A/N: The 3-times-perfect practice policy was instituted by my grandmother and nearly killed my own piano lessons at the beginning. I well remember the frustration of that first year and a half of piano under her supervision (she kept us after school until Mom got home from work, so practice was at her house). It was Mom, the inspiration for Jensen, who worked out the problem and intervened when I asked to quit piano. She wound up letting me practice alone, and I started to really discover the pieces, nor did the technical quest for the right notes suffer. Probably many 7-year-old kids wouldn't practice piano more successfully alone, but I did. I'm sure Grandmother's strategy would work for some people; obviously worked for her, as she could play quite well. But it didn't work for my personality and actually made music frustrating. Interestingly, in vocal music, which I'm quite seriously into (on a semipro level) and much more talented at than piano, the director, while being appropriately picky on piece work on specific measures, is always careful to let us run it whole regularly regardless, to get a feel for the gestalt of the piece, and the first sight-read through of a new piece is almost always a straight run beginning to end, let the chips fall where they may. Anyway, a bit of personal practice strategy history in this chapter.
Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D Minor is a marvelous, intricate thing, one which most people have heard even if they don't know it by its true name. For a wonderful presentation of it including a visual "transcription" of the notes so you can see and admire the whole tapestry, go to Youtube and search for Smalin Toccata and Fugue in D Minor. The one at the top of the search list with almost 10 million hits is the one you want. Sit back, watch, listen, and enjoy! It is, as House noted, an organ piece at heart, but it has been transposed to other instruments and also to full orchestra, where it was used in the movie Fantasia.
Enjoy!
(H/C)
The Volvo surged down the highway toward Middletown. Wilson kept having to watch the speed and pull back. He wasn't a chronic speeder, but the more he thought about Patrick's emerging pattern of behavior, the more the car seemed to accelerate. "I wonder how many others are out there," he said, shaking his head. "Odd that he hasn't left Ann yet, with Christopher gone."
"Obviously, Dr. House distracted him. He needs to finish meeting this challenge to his warped authority first," Jensen replied. He studied House, somewhat concerned. House had been very quiet since they left Lanah's, mostly staring out the window. His worried gnawing on the bone of who knew what that had so characterized the trip up was absent now. "Dr. House?"
House jumped slightly. "What?"
"Are you okay?" Lousy question to ask House, but Jensen couldn't use the usual extended methods to the heart of the matter with Wilson in the car. House would never allow any kind of in-depth session with Wilson as an audience; even Cuddy had only been allowed in this weekend, and that under slightly warped reasoning. Jensen knew House would just say he was fine, but the psychiatrist wanted to observe how he said it.
House's eyes slid sideways to Wilson briefly. "Fine." He ran one hand along his thigh. "The leg is just acting up some. Too many hours on the road today."
If House was actually offering his leg, which he hated talking about, as a distraction topic, he definitely wasn't fine. However, he clearly didn't want to delve too much into this swamp of emotion in front of Wilson, and Jensen reluctantly respected that. "Have you given Dr. Cuddy a report yet?" he asked, knowing that House hadn't. Not that a cell phone report would really get into feelings, either, but Jensen thought that simply talking to Cuddy, hearing her voice, might help.
"No," House responded. "Good point; she's probably waiting on pins and needles." He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed.
"Greg? What happened at Syracuse?" Not only pins and needles but quite sharp ones.
"We're starting to get a better picture of how he operates. The cousin has a daughter, 4 years old. Lost the kid in an extended, nasty divorce back at the beginning of the year; she's got vitamin D deficiency, and she's been trying to treat it with antidepressants, unsuccessfully of course. She didn't have any energy or fight in her."
Cuddy smiled in spite of her worry. That insertion of the medical fact along the way was so like House. "You told her that, I presume?"
"Yep. Regular injections, and her ex won't know what hit him. Makes you wish everything could be fixed with a shot."
"Are you okay?" He didn't sound quite right to her, although she couldn't put her finger on it. Not just Patrick, not just his leg, not just everybody knowing.
"Fine. Anyway, Patrick apparently hangs around divorce lawyer offices and courthouses and watches for women with little kids. Not that she realized that, of course. She thought he was a great listener. Never talked about himself, but so interested in her problems and always willing to babysit."
Cuddy felt like she'd been stabbed in the heart with an icicle. "Oh my God."
