The family dinner was not going well. This failure couldn't be blamed on the food. Her mother's roast was perfect as always. (She had thirty years' of practice.) Marnie had made her ever-popular bean casserole and Marty's wife had made a delicious blueberry crumble for desert. Bonnie hadn't had time to cook, so she had picked up a container of coleslaw from the deli and then transferred it into one of her own serving bowls. She'd thought no one would be able to tell, but her mother had given the dish a suspicious look. Sometimes Bonnie thought she had psychic powers.
For as long as she could remember Bonnie had been in competition with her brother and sister for her parents' attention. This evening, she was losing badly. She tried to interest them in the real estate courses she was taking, but their eyes glazed over with boredom. She talked about movies she had seen and books she had read, and they had nodded politely at set intervals, barely pretending to listen. Then, satisfied that they'd given her a fair chance, her mother turned to Marty and asked about his last vacation, a deluxe bus tour of Spain and Italy.
Red-faced with humiliation, Bonnie didn't notice that Marty wasn't doing much better. His anecdotes, which is co-workers had found hilarious, failed to amuse Frank and Natalie Goldman. They were a tough audience.
When the talk turned to municipal politics, Bonnie bravely tried again.
"I like Petrovich," she said. "She's pro-development and anti-crime."
"Anti-crime? What does that even mean? Natalie, have any of the other candidates come out in favour of crime?" her father asked rhetorically.
"She raises people's awareness. She tells them how dangerous things are now. My friend Jenny is selling units in Safe Harbour Gated Community. She says that since Petrovich started her campaign, sales have gone way up!"
"Petrovich is just using people's fear to get votes," her father said. "And your friend Jenny doesn't sound any better. Real estate can be a dirty business."
"Dad!" Bonnie's voice rose in protest.
"Let's not argue," Bonnie's sister said. Marnie was the peacemaker. "Everyone's entitled to an opinion."
At that moment, James Wilson, Bonnie's husband, took his seat next to her. He had left the room briefly to make a phone call.
"James, " Marnie asked brightly, "who are you planning to vote for in the municipal election?"
"Is it election time again? I've been so busy lately, I'm afraid I really haven't had time to sort out the candidates or the issues. I'm not even sure I'll have time to vote."
If Bonnie had said that, her politically-minded family would have chided her for neglecting her civic responsibilities, but her husband was excused. He was a physician, and for that reason, her family always asked for and listened respectfully to his opinions, even when the subject under discussion had no relation whatsoever to medicine. Most of the time, Bonnie basked in the reflected glory of having a doctor for a husband. This evening, her parents' attitude annoyed her.
On the drive home, Bonnie let loose her frustration with her family on the only person available – her husband.
"You could have supported me. You could have said you were going to vote for Petrovich," Bonnie said in the car on the way home.
"I don't even know who Petrovich is. This is the first time you've ever mentioned his name."
"Her name. Dad was picking on me, as usual, but you didn't defend me. You should have been there, standing up for me, but instead you spent half the night on your cellphone."
"I made two short phone calls," Wilson said. "Hardly half the night."
"Just back me up. Support me for once. You're my parents' golden boy," Bonnie said. "They listen to you. They drool over every word you say."
"Is that the problem? Your parents like me too much. Would you rather they hate me?"
"They like you more than they like me," Bonnie said. She knew that she sounded like a petulant child but she couldn't help it. Time spent with her parents had that effect on her. "They can't believe I managed to land a Jewish doctor. They think you're way out of my league."
"It doesn't matter what they think," Wilson said.
"Of course it matters. They're my parents. What they think is always going to matter."
Wilson drove on in silence. He thought Bonnie might be crying – evenings with Bonnie's parents frequently ended in tears – but he didn't want to look over to check.
."Look, I know I'm being impossible and insecure..." She was definitely crying.
"You're not..."
"But I need you to stand up for me."
They had arrived home. James looked straight ahead. If he actually saw Bonnie's tears then he would have to comfort her, and he just didn't have the emotional energy to spare. At the moment, House was his top priority. The diagnostician had lost his mobility and his girlfriend in one horrendous week, and he was not coping well. His best friend's problems were more immediate than Bonnie's long-standing self-esteem issues. He had the whole of their life together to help Bonnie deal with her emotional problems, but House was in crisis. He needed help now.
Triage. It was a principle that had been drummed into his head during his brief internship in emergency medicine. The head of emergency medicine, a man with fifteen years of experience setting up field hospitals and clinics for the U.N., had neatly divided his patients into three categories: those who are likely to die regardless of what you do, those who will live regardless of what you do, and those whose fate rests in your hands. In its brutal simplicity, it had reminded James of a version of the Serenity Prayer, which he had discovered when he was in his teens:
O God, grant us the serenity to accept what cannot be changed,
The courage to change what can be changed,
and the wisdom to know the difference.
