After Wilson finds a space in the airport's long-term parking, he inventories the assets in his wallet. A thick wad of cash nearly bursts from the leather confines. There is more than he had at the beginning of his day, but not enough for a plane ticket. All his credit cards are gone. His driver's license photo shows his face and the signature is in his handwriting, but his name carries slightly more ethnic weight. Instead of James Wilson he is James Wolfson. His birth year has changed, and so has his residence, an apartment in Trenton. He rests his forehead on the steering wheel and considers what he should do.

A knock on the car window startles him. A taxi cab driver yells through the glass, "You're Wolfson? You need a lift to Trenton?"

Wilson shakes his head, and turns the key of the ignition to show that his car is fine, but the engine is comatose. He looks at his keychain. Everything is the same, except a brand new brass house key dangles from it. Assuming this is too elaborate a ruse for an ax killing, he cracks open his window. "Your name's not Lyle, is it?"

"Do I look like a Lyle, man? I'm Miguel. You called a cab or not?"

Wilson takes a deep breath before stepping out of his car.

...

The new key slides into the lock with ease. As Wilson opens the door, the cabbie runs up behind him. "Hey man, you forgot this." He pushes a bulging manila envelope into Wilson's hand, then disappears.

Strident fumes of disinfectant and ammonia with an undertow of mustiness assail his nostrils as he fumbles for the light switch. A ceiling light unashamedly illuminates the shabby interior of the furnished rental. Linoleum demarcates the kitchen from the living room. One look at the matted carpet and the room's contents, and Wilson would have preferred the whole place done in linoleum, and all the apartment's furnishings Saran Wrapped. The sofa cushions are a mountain range of hills and valleys from previous tenants' bodies. Wilson squints, hoping to create a more romantic vision, but no amount of soft focus can help. The only solution is closing his eyes. He lets out a cynical grunt. He likes brown, but the room is done up in the color of hamburger meat well past its prime.

A respectable bathroom is off the main room along with a sparsely furnished bedroom containing a dresser and a mattress. Brand new linens and a blanket modestly sit on a corner like a clinic patient perched on an exam table. The closet contains a surprise, a smattering of new shirts and slacks with price tags. The sizes are his.

He returns to the living room and drops onto the couch, opening the envelope. There are one month's supplies of blood pressure and cholesterol pills, and a bottle of Tramadol for arthritis flare-ups. He pulls out a small envelope with a license plate number written on it and finds a car key inside. There is a copy of his contract, and a booklet entitled, You're Our Client for Life. He flips through the pages. The heading on the first page grabs his attention, WARNING! DO NOT PROCEED WITHOUT READING THIS PAGE FIRST! Four items are listed below it.

Item number one deals with confidentiality, including a mild allusion to the collection department. Bertram familiarized him with that. He moves on to the next about maintaining his health—all the same things he tells his own patients. Taking his medication on time, eating healthily, and exercising. The third demands that clause thirty-six of the contract be read within the first twenty-four hours. The fourth indicates that penalties will incur if any of the first three are not followed. Another tsunami of panic overwhelms him and leaves a backwash of weariness. Wilson tosses the manual and packet onto the coffee table. Taking off his overcoat and using it as a blanket, he stretches out on the sofa and goes to sleep.

...

The refrigerator is stocked with a selection of fruits and vegetables. A bag of potatoes and cans of low sodium broth fill half a shelf in the pantry. Wilson lays low the first couple of days making do with what is on hand. He feels useless and hollow and scared. Much of his time is spent reading the manual and poring over the contract. He locates clause thirty-six. The import of it does not sink in at first, but by the end of the week he curses it.

Thirty-six is the suicide clause. Bluntly stated, nothing about it can be misconstrued. If Wilson commits suicide, Lyle will find and kill House the very same day. In more tortured legalese, a paragraph details what would happen if he fails in his attempt and survives. Bottom line: Lyle will make him sorry that he was ever born.