"Exactly. When the mother lost custody, Patrick lost interest. He only wants the kids. The two we know about were the same age, too; I wonder if that's a constant."
"At least her daughter is safe now."
"Ironic, losing custody of her kid actually benefited her, even if the father is a jackass. Better living with a jackass than a monster."
"Maybe she'll get her back when she gets the right treatment."
"Hopefully. Wish you could have heard that conversation; Mom isn't the only gullible woman around." He heard her silence grow louder. "Did the fax come?"
"Yes. It was . . . enlightening. About you, it's pretty much the basic memories. He's got several triggers to work on there; I'll give you details later."
"Did the notes mention Jensen anywhere?"
"No. They say in general that you had been getting therapy, but no specifics at all."
House let out a breath of relief. "Good. Actually, maybe we could have caught a PI if he tried to break into Jensen's with the security system, but even so, I'd rather keep Patrick away from there."
"Are you okay, Greg?"
"Fine. I'll see you tonight late, okay?"
"Okay. Give me an ETA a lot closer in, and I'll have the hot tub all filled up and ready."
He ran his hand along his leg again, actually feeling the pain this time. It was indeed objecting to today's activities. The hot tub sounded like paradise. "I will. See you then." He clicked off and resumed staring out the window, but the tension along his jaw line was a little bit less, Jensen thought.
About 20 minutes later, they saw the sign for a rest area, apparently a large one. "Why don't we take a break?" Jensen suggested.
House looked at his watch and scowled. "It's only 50 minutes."
Wilson put on the blinker and headed into the rest area. "Oddly enough, House, they didn't space out the rest areas and exits along the highway just to match your agenda." He pulled into a parking place.
Jensen got out first, fishing in his pocket, and then handed Wilson a handful of change. "Go get us all a Coke," he directed, nodding toward the vending machines, which were a fair walk away, in a separate hut on well beyond the restroom building. His eyes locked on Wilson's with the secondary, subliminal message: Take your time. Wilson nodded, took the change, and headed off.
Jensen rounded the car to the passenger's side where House was prying himself stiffly out. He might have tried to use his leg as a distraction earlier, but it really was acting up. "How are you holding up?" Jensen asked, not limiting the question to physically.
"Okay," House replied. He took a few steps, limping the length of the car.
"Let's walk for a bit," Jensen suggested. He started the opposite direction from the restrooms and vending machines, taking the sidewalk the other way toward the dog-walking area, which was totally deserted. They were heading away from what little traffic there was in the rest stop. House fell into step beside him, a confirmation in itself, as he could have just as easily turned the other way. Jensen kept the pace slow. "What are you thinking?" he asked. He didn't have much time for subtleties here, but House knew that, too.
House sighed. "This . . . this thing . . . I actually think he's worse than my father."
"Different, definitely."
"Dad was always personal. He had a campaign against me. But Patrick . . . he really doesn't care at all, positive or negative. He's just using them. They aren't even real to him."
Jensen nodded. "And that's terrifying, isn't it? Not just for their sake, but to think that something might be worse than your father."
House was silent for a moment. "I always felt alone," he continued after a pause. "Always knew I was alone. How many others are there?" The weight of having so much company, even perhaps company worse off than he had been, was nearly crushing.
"Unfortunately, there are too many. But you aren't alone. Neither are they; there are people in the world who care, always. Sometimes they haven't made connections yet, but they are there. But you're right, it's a tragedy. The idea of such evil in the world almost seems to blot out the good at times."
House came to a stop, then turned around, starting the slow limp back toward the Volvo. "I never thought I'd think anything good about Dad. But at least he wasn't a predator. He only hated me."
"Hell is still hell, Dr. House. It isn't comparative. You can't analyze your hell and compare it in a spreadsheet to someone else's."
House shook his head. "But if Dad . . . if the people I've thought were bad aren't totally bad . . . Even her husband, being a cheating and lying jerk, actually helped out."
"With very few exceptions, people are not all bad or all good. The world isn't black and white, much as we wish it could be. But some issues are black and white. What Patrick is doing is monstrous, and you are going after him, remember. You are helping not just yourself but all of the children he's known, and all the ones in the future. Sometimes, even in a gray world, there is justice. There will be for Patrick."
"That doesn't fix things."
"No, it doesn't. But it does make a difference. The world can't be fixed, Dr. House. But it can definitely be helped."
They were nearing the Volvo. House looked over at Jensen. "You really think there will be justice for Patrick?"