In principle, Wilson's decision was correct. However, the whole of his life together with Bonnie would turn out to be a few months, instead of the decades that Wilson assumed they had. House would continue to go through crisis after crisis, year after year, and Wilson would continue to put his life, his problems, and his relationships on hold, while he dealt with House's crises.
Wilson parked the car and undid his seatbelt. He pulled out his cellphone.
"Are you calling House?"
Wilson nodded.
"Don't call him," Bonnie advised. She sounded calmer now. "If House needs your help, he'll call you. Let him be."
"The first time I phoned, I could hardly hear him. There was loud dance music in the background. His voice sounded funny. Slurred. When I called back later, he didn't answer."
"He's probably knocking back tequila shooters and watching some poor top-heavy bimbo gyrate around a pole. Getting drunk in noisy bars is what guys do when they break up with their girlfriends."
"He shouldn't be drinking with all the painkillers he's on," Wilson said. "Just one call. It won't take long. I just have to make sure he's all right."
Wilson pulled out his cellphone. Bonnie sighed exasperatedly. She got out of the car and went into the house, slamming the door behind her. When House didn't pick up his cell, Wilson speed dialed his home phone number. It rang a dozen times before someone answered.
"Hello," said the person on the other end. An unfamiliar male voice.
"Hello. May I speak with House, please."
"Who are you?"
"This is Wilson. Could you put House on the phone?"
"House don't want to talk to you. He says you should stop calling him. You're a pest."
"Just put House on the line."
"House told me he don't love you no more. He's got me now."
"What! What the hell are you talking about?"
There was an ugly laugh. The voice suggested that Wilson perform an act on himself that was biologically impossible. Then Wilson heard the sound of a phone receiver slamming down.
Bonnie, standing at the living room window, watched her husband get into the car, back out the driveway, and head off down the street. She closed the curtains. She suddenly felt very tired – weary to her bones. Turning out the light, she headed for bed.
Wilson met the man behind the voice in the doorway of House's apartment building. He was skinny, very short but muscular, with the face of a rodent and a straggly beard. He was wearing the most garish pair of jeans that Wilson had ever seen - skin-tight, acid-washed, with fancy stitching and shiny metal rivets. House's Fender guitar was in his right hand.
"That's not yours," Wilson said, snatching the guitar away from him. "You're the man I spoke to on the phone, aren't you?"
Taking the guitar back was his immediate reaction, done without any thought, and it struck him later that he had been very lucky that this little man was not armed.
"Hey, give that back," he said. "House gave that to me. It's a present."
"Maybe," Wilson said. "Let's go and ask him."
The man made a feint, trying to get at the expensive guitar, but Wilson was too quick for him.
"Give that back," he said, but this time there was a nasal whine in his voice. Wilson was thankful that he didn't seem to want a fight.
"Come on," Wilson repeated. "We'll go up to his apartment and ask him. That's if you want your guitar back."
The man took one step towards the elevator as if he were following Wilson, made another unsuccessful grab for the guitar, and then turned and ran. Wilson put down the guitar and followed him out on to the street. He got out his cellphone to take the man's photograph, but he wasn't fast enough, and all he got was a blurry picture of the man's back as he ran off. Maybe someone would recognize all the embroidery on the rear end of his jeans. Those fancy jeans had to be expensive, and there couldn't be that many people willing to pay a bundle on clothes that ugly.
Wilson took the elevator to House's apartment carrying the guitar in one hand and his cellphone in the other. He had his phone ready because he wasn't sure what might be on the other side of House's door. He might need to call the police or an ambulance.
The weasel-faced man had left House's door unlocked. There was a pile of House's possessions blocking the doorway. Wilson had to push them aside to open the door. He turned on the light.
"House!", he called out. His voice shook a little from nerves. Maybe he should have called the police before walking in.
"In here," said House.
House was in his bedroom. He was naked and his wrists and ankles were tied with duct tape. Wilson went into House's bathroom. He got a towel and found a scalpel and Vaseline in the well-stocked medicine cabinet. He draped the towel over House to preserve his modesty and cut the duct tape with the scalpel. House ripped off the duct tape, wincing with pain as a layer of skin and hair came off with the tape. He rubbed Vaseline on his chafed wrists.
"Thank God you decided to drop by," House said. "It could have been days before they missed me enough at work to send someone by to check on me."
"What happened?"
"I was at Buddy's and Weasel Face offered to buy me a drink. I thought, you've got no chance; there isn't enough alcohol in the world to make you look good, but a free drink's a free drink. I think there was something in the beer."
