for his hurts, Wells had substituted a form of escapism, devoting his weekends to a pastime both he and Mary Jane thoroughly enjoyed. Nearly every Saturday morning, they slept in until they could sleep no more, then fortified themselves with a satisfying breakfast at their favorite retro-themed diner before setting out to hunt for vintage oddities and unusual antiques with all the intensity of two sportsmen tracking wild game. For a few hours, until his back started to ache and his feet grew sore, Howard found happiness among the dusty relics of a bygone age.

And so it was that on a delightful, happy Saturday morning filled with the hope of unexpected finds, good-natured haggling, and satisfying purchases, Howard unwittingly took the first step along a path that would bring the world to inevitable ruin.

Chapter 1

One of a Kind

This particular Saturday began atypically. Most often, Wells and Mary Jane did their browsing in tandem, but on this morning, Wells uncharacteristically ventured out alone. He'd been through a particularly egregious week, during which his back had been especially uncooperative. On Wednesday evening, he had determined to grin and bear it like a trooper, with some initial success. But by Thursday night, the unrelenting discomfort had begun to make him surly, and Mary Jane had suffered the predictable consequences, withstanding more than a few unjust verbal jabs in response to her sincere efforts to offer sympathy and support. At first, Wells had caught himself and quickly apologized, but his unprovoked verbal assaults became ever more frequent and the apologies ever less sincere.

By Friday, Mary Jane had had enough, not that she especially blamed her husband. She knew it was the pain talking, so she genuinely forgave him, as was her nature. Still, she knew it was for the best that she once again spend a few days away from home before Howard said something she'd find less easy to pardon. She told him that her mother had fallen ill and had called to ask if Mary Jane would pay a visit and nurse her back to health.

Wells knew it was a lie, and Mary Jane knew that he knew, but since it was a lie that perfectly suited both of them, neither treated it as anything other than the God's honest truth, and the arrangements were made with little further discussion. Mary Jane would remain out of the house until her mother's illness improved, which was to say, until Howard's back pain had eased. Their weekly Saturday morning ritual of browsing for antiques together would have to wait.

All the same, Howard had been especially looking forward to hunting for some new treasures. As long as he was careful not to overdo things by walking too far or bending over to reach for some curious knickknack or lifting some weighty relic that would have been better left unlifted, it might even do him some good. He convinced himself that there was really no reason not to venture out alone just this once. Mary Jane might be slightly peeved that he'd gone off without her, but if she returned home to find him in a more cheerful mood after getting his mind off of his discomfort, she'd consider it a price worth paying, so he made up his mind to head out and see what treasures he might find.

First, though, he needed to step into a hot shower. Wells often skipped the morning ritual on Saturdays, thinking it unlikely that he'd bump into anyone who cared a lick about his personal hygiene on his day off. Secretly, he relished the undisciplined informality of stepping out with his hair askew and an extra day's growth of stubble on his chin, both of which were actively discouraged among the college's faculty.

A steaming hot shower, on the other hand, always relaxed his taut muscles and left him feeling, for a few precious minutes at least, like a new man, a younger man who had no familiarity with back pain. On this particular morning, he once again stood in need of that pleasure, especially if he hoped to hold up long enough to do some exploring on foot. He ventured into the bathroom and turned on the tap, giving the water plenty of time to get hot while he wriggled out of his pajamas.

Minutes later, he climbed under the hot spray and knew in an instant he'd made a wise choice. For Wells, showers had less to do with washing away the sticky film that clung to his skin and hair than feeling the release of tight, tense muscles. He quickly lathered his body with soap and then rinsed it away, making short work of the necessary preliminaries. Then he turned his back to the spray, as was his custom, bowed his head as if in reverent meditation, and allowed the water to impact his neck and shoulders and run down his back.

He enjoyed the refreshing sensation for several idle minutes, then turned to face the showerhead and let the water soothe his chest. As he did, rising steam encircled his head and began to work on his congested sinuses. He placed both palms against the front of the shower stall for support and leaned forward into the stream so that it hit him full in the face. For a moment he wondered whether he might not do well to spend the entire morning in just that posture, but even as he did, he began to feel the muscles in his back tightening again, so he rotated to allow the water to soothe his neck and shoulders once more.