"Absolutely. Because he has no idea what he challenged in you. You are stronger than he is, and you are going to prove it. I have no doubt of the outcome."
House looked a bit stunned at the statement of confidence, then walked on to the car in silence.
(H/C)
Jensen's house was comfortably sprawling without being pretentious, a place you could relax, a place to come home to at the end of the day. Cathy bounded down the sidewalk almost as soon as the car stopped. "Dad!" She nearly tackled him, and Jensen gave her a fierce hug.
"Hi, Cathy. I missed you."
"I missed you, too." She gave him another squeeze, then moved on past to House, who had just succeeded in prying himself out of the car. The leg was stiffening up badly now.
Cathy wrapped him in a hug. "Hi, Dr. House! Good to see you."
House studied her eyes, looking for any judgment, any difference, any resentment at taking her father or disappointment that he had a crisis-level problem, whether defined or not, in the first place. There was none. She simply looked glad to see him. "Hi, Cathy."
Jensen had already advanced on up the sidewalk to greet Melissa in the doorway. "Come on in," he urged. Wilson was already halfway to the house. House limped up the sidewalk, his leg throbbing with each step. He was suddenly very glad of the chance at an extended break from the cramped quarters and subtle motion of the car. Cathy scampered on up the sidewalk ahead of him, and he watched her easy, innocent steps and felt a twinge deep inside. He would never again be able to run.
Melissa greeted him at the door, showing no more resentment than Cathy had and leaving House baffled. Simple concern, without resentment, without management, without motives, wasn't something he'd encountered much of in life. Even with a secure family now, he remained inclined to view the world in general with a bit of suspicion.
"It will be about 20 minutes until dinner," Melissa said. "You must have made good time from Syracuse." She didn't mention the rest stops, although Jensen had told her to figure them into her timing.
House grinned. "Wilson kept testing the speed limit on the drive back. Fortunately, the cops were all asleep or at the doughnut shop."
"Why don't we sit down while we wait?" Jensen suggested. House automatically gravitated to a recliner and stretched his leg out, flinching as the foot rest raised.
Cathy had drifted toward the piano in the living room. It was a simple upright, nothing remarkable but still potentially full of the same music, even if less rich, as more extravagant instruments. "Would you play something for me, Dr. House?"
House, having finally just gotten his throbbing leg adjusted, hesitated. He didn't want to let her down, but he also didn't want to move for the next 20 minutes, preferably longer. Jensen intervened. "Not right now, Cathy."
The flare of disappointment in her eyes was unmistakable. "But I was looking forward to it."
"Not right now," Jensen repeated, more firmly, and she accepted it and turned away toward a chair.
"I'll play you something after dinner, okay?" House offered.
She brightened up instantly. "Okay."
"Meanwhile, why don't you play us something? Your father said you had a piano recital tomorrow. We can be your dress rehearsal."
She looked from the piano to him uncertainly. "I'm not good," she stated with heartbreaking simplicity. "Not like you are."
"Cathy, believe it or not, I didn't start playing Rachmaninoff in the delivery room." She laughed, relaxing slightly. "Everybody starts somewhere. Come on, if I'm going to play for you later, you have to play something for me. Fair's fair."
Still somewhat reluctant, she walked over to the piano and slid onto the bench, then looked back uncertainly. "I'm really not good," she repeated.
"You're better than you think," her father stated. "Come on, Cathy. We'd like to hear you."
She turned back to face the keyboard, took a deep breath, and started in on her recital piece. It wasn't too difficult, of course, something appropriate for someone with only about a year of lessons, but nor was it terribly musical. It was correct, but even Wilson, comparing to House's playing, could hear the difference. Cathy's fingers were stiff, almost fearful, as if afraid the keys might bite back. The whole impression was laborious. Cathy finished and shook her head in frustration. "I can't GET it!" she snapped.
"It will get better as you keep up the lessons," Jensen encouraged.
House had been listening with head tilted slightly, his analytical expression momentarily overriding the lines of stress and pain on his face. "Cathy," he asked, "how have you been practicing?"
"Every day!" she replied, her tone rising in frustration. "I do it 30 minutes every day, just like the teacher says, but it just isn't WORKING. I just can't do this."
"Not how long, but how," House clarified. "How are you practicing?"
Cathy looked confused, as did Wilson. Jensen looked intrigued. "I, uh, get out the books and work through it."
