For a smoother narrative, I'm posting Parts 3 and 4 at the same time.

[H]ouse Characters in Part 3

Gregory House = Gregory Vaughn

James Wilson = James Wilcox


Only the sound of crunching gravel broke the silence of the cemetery as Greg walked back to the entrance with Wilcox. He concentrated on minimizing his rolling gait, but it was a waste of time. Wilcox, his face set like a sleepwalker, matched him step for step.

Wilcox said nothing until he climbed into a shiny, black single horse-drawn buggy. Shiny and black except for the film of brown dirt that the wheels and the horse's hooves raised from the clay-packed road. Greg felt humiliation warm his cheeks as Wilcox pointed at his mismatched shoes, but the embarrassment receded into relief when he heard Wilcox's remark.

"Scrape off that mud from your shoes or you walk back to town."

Wilcox was oblivious. Greg rubbed the soles and side of his shoes along a loose brick from the wall.

A mischievous urge struck him as he hoisted himself into the carriage. "The only people I know who ride to cemeteries are the dead and little old women."

Wilcox's cheeks flamed red. "Unlike you, I care for my shoes and clothes. Are you sure you're Alice's boy?"

"Pay for my lunch, and you'll find out."

As he forked another hunk of meat, Greg was aware of the brown eyes staring at him.

"You certainly don't eat like Alice."

He ignored the chide in favor of another spoonful of broth. Wilcox's taste in food was as good as his clothes. He chose a restaurant in the French quarter, Thierry's, a red brick building with black shutters and matching scroll ironwork. Greg never had the opportunity or money to eat here before, but had sauntered by and gawked through the windows, sniffing the aromas that poured from the kitchen.

"I'm still growing. I'm nearly as tall as you." He finished the sentence on a burp.

"Please don't do that." Wilcox begged, but without sincerity. "I don't want to get arrested for killi— how old are you?"

"Fifteen, almost sixteen." Greg didn't mean to let any information slip, but the food was distracting him and making him groggy. He forced another burp to save face.

"—killing a boy by means of gluttony."

"I won't press charges." He managed to say the words around a mouthful of potato.

"That's kind of you, since you'd already be dead." Wilcox's hissed reply ended on a sputtered cough. He waved to a passing waiter and mimed lifting a glass to his lips. The waiter nodded back, and returned with a fresh shot glass filled to the brim with amber liquid.

Not that he cared about his benefactor, but he was curious. Wilcox had explained the first drink as a need to wash down the kicked up dust on the journey back from the cemetery—a short three-mile ride. He could not help noticing that Wilcox had barely pecked at the shrimp on his plate. He did better with the sauce, breaking off two pieces of bread, and sopping up the creamy sauce, but then lost interest in that too.

As for himself, he could barely stuff another bite into his mouth, but he wanted to tarry and learn more about Wilcox. He shoved his empty plate away and reached across the table, nipping the rim of the dish with his fingers. "If you're not gonna eat that, I will."

A sharp slap stung the back of his hand.

"Ask first, and say please."

"May I finish your shrimp, please?" He took the offered plate but the smug grin on the man across from him rankled. When the food was in his possession, he added, "Mother."

A white napkin snapped against the table and dropped like a dead dove. "I've had enough of your insolence, young man. You ate a day's worth of wages and said nary a word about Alice. I don't even know your first name. Do you know her, or did you take me for some poor bereaving idiot?"

Here was the perfect opportunity to get away from Wilcox. He opened his mouth to lie, but the brown eyes stopped him. They were brimming with tears.

The eyes struck a similar chord within him. "My name is Greg. Don't I look like her?" He mumbled and bowed his head.

"Look at me," Wilcox asked. No trace of anger lingered in his voice.

Greg raised his head.

Wilcox nodded. "What I said earlier about your eyes… the shape of your face, nose, mou—" He cleared his throat. "I'd never doubt you were her son if I attended the funeral, but I was out of town, and just heard about her death a week ago. I'm sorry. You must be in shock and hurting."

Of course he was hurting. His mother died two weeks ago, and the pain grew worse as the reality sunk in. The chip on his shoulder was as large as the hole in his heart. Better to deflect from the gaping wound by displaying tempered steel. "There was nothing that could be done." Greg shrugged.

"The best food in all the South, and Ali—your mom died of food poisoning. It's tragic."

"No."

"How is your mother's death not a tragedy?"

Greg lifted his fork, speared a pink shrimp and swirled a pattern through the sauce. "She didn't die from food poisoning." He looked around the high-ceilinged, whitewashed room to see if anyone was within earshot. "She died of yellow fever," he explained in a confidential tone.

"Yell— "

A ringing clank against the plate of seafood, and Wilcox got the hint and immediately lowered his voice. "Yellow fever? Have there been any other outbreaks? Alice lived at Madam Adelaide's, right? Why isn't the place shut down for inspections?"

"There was one other case, a sailor off a ship, about a month before. He was found dead a street away. Madam knew Mom didn't have food poisoning, but it's easier to fire the chef and change butchers than announce one of her 'ladies' died of the saffron scourge."

"My god, how can the woman be so cold-hearted?" Wilcox stroked the back of his neck.

"At least she bought Mom a plot in the new city cemetery and paid for a decent funeral instead of a giving her a hasty burial in a potter's field."

Wilcox pointed a finger at him. "No Madam ever spent a penny more than she had to. You blackmailed Adelaide."

Greg eased into a smile.

Wilcox bobbed his head in curt acknowledgment, then pulled out his pocket watch and flipped open the cover to check the time. "I'm late for another appointment. I'll go pay the bill unless you want to…?"

A blank stare seemed the appropriate response. Greg figured he pulled it off when Wilcox let out a sigh, got up, and walked toward the bar.

Alone at the table, he halfheartedly sponged up sauce with a roll, but the bread had the heft of a cannonball. He dumped it back onto the plate.

Melancholy deadened the sound of returning footsteps and the scrape of a chair.

Wilcox was back, chewing on a toothpick. He tossed a white card onto the table.

The name of the finest hotel in the French quarter was printed upon it. He inspected the front and flipped it over. A name, Jacques, was written with excessive curls across the back.

The lunch crowd and noise level were growing. Wilcox raised his voice to be heard. "We're not done, Greg. Meet me back here tomorrow where we can talk some more. If you need me before then, go to the St. Charles, ask for Jacques."

"I still won't know where I misplaced my wallet."

"Why am I not surprised?" Wilcox dismissed the subject. "Lunch? Here? Noon?"

The bread looked suddenly appealing. Greg stuffed it into his mouth and nodded his head in agreement.

"You're not a bad looking kid when you eat with your mouth closed. By the way, about Madam Adelaide? You were right to put the squeeze on her."

Before Greg could swallow, Wilcox had left.

He attacked his food with new gusto. For the first time in two weeks his chest stopped aching when he breathed.

With renewed optimism he decided that tomorrow he would swipe any food on Wilcox's plate that he wanted. To hell with "please" and "thank you."