Wherever the hot water confronted an ache, it invariably won out, but Wells could only direct it at one pain at a time, and so his showers consisted of a dizzying series of twists and turns befitting a dervish more so than a cranky old man. But it worked. It took upward of twenty minutes, but by then, Wells felt largely pain-free. With any luck, he'd remain so long enough to get himself dressed. Otherwise, he could expect a heck of a time getting his shoes laced. While he liked dressing casually when he did his shopping, going shoeless wasn't an option. Even flea markets had some minimal standards, he knew, and shoes were among them.

Eventually, he stepped from the shower and took advantage of the relief it had provided by quickly dressing himself. He scrambled into jeans and a shirt, then succeeded in bending over far enough to pull on a pair of socks and tie his shoelaces before feeling the familiar aches begin to reassert themselves. They launched a full-scale counterattack just as he attempted to place his arm into his jacket sleeve, so he left the jacket behind and braced himself to face the chilly morning air more or less defenseless.

Exiting his home, he pulled the door shut behind him and scampered toward his car, knowing he'd feel somewhat more comfortable once he got in and sat down. His extensive experience at driving while in pain, along with constant experimentation, had taught him the ideal distance between the seat and the steering wheel and just the right angle to position the backrest to allow himself to drive with a minimum of discomfort. Climbing in, on the other hand, remained something he couldn't manage without an occasional gasp or wince of pain. But the price had to be paid, and once inside, he took a deep breath of satisfaction, knowing that the worst was over for another morning.

*****

One thing Wells had learned while perusing antique shops was that one man's junk could not always pass for another man's treasure, no matter how nice of a spin smooth-talking dealers put on it or how deeply they discounted it. That was just fine with him. He'd never seen himself as one to be mesmerized by old newspapers, buttons, paperweights, ticket stubs, beer cans, milk bottles, bottle tops, cake toppers, pie birds, salt cellars, or gelatin molds. Howard Gordon Wells was not the sort of collector to be so easily enthralled by the mundane detritus of former lives, nor was he a sucker for the trendy or the cachet of a designer name. Louis Comfort Tiffany held no sway over him nor did the pottery of the Newcomb school nor the Weller mark nor the Lalique label.

What did catch his eye was the look and even the musty smell of age. And while other collectors sought out pieces with an unbroken provenance from maker to buyer and paid a premium for them, Howard enjoyed items of unknown origin and history and the aura of mystery and speculation they engendered.

So as he browsed the booths and dug into the dimly lit corners of the Bygone Days Antique Emporium, a few long-overlooked and neglected items called out to him and drew him in for a closer look. The first was a pre–Civil War–era carte de visite of an unidentified civilian who bore a slight but intriguing resemblance to George Armstrong Custer. Wells held it first at arm's length then drew it to within a few inches of his face, trying to decide whether he'd made a once-in-a-lifetime discovery or if his imagination had gotten the better of him.

For a moment, he convinced himself that he had indeed uncovered a rare historical gem, but halfway to the checkout counter, he had second thoughts. He peered once more at the sepia image and decided that the nose wasn't quite as long as Custer's after all and the jaw too square. In the end, he returned the CdV to the shoebox where he'd found it among dozens of others, but he buried it far out of sight at the bottom of the pile just in case he changed his mind once again and decided to come back for it.

A few booths farther on, Wells caught sight of a mechanical bank with just the sort of wear he appreciated—wear that told of countless hours of operation at the hands of a fascinated and delighted child, wear that called to mind the happy and contented days of his own childhood. The mechanism still worked perfectly, and the bank embodied the sort of clever whimsy that never failed to tickle Wells's fancy. It featured Mighty Casey taking a swing and a miss at a low-and-away coin.

Wells turned it over and examined the underside carefully, knowing that many classic banks from the late nineteenth century were reproduced in the 1960s, and that one giveaway of more recent manufacture was a slightly too-precise mechanism for opening the coin box. Sure enough, the condition of this piece gave cause for concern, and he thought better of laying down his money on it.

Then the most intriguing and unlikely find of all drove every other thought from Wells's mind. His wandering eye fell upon an earthenware pot—or more accurately, an urn. It seemed far older than any of the other myriad items scattered all around, old enough, in fact, to merit describing it as not just an antique but an antiquity, dating not just from a previous decade or a previous century but by all appearances, a former millennium. It looked Greek, Wells imagined, although his knowledge of such pieces was severely limited.

Its size impressed him as much as its apparent age. It must hold two, maybe three gallons when full, and he wondered whether it might originally have been used to store wine or oil. It was skillfully decorated with figures of heroes or maybe gods, which seemed overly upscale for a vessel meant simply for a utilitarian purpose in some ancient pantry. He imagined that maybe it had been intended as a piece of tasteful