Chapter 7
Turning the tap off, House watches the stray drops of water dribble down the side of the glass. He takes a lazy gulp of his drink hurting his throat when he swallows too much at once. He feels the solid lump of liquid making its way down through his chest, leaving a cool trail in its wake and almost hears it landing in his belly like a fat drop of mercury.
He hobbles back into the living room and makes his way to the piano under the stairs. His hand grazes the smooth, black top lovingly. He had grown up with this piano, served his time with this piano. An old, faithful friend ready and waiting for him always, wherever they were in the world.
He sits down on the bench and lets his fingers dribble over the keys; first white striking their argument over the hammers, then the more melodious and companionable black. Soon enough, a tune starts to leak out and House goes with it, letting his fingers dictate the pace, the rhythm until he recognises what it is.
He favoured anything by Van Morrison for warm-ups. The swooping scales and orchestral strings lent themselves well to a full finger work-out and House always felt ready to take on anything after that.
Willingly lost at sea, House plays song after song after song, from Van to Elgar to some Robert Johnson ditty and he feels at peace. His leg hardly registers and seems to respect his need to play.
Like the old song, the music goes round and round until House feels consumed by the notes flowing though his fingers, pounding out from the strings. He hasn't played like this for a long time.
When his father walks up the path to the front door, he thinks Blythe might have taken on a new student and he's impressed. He puts his key in the door and struggles just a little to turn it, stiff as it is in the lock. Some boogie-woogie piece he doesn't know pours out into the hallway and for a minute, John just stands and listens.
Something nags at him, some sort of recognition, some memory but he can't pin it down.
He picks up the grocery bags and heads into the lounge, intending to pass straight through to the kitchen without disturbing the lesson.
When he sees his son sitting with eyes closed and shoulders hunched at the piano he is taken aback but stops to listen, to watch. House seems relaxed despite his fingers' busy dance across the keys. His face is smooth and there is even a hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth.
House feels a shiver tickle across his shoulders which breaks the flow of the dominant seventh arpeggio he is playing and ends his practice. He's not sure how long he has been playing for but it's dark outside and he feels that familiar rumble in his stomach telling him it's time to eat. He sits still and quiet listening to the strings of the piano reverberate and hum their dying breaths.
'That was pretty good son.'
House is jolted back to the here and now by the sound of his father's gravely voice.
'Dad… when-'
'Just a moment ago, I didn't want to disturb you.'
'Oh, uh, Mom home?' House feels exposed, on alert.
'No. Just me. You hungry?'
House nods in response to his father's question and takes a minute to get up from the bench. His cane is somewhere in the kitchen and his leg feels like it's about to pay him back for having to behave itself for so long.
He summons up the momentum he will need to take his first step and rises, grateful to the proximity of the wall to help him and grateful too for the fact that his father isn't in the room to watch him make his pitiful way. By the time he reaches the kitchen, he has found a precarious balance that allows him to hobble almost gracefully.
'You want some soup Greg? I don't know where your mother has got to.'
'She went out, this morning, with Madeline… Muriel… Maggie- yeah, soup would be good.'
House sits down at the table and watches his father move around the kitchen like a stranger in his own home. He opens cupboards and drawers never finding what he's looking for until the last try. House picks at the skin around his thumb nail and watches fascinated as the barest drop of blood makes its way to the surface. Sucking it away, he is surprised by the sudden appearance of two bowls of soup, two spoons and a plateful of bread in front of him.
'So son, that was pretty rough this morning huh?'
Startled by what he sees as a flash attack, House responds cautiously, 'It's uh, okay now.' He feels heat and redness start to break out across his cheeks like a five year old who has wet the bed. He doesn't like how this is going.
'Now look son, I'm gonna give you some advice you probably don't wanna hear.'
'Of course you are…' House mumbles snippily, almost inaudibly. His hackles are up and he's on edge, senses on fire.
'You gotta just… get on son.' The words sound almost right as they leave John's mouth.
'What exactly are you saying Dad?' House's voice sounds a low warning.
'You know son, I see you with that, that cane and all I can think about is…'
'That I need to suck it up? Get over myself? That I need, what? Exactly what?!' House stands up, grabs his cane and starts to pace around the table, anger burning across his face.
'No, no I just mean… I had to pick you up for Chrissakes! Greg! No, don't you limp out of this room! I'm talking to you!' John follows his son out into the living room, hating every minute of this confrontation he didn't want.
'Wait, like some kind of fatherly advice?' Sarcasm drips off his tongue as he continues, 'Nice Dad, real nice. Got anything you wanna add to that?'
John is staggered at how fast the conversation and potentially pleasant dinner has turned about. He's thrown back to when House was a teenager and hormones controlled what could and could not be spoken about. He can't help the cruel jibes and can't stop them escaping from his mouth.
'You know what your problem is Greg?' shouting now, John continues, 'You want to take a look down at the Vet's hospital. There's real suffering. Men who've fought in wars, men with no legs – how do you like that Greg?!'
'Right, I'm so glad we had this little talk! What is your problem Dad? Huh?' House walks over to face his father and squares up to him. Looking him straight in the eye, he thinks of all the bones in his father's face and how he could easily break them one by one.
Facing off, neither man can stand down and violent thoughts and images swarm through House's mind. He feels the tightness in his jaw telling him his teeth are grinding against each other. Blood pounds through the veins in his head, fight or flight playing out over and over in his mind.
Quietly, huskily, House murmurs. 'What? Don't like what you see? Don't like looking at your cripple son? I never was tough enough was I Dad? You know what? You can take your war hero crap and you can piss all over it. Life is a piece of shit. That what you wanna hear? Huh? Life is a piece of shit? I hate life? I need you? That make you feel better?'
He wants his father to do something, say something but none of his words, as mean as he can make them, are pushing the right button. Yet.
'No son, that isn't what I meant. I wanted-'
'Save it!'
Bruised pride, a battered ego and all manner of other psychological clichés force House up to the front door. He had wanted a reaction, wanted something from his Dad.
Sheer anger and a fierce sense of getting the hell away force him out of the door and onto the street.
He hears his father shouting, screaming his name after him but he walks on blinkered by insult, fuming and raging inside.
Soon enough, he stumbles upon the bus stop he had used just yesterday. He can't bear to sit and instead paces the one, two steps under the shelter. Back and forth, back and forth; it was always the same, too many expectations.
Even he is surprised though at the speed of the whole thing.
He had really lost it with his father and he wasn't dumb enough not to wonder what twisted version of cause and effect had been playing with him.
In all honesty, it was the first time since Stacy had left that he'd felt any real emotion.
Now here, in this house where his parents lived a peaceable existence he had laughed uncontrollably, screamed uncontrollably, felt uncontrollable.
Like Ahab and his whale he felt the full force of everything he had lost bubbling up through his body and for the second time in what had been one of the longest days of his life, House felt the prickle of tears behind his eyes.
Quickly sniffing the tears back where they belonged, he realised then why he had come home.
