Romantic or sexual relationships between students and persons in positions of authority compromise the relationship between students and the University. No member of the University community should simultaneously be romantically or sexually involved with a student whom he or she teaches, advises, coaches, or supervises in any way.
Ordinarily, House paid no attention to the Faculty Council of Representatives Resolution on Romantic and Sexual Relationships Between Students and Staff, except to make fun of the priggish language and the council's dogged determination to disinfect student-teacher relationships of any whiff of sexuality. But lately he had begun to wonder if the authors might've known something he was only beginning to understand himself.
Coming of age in the anything-goes environment of the 1970s, House had wholeheartedly bought into the prevailing theory that sexual congress is a transaction like any other. That desire was one of many human hungers. That sex can be as free of emotional baggage as the purchase of a hamburger, and as easy to walk away from as McDonalds.
House had had ample opportunity to reevaluate this notion in the years that followed, in his professional as well as his personal life. He had seen that even a one-night stand could have consequences far more dire—and painful—than either party had reason to expect when they negotiated a simple fuck. Intellectually, he could see how becoming lovers could change the dynamic between employer and employee in ways that no one would be happy about. And he had thrown all this experience and knowledge out the window in the case of Alison Cameron.
Worse: He knew going in that they had wildly different expectations for the relationship. House persuaded himself that nothing would change except for a vast improvement in his sex life, and that Cameron would quickly tire of his prickly interpersonal style and move on. Cameron, on the other hand, seemed to be viewing their affair as a leveling agent, raising herself above the ranks of oppressed employee to that of colleague and advisor. She also seemed to think it had staying power; that eventually House would succumb to her gentle guidance and become happier, healthier, and much more sensitive to the feelings of others. His steady refusal to change in any significant way had first puzzled, then frustrated her. He had to give her credit for perserverence, though. If he hadn't ended things himself, she would probably still be chipping away at his crusty exterior, convinced there was a heart of gold underneath.
The break-up had been relatively painless. House had counted it as one of the real successes in his love life to date. But Cameron was leaving soon to take up a very good post at Ohio State, and as her departure date drew closer, she seemed to feel she had some unfinished business with her erstwhile boyfriend. So she asked him out to dinner, just the two of them, "to talk about old times."
House had balked. They had never had what anyone would call a successful dinner date; he would either drink too much or talk about work so loudly, so clinically, and in such gruesome detail that the other diners edged away from their table. Either way, he failed to meet Cameron's standards for a romantic evening, and the drive home was always a tense and unhappy voyage.
Rebuffed, Cameron modified the invitation to a lunch meeting and named a date. House came up with an admittedly lame excuse. She suggested another date. He said he would think about it. Since then, Cameron had reminded him daily, in person or by email, that he owed her an answer.
Now he grimaced and told Wilson, "The situation with Cameron supports my theory, not yours." He gave a brief summary of recent events and resigned himself to hearing out Wilson's counsel.
"Why don't you just go to lunch with her?" said Wilson.
A very good question. Why not go and be done with it? What could happen in a public place? Even if Cameron seized the opportunity to air some grievances—and she certainly had good grounds for complaint—all he had to do was pretend to listen and apologize sincerely.
Somehow, House didn't think that was Cameron's purpose in proposing lunch. On the other hand, he'd be hard-pressed to say what her motivation was, or even why she got involved with him in the first place. The question of what, exactly, she wanted from him had been the central focus of their relationship all along, and almost four years later, he still couldn't arrive at a theory that satisfied him.
At first he thought she was making a charity case of him: "Poor old man with the broken body; I'll sacrifice my youth and beauty to make him happy again." House was convinced there was a measure of truth to that suspicion, but he no longer believed it was the whole explanation, and now her tenacity about the lunch date added a new layer to the mystery. She wanted to talk about old times? Like the time she insisted on seeing a movie together and he'd laughed heartily through the whole thing, not realizing it was a drama that she had hoped would touch his heart? Like the poetry reading she'd dragged him to after he'd been up 30 hours with a patient, and he immediately fell asleep and snored? The interpretive dance concert—Cameron had once been a dancer— that he'd critiqued with typical sensitivity ("Looks like a cluster fuck")? The times he'd become engrossed in some problem and had been late meeting her and friends, or the times he hadn't shown up at all?
He became aware that Wilson was watching him closely. "You still have feelings for her, don't you?"
"Yes," House said solemnly. "I do." He waited a beat and added, "I feel annoyed and baffled. But not in a good way."
Wilson continued to scrutinize him. "Just be careful, House. That's all I'm saying."
And, miraculously, it was.
-0-
Once he'd left Wilson, House filed the matter of A. Cameron in a remote corner of his brain and prepared to relax. It was Friday evening, and although Deadman was still very sick, he was stable to entrust to the team. Two days of complete rest lay before him, and House planned to make the most of it.
That's when the first real cracks appeared in the hull of the good ship Greg 'n Carrie.