"Roofies?" Wilson asked, looking into House's eyes.
"Maybe. How would I know? That's one drug I've never tried."
"We should get you to the hospital."
"No. If it's roofies, they won't show up in the tests anyway. Once my circulation comes back, I'll be fine."
"He had your Fender guitar, but I got it back for you. I don't know what else he might have taken," Wilson said. "We have to call the police too."
"No police, no hospital."
"If you want to collect on your insurance, you'll have to file a police report," Wilson said reasonably.
"You may not have noticed this, Wilson, but I am naked as a jaybird and high as a kite. I am in no shape to deal with the police."
House tried to sit up, and Wilson reached out to steady him. After a moment, he stood up. The towel fell to the ground, but House didn't seem to notice. He followed House as he tottered into the living room holding on to the walls. He was ready to catch him if he fell.
House stared at the pile of his worldly goods stacked by the door.
"I can't tell what's missing. I'm not thinking properly. Everything's fuzzy."
"We should get you to emergency."
"I can sober up just as well at home, without some first-year resident poking and prodding at me and giving me pamphlets about date rape."
"He didn't..."
"I don't know. I can't remember anything between drinking at Buddy's and you untying me. No blood on the sheets, though. No ... other fluids. I think not."
"Still, you should be tested," Wilson's voice was gentle. "If you don't want to go to Princeton-Plainsboro, I can take you to St. Sebastian's. "
"I'll get tested," House said. "Just not right now."
Wilson sighed. House was stubborn. He wasn't going to emergency, and Wilson couldn't leave him when he taken some unknown substance, which might interact with his painkillers in unforeseen and dangerous ways.
"Let's get you dressed," Wilson said.
House insisted on dressing himself while Wilson stood outside the bedroom door, listening for the sound of a falling body. He managed it all right, and came out wearing his usual jeans, t-shirt and oxford shirt. His feet were bare.
"I think that bastard stole my shoes. Vintage Nikes. I spent four hundred dollars for them on E-Bay. I shouldn't have worn them to Buddy's. I remembered to take off my Tag Heuer watch and replace it with a cheap Timex, but I forgot my shoes. Stupid."
"None of this is your fault."
House nodded vaguely. His balance was already off – his body hadn't yet adjusted to his muscle infarction in his leg – and the drug (whatever it had been) wasn't helping at all. He leaned against the wall.
"There's no need for you to stick around. I can handle things from here," House said.
"You think you can, but you already told me that you're out of it," Wilson said. "I'll stay if you don't mind. We'll play cards to keep you awake. Do you have a crib board?"
House shook his head, a movement he immediately regretted as it set the whole room spinning.
"Double solitaire then. Do you know the rules?"
House and Wilson sat at his kitchen table playing cards. It wasn't exactly fair to ask House questions when he was in this state, but Wilson did anyway. It was, he thought, his best chance of learning a bit more about what made House tick.
"So," he asked cautiously," do you go to Buddy's often?"
Buddy's was a gay pick-up joint so notorious that even Wilson had heard of it.
"I've been there before, but this was my first visit in years – since before I started living with Stacy. It's gone downhill. It used to be seedy but fun. Now it's seedy and dangerous."
"So you're bisexual?"
"Not sure I'd go quite that far. I prefer women.
I discovered the attractions of my own sex when my misguided father sent me to a strict all-made military academy for my last year of high school. The place was run like a prison. If you've ever seen Oz, you have a pretty good idea about what this place was like. The idea was if you eliminated all other distractions, the inmates would have nothing else to do except study and do calisthenics. It worked out about as well as you'd expect.
The place ran on an underground economy of cigarettes, drugs and sex. And calculus homework. My roommate was helpless at calculus. He had the longest, silkiest eyelashes I've ever seen on anyone – man or woman. I swear that they'd flutter against my skin when he was giving me a blow job. At first, I used to shut my eyes and imagine he was someone else – Marilyn Monroe or the girl I had a crush on at my old school. But after a while, that wasn't necessary."
"Do you like being tied up?"
"No. Aside from being ever so slightly bisexual, I'm pretty vanilla. That must have been Weasel Face's idea, to keep me from interfering while he stole everything I own. Were you asking from personal interest, by the way?"
Wilson blushed. "Sorry, I didn't mean to be nosy."
"So you're only nosy by accident?" House laughed. "The thing about sex with guys – especially the guys that you meet at Buddy's - is that it's so simple and uncomplicated. Compared to women, guys are sluts. Just walk up to a guy, say "nice abs" and ten minutes later, you're fumbling towards ecstasy in some secluded back alley. Forgive the double entendre."
House stacked the rest of the deck on to Wilson's pile.
"I won," he said. "This game is too easy. I'm falling asleep and your eyelids are drooping. I need something more stimulating than this to keep me awake. Chess?"