"Practice something," House told her. "Something else; pick something you haven't worked up for recital, something new, and practice it for me."
Cathy was still puzzled, but she stood up long enough to open the piano bench and fish out one of her books. She flipped through the pages, selecting one, and started carefully. Two measures in, she missed a note, skidded to a halt, and returned to the beginning.
"Stop," House commanded. She stopped and twisted around halfway on the bench to face him. "Do you always stop and go back to the beginning whenever you miss a note?"
She nodded vigorously. "You have to get the notes right ahead of anything. Any time I miss something, I have to start over until I do it perfect 3 times. No matter how many times I have to do it over, every piece has to have all the notes exactly right 3 times before I can go on."
House shook his head. "Who told you that?"
"My piano teacher."
House sighed and looked over at Jensen. "Please, get the kid a new teacher. She must be one of those one-size-fits-all teachers as far as musical theory. Not that that approach might not work with some personalities, but it's never going to work with Cathy."
Cathy was still confused. "But you HAVE to get the notes right. You don't hit wrong notes when you play."
"Ever seen a dot to dot?" House asked.
"Of course."
"Suppose that you went through a dot to dot always worrying about the next number, making absolutely sure that you got it right, but the next number was all you saw. You never looked at the whole picture." Cathy's head lifted suddenly, the light starting to dawn. "You know, half the fun of those things is trying to figure out what it can be. When I was a young kid, I'd look at it first and try to guess the image, and then I'd keep stopping while I did it to guess along the way. Sometimes I'd even do them in different order to make it another picture entirely. It's a whole lot more fun than fretting only about what number comes after number seven. And the connecting lines are what really bring the picture to life."
Cathy nodded uncertainly. "I like to guess the pictures, too."
"Music is like a picture, Cathy. It's a whole. And a whole is greater than the sum of the parts. I'm not saying the notes aren't important, but you've actually got yourself afraid of them. All you're thinking about, all the time, is not hitting a wrong note. You aren't thinking about the music. If you always fixate on each individual note and keep stopping and reduce it to a numbers game like insisting on 3 times perfect, you'll NEVER see the larger picture of a piece. And that's frustrating as hell, because you know there is a larger picture there. That's why you're getting impatient with the process, because you know you're missing out on the bigger part of it." He looked over at Jensen. "How did you find this teacher?"
"Through a friend of Melissa's who gets lessons for her child. She said she was good."
"Is her child like Cathy? Personality wise."
Jensen shook his head. "Not even close."
"That's the problem. You've got a teacher who only plays one system. It will work on some, and with the others, it will drive them utterly crazy." He turned back to Cathy. "Okay, Cathy, go back to your recital piece. Start playing, and no matter what, you are not going to stop. Doesn't matter if you miss a note or not, the important thing is to keep going to the end."
She turned back uncertainly and started playing again. "Now, listen to me," House ordered, speaking over the music. "Think about a river. Picture it in your mind. Water flowing along, around bends, over rocks. Feel the current of it." Almost instantly, the music smoothed out slightly, the too-careful notes connecting. Everybody in the room heard the difference, Cathy included. Her slumped shoulders came up slightly. "That's it. Keep thinking of the river. Music is like a river. Let yourself feel it." She continued, relaxing more the further she went. It still was awkward, beginner-level, and nothing like hearing House, but it was far better than her first run-through. She came to the end and stopped, staring at the keys, amazed.
"You know what, Cathy?" House asked. She turned to face him. "You didn't miss any of the notes. They were all still there."
She truly smiled for the first time since she had sat down at the piano in the first place. "That was fun. I thought I was just doing it wrong."
"You weren't; somebody else was." He looked back at Jensen. "Please get her a different teacher. No wonder she's frustrated with it."
Jensen was watching House with open admiration. "I will," he promised. "Thank you."
"Yes, thank you," Melissa said, and they all jumped, not having realized she was standing in the doorway. "That was good, Cathy. I enjoyed it. Dinner's ready."
The dinner was excellent, and House appreciated the food as well as the side course of a complete round of meds that he took. They talked about families and life in general over the meal, not a word about the last weekend or anybody's problems, and he was grateful for the respite. Cathy was almost bubbling over with enthusiasm, suddenly looking forward to the recital tomorrow, and House watched her, wondering again what his daughters would be like at that age. He was feeling at least somewhat less stressed, even if not relaxed, when the group finally drifted away from the table. He sat down at the piano and ran a couple of scales on it, feeling out the instrument. Nothing spectacular but certainly adequate, and at least it was tuned. Having Cathy practice as she had been was bad enough; adding an untuned piano would have tipped the balance into cruel and unusual punishment.