When it became clear that House would be spending most of his off hours at the farmhouse, he and Carolyn made some informal arrangements about housework. House claimed the traditional male duties, like mowing the lawn—Carolyn had a good riding mower, and he liked the challenge of combining speed and precision to produce perfectly manicured grounds. He also agreed, without protest but also without enthusiasm, to be the default dish washer.
House hated washing the dishes; hated the greasy grey of the water after the first few pots, hated the feeling of bits of food clinging to his fingers, hated the fact that they had to be done every day. The knowledge that this grubby task loomed at the end of every meal could spoil his appetite. Carolyn had a dishwasher, so all the plates, glasses, and flatware were taken care of, but there were always mixing bowls, measuring spoons, and pots and pans to deal with.
The problem was compounded by the fact that Carolyn had a much lower tolerance for piles of dirty dishes than House did. Alone in his apartment, he could ignore the way the sink filled up and overflowed onto the counters for up to a week at a time. Then he'd hire a cleaning crew to deal with it. Carolyn liked to see clean dishes in the drainer within a hour of finishing dinner. House fell back on the position that they ended up cleaner if he let them soak for a few hours, or even over night. It was becoming a source of tension between them.
Tonight he fully intended to do the dishes right away, but he had recently started an argument on an online community for fans of the Stratocaster guitar, and he was anxious to see if one person in particular was fool enough to question his authority on the topic. As it turned out he was, and refuting his claims took some research. It was after 8:00 pm before he finished, and Carolyn, passing through, dropped a kiss on his head and said, "Honey, if you're done with that could you do the dishes?"
The hint of impatience in her voice triggered memories of other Friday nights, long ago.
"You have any homework, Son?"
"Yeah."
Feigned heartiness: "Well, why don't you do it now? Then you can enjoy the weekend."
"Yeah. In a minute." But there was a gathering tightness in his chest, and even if he had come home that day fully intending to do the work and get it over with, he felt resistance building ...
House was lying on the couch, drinking Buffalo Trace and watching automotive auctions on the Speed channel when Carolyn approached him again, ostensibly to tell she was going to bed. He tensed. She kissed him lightly, not noticing, and said casually, "Greg, please do the dishes before you go to bed. It looks so messy in there."
"Honey, please pick up the yard before Daddy gets home. Don't make him angry."
Kiss my ass, Daddy.
He checked the Strat community and discovered his nemesis had been at work, picking apart his beautifully reasoned rebuttal. House drained his glass, poured a fresh drink, and let him have it with both barrels: "Are you a congenital idiot, or did you get dropped on your head a lot as a kid? READ FOR COMPREHENSION. The reason you didn't see George using his Strat til '67 was that Brian Epstein had secured a deal with Gretsch that committed George to using them almost exclusively. The minute the restriction was lifted, George tossed his Gretsch and never looked back. Have someone read the preceding two sentences to you slowly until you get it. Moron." He poured another drink and read his riposte over admiringly. Then he hit "Post" and flopped on the couch again. His leg was starting to ache in a way that presaged a long night. House popped a couple Vicodin and washed them down with whiskey. He dozed, waking around midnight—much too late for KP duty. He brushed his teeth and staggered into bed just in time to pass out.
Carolyn was already up and out the door by the time he dragged himself into the kitchen the next morning. The dishes sat untouched in the sink. There was a note on the table.
"Greg: I'm doing the grocery shopping. Call if you need me to pick up anything. Love, C. P.S. PLEASE WASH THE FUCKING DISHES, PLEASE."
"I thought you were going to bring up your grade in Social Studies."
"I did."
"From a 59 to a 64—you're not even passing! For the love of god, Greg, are you stupid, or just lazy?"
Social Studies sank to the bottom of his priority list. Just the sight of the textbook made him want to bolt the room.
House poured himself a cup of coffee and stood at the window, brooding. The thought popped into his head like a shiny new toy: I don't have to take this shit. I still have my own place, my own fucking rules. I could be there in half an hour; let the bitch wash her own fucking pots.
Then he started the hot water faucet running and washed the fucking dishes.
-0-
He was on the porch drinking the second beer of the afternoon when Carolyn came home. He heard her walk around the kitchen. Inspecting his work. Then she appeared in the doorway.
"How was the store?" House asked, without looking at her.
"Busy. Crowded. I couldn't wait to get out of there." A pause. Then, tentatively: "Thanks for cleaning up the kitchen. It looks nice."
House nodded curtly, still not looking at her. "You're welcome."
Carolyn lingered for a moment, hoping for another opening. When none came, she moved quietly into the house. He heard her putting away groceries and starting the dishwasher. He opened another beer.
Dinner was difficult. House had drained a six-pack by then, but that was the only thing he'd accomplished all day, so he didn't have much to say for himself. Carolyn talked brightly about her plans for winterizing the house and he listened in an abstracted way—at some point he had lost the sense that her future had anything to do with him. When they finished eating, Carolyn pointedly did not say anything about getting the dishes done. And House pointedly did not do them.