"I'm no match for you at chess. I need a game with an element of chance in it, to give me a hope of winning," Wilson said. "Unfortunately, there aren't that many good card games for two people."
"How about a game of truth or dare?. Maybe just truth, though, since I'm in no shape to take on dares."
"Do I look like a fourteen year old girl?"
"With the proper lighting, maybe... I've told things about my past that no one else at PPTH knows. It's only fair that you reciprocate. Look on the bright side. There's a very good chance I won't remember what you've told me anyway."
"Something about me that nobody else knows..."
"And it can't be your favourite colour or the name of your first pet. Something juicy."
House could tell that there was something that Wilson wanted to talk about. He could see that he was tempted.
"If I do remember, I'll just pretend that I've forgotten," he coaxed. "You'll never know the difference."
"Well, I do have something," Wilson said, "but this isn't just my secret. It's somebody else's too, and I promised not to tell anyone. "
House did his best to look trustworthy, the sort of person who would never dream of divulging anyone's secrets.
"This happened a long time ago, when I was in kindergarten so some of the details are going to be a bit fuzzy. A few years' ago I said something about it to my father, and he swears in never happened. He said I'm all mixed up, and confusing it with something I read or saw in a movie."
House thought he knew where Wilson's story was going. - a vulnerable child, an adult in authority who makes him promise never to tell. He was wrong.
"My father was a high-school principal. He always said we had to be an example to other people. My mother tried to be perfect; we all tried to be perfect; but it was too difficult for her. Keeping a perfect house with three active boys. Too much stress.
My older brother was in grade school all day, and I think my younger brother must have been staying with my grandparents. Maybe they took him for a while to give her a break."
"You've never mentioned that you have a younger brother," House said.
"I do. His name's Danny. Anyway, I think Danny must have been away because I don't remember him being there. My older brother was at school all day. My father was at work. Every afternoon, I'd come home from kindergarten at noon. When my mother was up to it, we've have soup and sandwiches together. When she wasn't, she'd be sleeping in her room upstairs, and I'd take cookies or crackers from the cupboard. Most of the time, I had cookies for lunch.
One day, I came home and there wasn't anything at all. Nothing in the cupboard except cans and dried macaroni, and I wasn't allowed to use the can opener. My mother said I was too clumsy; I'd slice my hand open on the sharp edges of the can. I wasn't supposed to disturb my mother when she was sleeping, but I was getting hungry and it was hours before my brother was due back. He was old enough to open cans.
So I went upstairs to my parents bedroom and I went in, even though I wasn't supposed to disturb her when she was sleeping. And she didn't look right, and there was a bottle of pills in her hand...
I don't really know what happened next. I don't think I knew my dad's work number, so I must have gone to a neighbour's. My father would have loved that – the neighbour knowing."
"She survived the overdose."
"Yes, obviously. I have this image in my mind of her hand with a bottle of pills in it, and I think, can that be real? It's such a melodramatic picture, like something from a Douglas Sirk movie. Maybe I just imagined that part.
I'd like to be able to talk to my mother about it, but she's delicate and easily upset. And after what happened with Danny..."
House looked at Wilson quizzically.
"I'm not going to talk about what happened to Danny. Leave that for another day.
What gets me, is that she knew that there was a chance that I'd be the one to find her and she did it anyway. I was only five years old. Then I think it's not fair to blame her. She was ill. Serious depression runs in her side of the family.
It's probably best that I've never talked to her about it. My father is right about some things."
"But wrong about most," House said. "I think I've probably ingested my limit of mood-altering substances, but there's no reason for you to stay stone-cold sober on my behalf. Want a beer?"
Wilson shook his head, "I have to drive."
House said. "Not for a while. You're staying over tonight, aren't you? You have to stick around to make sure that I don't start hallucinating that I'm an eagle and jump out the window."
"I guess so."
"Get yourself a beer and get me a Coke while you're up," House said. "If I give up a knight as a handicap, would you play chess with me then?"
"Both knights and a bishop."
"That's too much."
"No, it isn't," Wilson said. "I'm really lousy at chess. Anyway, chess is for computers. Crib's a game for human beings. Next time I come, I'll bring my cribbage board."
Next time I come...there was a promise in those four words.
Wilson looked after House, crisis after crisis, year after year. The last crisis was the most challenging. Wilson was dying, and he had only a few short months to teach House how to cope without him. He had made so many sacrifices for House, because House was a genius and because House needed him. Were any of those sacrifices worth it? Because life can be cruel, Wilson never got to find out.
Wilson died registered under a false name in a hospital two thousand mile away from his family. Because life can also be kind, Wilson died with House holding his hand.