Refill

                                                                                         

  Refill
© 2013 by O. Wade

Conrad Hardy, millionaire, prolific and successful writer of various genres of fiction, winner of many prestigious awards, was very ill. While writing the final chapter of his newest novel, his right arm and hand suddenly stopped working. Repeated visits over several months to doctors and hospitals produce no revelations as to what terrible catastrophe had befallen this great man. Stumped medical professionals had to admit complete and abysmal failure. Conrad Hardy went home to suffer alone.


Like an alcoholic deprived of alcohol, Mr. Hardy began to undergo writer's withdrawal. After prolonged anguish, he withdrew from reality and spent hours destroying dozens of pencils in his electric pencil trimmer, stared at shelves of books in his study and read War and Peace to his cat. No amount of encouragement could pull him from seclusion. After much consultation with family, his attorney arranged to have a permanent nurse tend to his needs.


Three years away from the public eye, Conrad Hardy began to be a non-person. The public still read his earlier novels until they were dog-eared, but as with all casual reads, his books failed to meet criterion for classics and soon languished on back shelves.
-----------------------------


Barnard Reading was a small man, soft spoken and polite. In his seventies, his eyes were blue and as clear as a summer sky. He had a head of white, silky, thinning hair, and always dressed immaculately in tailored suits. With the exception of the tailored, expensive suits, he had the look of a college professor, and could have been, for he was a man who read voraciously and spoke confidently and intelligently on many subjects. But he preferred his books to people.


His life was already full when he discovered a succession of Conrad Hardy's novels. It would not be incorrect to say that he fell in love with Conrad Hardy's prose, as so many others had, but Bernard Reading's love of books was a passion of fire, quite unlike his public persona. Then of a sudden new Conrad's novels dried up. What was the cause?


After some research he learned that his favorite author had contracted an incurable disease and was now a recluse, unable to write. What was the disease? He had to know. He researched further and discovered that Hardy had lost the use of his right arm, his writing hand, his typing hand. This could not be. Such a great mind could not pass into obscurity and never pen another word. Bernard Reading shed tears. Why did the man not learn to write and type with his left hand? Why not hire a secretary to dictate his words to? Bernard Reading had to know.


He spent hours, days online to find all the medical reasons for a man to lose use of an arm. There were a multitude, but they were all commonplace medical and psychological causes, things he had read of in his many studies of medical texts. It was pointless to suspect any of them. Hardy was a millionaire. He had had the best doctors and hospitals money could afford.


He studied late into numerous nights, researched away his days, lost track of time and his daily needs. Then one morning, his eyes red rimmed from lack of sleep, he thought he knew the cause of Conrad Hardy's plight. It had to be. All other avenues leading to a cure were exhausted.


He discovered Hardy's address; an hour's flight from his own home. He dressed in his most expensive suit. Immaculately attired, Bernard Reading took a short plane ride, then a taxi ride to Conrad Hardy's residence. Stomach in turmoil, his heart trembling at the thought of failure, Bernard stood at the foot of the steps leading up to Hardy's front door. How would he convince Hardy that there was one final chance he might regain use of the arm?  Perhaps he should have called. He would try that first to prevent being abruptly intrusive. But he was prepared to be intrusive to save Hardy's life and career.


He took out his cell phone and dialed information. The operator gave him numbers of eight Hardy phones. Only two Conrad Hardys' and neither of the two were the man he searched for. Just in case, he called the other six. No luck. Nothing to do except knock on the door. He braced himself, checked his attire and mounted the steps. With a deep breath he pushed the doorbell.


After a moment the door opened. A young woman in nurse's attire answered the door. "Yes?"


"Madam, I am Bernard Reading and I have come a good distance to see Mr. Hardy. Is he in?"


She looked him over. "I'm sorry, Mr. Reading, but Mr. Hardy has been in ill health for a good while and is not seeing anyone." She began to close the door.


"Please, Madam, I have news that he will want to hear."


"Mr. Reading, you may tell me and I will relay it to him."


"No," Reading said, determination on his face. "Don't make a mistake that will cost Mr. Hardy dearly. I beg you, I need to see him personally"


"Please wait here," she said and closed the door.


Bernard waited. And Bernard waited. Finally the door opened. "Mr. Hardy will see you for two minutes. If you do not have something of importance, you will be asked to leave."


He followed her into the foyer, then through a number of large furnished rooms dark with obscuring curtains and then into a huge darkened study with bookshelf lined walls. Hardy sat at an ornate desk, facing a wall of bookshelves, his back to the door. A single lamp of low wattage painted the desk with a yellow splotch. The nurse announced Reading and left, quietly closing the door.


Hardy slowly swung his chair to face Reading. "Mr. Ree—re--reading, you have tuh—two minutes."


Shocked, Bernard now knew the reason Hardy did not hire a secretary to dictate his novels. "Mr. Hardy, I am a man of great learning and a great fan of your books. When I discovered that you were no longer writing, I made up my mind to find the reason. 


Hardy stared blandly at Bernard. "One muh—muh—minute left."


Bernard took a deep breath and let it out. "There is a possible cure."


The room was silent for a bit.


"How do—do—do you know this?"


"As I told you, sir. I did the research."


"And you ex—ex—think I will believe you?"


"Mr. Hardy, do I look like a man who wastes his time conning someone?"


"It ce—cer—certainly happens."


"Mr. Hardy, I want nothing; not money, not anything but to see you healed. My pay is to have you again write your excellent novels."
Hardy stood up. Then Bernard Reading knew why Hardy did not use his left hand to write. His fingers were twisted and contorted into an odd fist."


Hardy saw Reading's eyes on his pitiful left hand. He smiled ruefully. He held out the deformed hand and slowly rotated it for Reading to see. With repeated stuttering he said, "The results of youthful cu--cuh--curiosity. I wondered what would happen if I puh--puh--my left hand in my mother's blender. Mother was a buh--baker. The machine was an--nuh--nuh industrial one. It tried to eat me. I discovered what wo--would happen." He chuckled with self-depreciation.

I'm sorry," said Bernard.

Hardy nodded slightly. "Actually, I tu--tri--tried to use it. Impossible though." After a pause he asked, "So what is this mir—mir—miracle you bring?"

Bernard slipped his suit coat sleeve to see his wristwatch.

Hardy waved a hand. "Come and sit down and te—te—tell me how to be a writer again."

……………………

"Darndest thing I've ever heard of." Said head surgeon, Doctor Phillips. You say a fan convinced him to do this?"

Assisting surgeon, Doctor Fredericks, watched a nurse spread a wide layer of iodine solution on the stomach of a comatose patient on the operating table. "Yep." Conrad Hardy lay beneath the green hospital sheet, his face obscured by an oxygen mask. "

"Well, I read the medical reports on this, though I had never heard of it before." said Doctor Phillips. "Had a hard time finding them. Medical library laughed at me. Only two operations of this kind ever performed."

"You ready to cut?" asked Doctor Fredericks.

"Now or never," answered Phillips and began the incision.

After a half hour searching and probing, Doctor Phillips said, "Well, I'll be a monkey's uncle."

"What…what did you find?" Doctor Fredericks asked eagerly. 

"The fan was right, Phillips answered." There is no doubt about it. Mr. Hardy does have Writer's Disease. He's completely out of ink!"