Instead, he switched to whiskey and played several hands of Texas Hold 'Em online, thrashing his opponents so thoroughly and with such zeal that they became alarmed: "Dude chill out its ony a game," protested one of them. "Goddamned right it's a game. It's got winners and losers, and guess which you are, LOSER?" House fired back. He checked the Strat community and discovered that the object of his Friday-night wrath had written a prissy reply asserting that ad hominem attacks said more about the attacker than the attacked. House left a blistering retort, then repaired to the couch for more car auctions and whiskey.
At some point Carolyn went to bed. She did not kiss him good night.
Good.
This was her own damned fault, House decided. She had seduced him with the possibility that he could be happy; could live a normal life in a loving relationship. She of all people should know that he wasn't normal. Loving didn't come naturally to him. But she kept coming at him with good food, good sex, good companionship, and now look what happened. Like every other woman who had tried to domesticize Greg House, she deserved to be disappointed.
His leg was beginning to hurt bad. He swallowed a couple of pills and drank until he saw double. It was a poor substitute for crawling into bed with Carolyn and listening to her even breathing until it lulled him to sleep, but it would have to do.
-0-
House awoke late Sunday morning, still on the couch, his back and leg cramped and aching. The place was silent; Carolyn usually went riding early on Sundays so she had the rest of the day "to degunk the house," as she put it. She liked to have the dishes done and out of the way so she could scrub down the kitchen. Too bad.
"I told you two hours ago to clean up this room, and it's still a pigsty. Fine. You want to live like a pig? You sleep outside tonight."
The threat of a long night outside, alone, had scared him straight for years. But today he discovered that it had lost its power over him. I'd rather sleep outside than stay in the same house as you, asshole.
House poured a mug of coffee and added a shot of bourbon as an antidote to the hangover that crawled over his scalp and curdled his guts. He took it out onto the porch. The air was chill with the first serious breath of autumn. He sipped at the mug, and waited.
Carolyn returned shortly before noon. He heard her enter the kitchen and stop; then he heard rapid footsteps approaching the porch, and braced himself.
She planted herself in front of him so he had to look at her. "Listen to me," she said, the voice of white fury. "If this is your way of saying you're not interested in some kind of—domestic partnership, fine. We'll work something out. But I can't do all the work for two adults, and you can't keep lolling around here like visiting royalty. Make up your mind." And she spun on her heel and departed.
Bitch, thought House. For some reason, the word filled him with a kind of reckless glee. Self-righteous bitch. More glee. Fuck her and the horse she rode in one. Maximum glee.
Like a book lover who cleans out his shelves and finds a beloved volume he had forgotten about, House rediscovered his true nature: the miserable genius; the spiteful misanthrope; the serial asshole. There you are. I was wondering where you'd gone. He felt the rightness of it, the perfect fit with his sour and cynical world view. Everybody lies. No one really changes. Humanity is overrated. Love is selfishness dressed up with lace and flowers.
He thought of his apartment with longing and regret. For months he had been thinking of it as a dreary reminder of a time he'd put behind him, but now he saw it in a new light, as his refuge from the incessant demands of people. In his own apartment, the dishes could stack to the ceiling and no one would look at him with tightened lips and reproachful eyes. Safe within its walls, he could ignore the telephone and hide out from worried colleagues. In his apartment, he could drink and drug without feeling the need to moderate his intake—not that Carolyn had ever said a word about either. But it was only a matter of time.
Why postpone the inevitable? This was the real Greg House, and the real Greg House faced the facts. He was a lone wolf piece of shit, but it was his own shit, and he had a right to it. Just as he had a right to sit on his ass for the next twenty years feeling sorry for himself. There was a weirdly satisfying energy to that image. This is me: bad to the bone. Born to disappoint. Deal with it.
Carolyn ended up doing the dishes. She scrubbed the whole kitchen, including the floor and lower walls, as if ridding it of negative energy. Dinnertime came and went: it was every man for himself, cold sandwiches, no comfort food tonight. She watched 60 Minutes alone, and repaired to bed early with a book. House drank his dinner and ate Vicodin for dessert, but the leg went on hurting.
He had just posted another ugly retort on the Stratocaster community when it occured to him to check his email. In a way, he expected the message from .edu.
Chase bet me $100 that you're too pussywhipped to meet me for lunch tomorrow. We could have a great meal if you say yes. The Cochon Rouge at one? Bring your car—I found some stuff of yours while packing, and you can swing by and pick it up after we eat. Alison.
A piece of the puzzle clicked into place: so she was out for revenge. She had never really believed that he dumped her for any reason other than to make room for Carolyn, and she wanted a chance to even the score. Why else would she want him to park his car in front of her apartment building, where half of Princeton—including Carolyn—would see it on their way home from work?
Of course, if a person were looking for an ironclad reason for a break-up, he could hardly do better than to bang an old girlfriend. He felt a soaring joy in what he was about to do. Now, that's what I'm talking about, said the real Greg House.
He hit Reply and, before he could change his mind, typed a quick note:
Tell Chase to pay up. See you at the Red Pig. House.
Then he hit Send and returned to the couch. He gazed into the darkness, smiling. An onlooked might have called it a grimace, but that was understandable. After all, his leg hurt like hell.