Borrowing a lesson from House, Wilson decides to become a guinea pig and test the penalty rule. He skips one of his blood pressure pills. A two-hour delay causes mild nausea that escalates every hour after that until he gives in and takes it. A second experiment, a call to the local pizzeria effectively shuts down any more of Wilson's research. One slice of double cheese with everything causes him to jackknife in wrenching pain. He spends the night draped over the toilet bowl.

Wilson gets the message. His five-year prison sentence is incommutable. Even his lethargy doesn't go undetected by the time squad. A new vial of antidepressants appears on his kitchen table.

His first excursion from his apartment is to the grocery store across the street. No one stares at him or points fingers. He happens to go on Tuesday, when a senior citizen's discount is offered. He blends right in with the rest of the pigment and follically challenged.

A bigger obstacle arrives in the mail—his first social security check, Wilson lets the envelope sit on the coffee table for a week. The manual explains what to do, but there is no advise about how to behave calmly as he flashes his altered ID at a teller. A dozen dress rehearsals in front of the bathroom mirror quells Wilson's shaking hands, and the corner of his mouth stops twitching. When he walks through the bank's doors, the transaction goes surprisingly well.

Everything Wilson does he practices first, but he is a fast learner. He discovers that his white hair and wrinkles pay off when anyone calls him by his new last name and he fails to respond. The quizzical look he had perfected to defend against House's snark comes in handy. Strangers pat him on the arm with a poor old guy expression softening their eyes. Gradually, Wilson grows into his new old persona.


He's doing his time. With each week, the role of old fart becomes easier to play. Nearing the end of his third month, Wilson moves through his world almost as effortlessly as a fine-tooth comb slides through his thinning hair.

Not one to make waves, he nods at his neighbors, even the couple that wake him in the middle of the night shouting at each other either in hate or lust. He can't tell which, but no patrol car with rotating lights ever shows up. His goal is to be the quiet old man in apartment twelve. But quiet breeds boredom, and he misses House. Every day and every night he thinks of him, especially when he is in his bed. Wilson closes his eyes and imagines House next to him, the sag of the mattress, the sound of his snoring, his body heat, his touch. Wilson sleeps most nights on the couch.

There is an irony that is not lost on Wilson. House is very much alive to everyone but him. Wilson needs a distraction before he goes crazy. And he needs money. The government checks are insufficient, and no more money materializes in his wallet. The solution for both is a job. Wilson contemplates interviewing as a Walmart greeter when another opportunity presents itself in the guise of his landlady.

One of the keys on Wilson's key ring is for a storage unit. Originally belonging to Bonnie before they were married, and in her maiden name, Wilson had paid the rent in annual installments, but never changed the name on the account. He stores the wreckage from his marriages to Bonnie and Julie, and later, his parents' belongings. Space 521 is right out of Citizen Kane. Anything can be found, including his childhood sled, and a certain tilt-top table.

After returning from the unit, his landlady Darlene, a middle-aged woman with unnaturally dark hair, stops him as he wrestles the table from his car.

"What a beautiful piece, Mr. Wolfson. Is it solid cherry?"

"I don't know. It was my mother's. Thought I'd use it to eat dinner while watching football."

She places one hand on her hip. "You men! Put hot plates on this wonderful finish? You mustn't." She wags a finger flirtatiously. "That's furniture abuse, Mr. Wolfson. How much do you want for it?"

"What?" Wilson asks, in a clumsy effort to stall for time as he mulls over her offer.

She must think he's hard of hearing because Darlene raises her voice. "How about you give me the table and I knock fifty dollars off next month's rent?"

"How about fifty dollars cash?" and Wilson throws in for free his Walmart greeter's smile that he's been practicing. Maybe he will hold off submitting his application for a few days.

A few days extend into weeks. Wilson never goes to Walmart unless he's shopping for bargains. House would be shocked.