Cathy had sat down in the closest chair to the piano, waiting expectantly, and House debated selection for a moment, then launched into a Mozart sonata. Wilson, listening, suddenly frowned slightly. House's playing was superb, as always, not just the notes but the dynamics, the interpretation nuances, the whole all there, the picture of the piece clearly visible. It was technically excellent. That was all.
Melissa was smiling at the end, Jensen looking thoughtful, and Wilson trying to identify the nebulous difference that he knew was there. But it was Cathy who spoke up. "That was really good," she said. "But it doesn't sound like you."
"Cathy!" Melissa reprimanded.
House sighed and looked away. "I'm sorry," he said, mentally adding Cathy to the list of people he'd let down.
"He's had a long day on the road, Cathy; he's tired," Jensen stated, trying to smooth over House's self-disappointment, although he himself wasn't convinced that was the reason.
Cathy shook her head. "You said I was afraid of the notes, afraid of making a mistake. What are you afraid of?"
"Cathy, that's enough," Jensen said sharply, and she backed away, retreating into silence.
House's irritation, both at himself and at Cathy, flared up. To have an 8-year-old with only a year of lessons giving him a critique on what had actually been a very good performance of Alla Turca was too much. Who the hell did she think she was, accusing him of fear? He wanted to make a laser-sharp statement of defense, slicing through her chutzpah, and refrained only out of respect for Jensen. Instead, he turned his frustrations onto the piano, almost savagely attacking the opening few notes of Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D Minor. The piece unspooled itself like a thread, growing into a tapestry, all the intricacy that he loved of Bach, and for the first time since Friday, he actually let himself feel, all the frustration of Patrick, all the fear of everyone knowing, all the flood of emotion he had been trying so hard to keep back. The tight order of Bach imposed on and bringing order to the storm of feeling and the maze of the weekend's events echoed through the room. House finished and sat there silently, his breathing slightly accelerated.
Wilson closed his mouth, which had fallen open. "Wow," Jensen stated.
House half shrugged without turning around to look at them. "It's better on the organ," he said, escaping into a technical discussion. "Piano limits it a bit."
Cathy had been almost stunned into silence during that performance, but now she spoke. "What piece was that?"
"Toccata and Fugue in D Minor. Bach." House stood up, suddenly acutely uncomfortable, feeling as if he had just undressed in front of them. He needed to get out of this group before he totally fell apart in front of everybody. "We'd better be hitting the road, Wilson. Miles to go before we sleep."
"It is getting late," Jensen agreed. "Past bedtime for Cathy, actually." Cathy responded as any 8-year-old kid in the middle of something interesting would have, and Melissa cut her out of the group with all the skill and persistence of a sheep dog and herded her down the hall, leaving the three men alone. Jensen faced House. "Keep in touch with me," he said. "And be sure you get enough sleep, no matter what you have to do to get it. I'll see you Friday."
House nodded. "See you then." He limped on toward the door by himself, making his escape, and Jensen dropped his voice to speak to Wilson.
"And I'll see you Wednesday."
Wilson hesitated. "Could we possibly make a deal to just discuss Danny and things going on there and stay totally out of my relationship?"
"No," Jensen replied, amiable but unyielding. Wilson sighed. "And don't forget, Dr. Wilson. Do not tell him about that phone call. Ever. No matter what."
"I won't," Wilson snapped, turning away and exiting the house. House was already clear out at the Volvo, carefully and stiffly folding himself into the passenger's seat, and Wilson walked briskly down the sidewalk to join him, suddenly wanting to escape Jensen almost as much as House had wanted to escape whatever he had been escaping. Wilson still wasn't quite sure what had happened with that second piano piece, but he knew that afterward, House had been ready to bolt from something.
Wilson got into the driver's seat and switched on the car. Looking up, he saw Jensen standing in the doorway, still watching then, unable to hide the concern. Apparently, Jensen still didn't quite trust his self-control. Annoyed, Wilson backed out of the driveway, accelerated just a bit too abruptly after shifting from reverse to drive, then smoothed it out as House flinched at the jerk and rubbed his leg.
The Volvo headed through the darkness back toward Princeton.