He's an entrepreneur and Darlene is his number one fan. Before he realizes what has happened he is running a thriving business out of his home. Many items never make it past the front door. Women greet him in the parking lot wanting first pick from what he brought from storage. He keeps his trunk packed with bags of tchotchkes, and he's a celebrity at the senior center.

Wilson's days are busy. When he stands in line at the bank a finance counselor comes over with a tray of cookies and talks diversification. Wilson waves away both offers. He splurges on an extra set of sheets and towels, and goes wild in the men's department, selecting a striped tie that's guaranteed washable.

His nights remain achingly empty. Often restless after dinner, he spends the evening driving through seedy neighborhoods of nearby towns where he once searched for Danny, slowing to a crawl whenever he passes a pawnshop. None look like Bertram's. His last stop before turning back to Trenton is his old neighborhood. He hopes to get a glimpse of House.

One night, circling the block isn't enough. He parks across the street from his former home and waits. His attention is distracted by a noisy group of people. He had forgotten that it was Saturday night, and by the eager laughter a small group of passersby are going to a party. They disappear into the apartment building that he is parked in front of. When another flock of partygoers climbs up the steps to the entry door, Wilson acts on impulse and gets out of his car. He tags behind the group and walks into the lobby when they get buzzed in. Trying to lose the crowd, he hovers at the mailbox and pantomimes a search for a mailbox key until he is alone. When the elevator returns, he gets in and presses the button to the 4th floor, the same as his loft.

Pacing the hall, he carefully chooses a door and knocks. His grandfatherly smile is snugly in place as he hears locks snap open, and a woman peeks through the small space left from the remaining door chain.

"Excuse me, but I used to live here with my dear wife."

Like any person with four locks on their door, hard lines form around the woman's mouth. She's not buying his story. "Mister, you're not wearing a wedding ring."

He touches his naked finger and tears fill his eyes. "I lost it."

The three words affect the woman better than anything he could have planned. The chain is removed and the woman apologizes for the mess. Her child is sick.

Wilson can't resist asking about symptoms and fever. The questions come naturally to him, but he notices a crease forming between the woman's eyebrows. He is sure she is thinking pedophile.

"Forgive me for asking, but I recently retired from medicine. Old habits…" He lets the sentence trail away with a half-smile and is rewarded when the woman's facial muscles relax. By the time they walk down the hall to the bedrooms she is asking him his opinion on different brands of cough syrup.

The large front bedroom has a perfect view of the loft's great room. Involuntarily, Wilson gasps at the sight. House has got to be home. He's embarrassed by his reaction, but the woman squeezes his shoulder, backs out of the room, and closes the door, giving him some privacy. She must have thought the bedroom brought back memories of him and his "wife."

He shuts off the lights and moves closer to the window, willing House to come into the great room. Wilson sees nothing at first, but a silhouette appears, framed in the hallway to the kitchen. The figure transforms into House as he hitches into the kitchen without his cane and takes a bottle of beer from the fridge. Wilson holds his breath as he watches House twist off the cap and lifts it to his mouth. He moves to the couch. If House sits, Wilson will lose sight of him. Wilson implores under his breath, "Don't." With his nose almost touching the glass, he squints to make out House's features. Somewhere a time machine is running backward. House looks young and delicious. Wilson is sure his cheeks flame at the physical stirrings within him.

At the sofa, House bends down.

"No, please don't."

And places the beer on the coffee table. He walks toward the windows.

Wilson is mesmerized.

House stands in front of the window exactly opposite to Wilson's. He places his hands on the sash, and stares directly into Wilson's eyes.

Wilson stiffens, but controls his panic. House can't possibly see him in the darkened room. He carefully retreats into the deepest velvet shadow until his back bumps against the wall. There is no way House could see him, absolutely no way.

House shakes his head slowly as if disappointed, and then points a finger straight toward Wilson.

.

.

TBC