Chapter 55
"Santa Claus is Coming … Etc, Etc, Etc"
I WAS ALMOST EXUBERANT AS I DROVE AWAY FROM WHITEFACE MOUNTAIN INN. I SAID MY GOODBYES TO GYPSY AND BUSTER AND MARLENE.
"I FOUND HIM!" I GUSHED TO GYPSY AS I HURRIED TO THE REGISTRATION DESK WHERE SHE AND MARLENE WERE WORKING. "I FOUND HIM ON LINE … JUST AWHILE AGO. YOU WERE RIGHT. YOU WERE SO RIGHT … AND I THANK YOU. HE'S IN NEW HAMPSHIRE. AND HERE I AM IN NEW YORK. I HAVE TO LEAVE. IT'S BEEN TOO LONG. I'VE GOTTA GO …"
"JIMMY, THAT'S WONDERFUL. I'M SO GLAD." GYPSY CAME AROUND THE CORNER AND THREW HER THIN ARMS AROUND MY SHOULDERS. "WISH YOU WELL, MY DEAR. IT'S BEEN A REAL PLEASURE KNOWING YOU … AND YOU DRIVE CAREFUL, YOU HEAR? IT'S DECEMBER AND YOU MIGHT RUN INTO SOME ROUGH WEATHER BEFORE YOU'RE THROUGH."
SHE KISSED MY CHEEK AND I TURNED RED AGAIN.
I WAS GRINNING … NODDING … EYES WET … NERVES JANGLING. I NODDED ACROSS TO MARLENE WITH SHAMEFACED GLEE AS I TURNED TO GO BACK TO MY ROOM TO PACK. I WAS ONLY VAGUELY AWARE THAT SHE WAS STARING AT HER SMILING MOTHER AS THOUGH THE WOMAN HAD SUDDENLY GROWN ANOTHER HEAD.
IT QUICKLY DAWNED ON ME THAT GYPSY PROBABLY HADN'T TOLD HER DAUGHTER ABOUT OUR EARLIER CONVERSATION. SHE'D KEPT HER LIPS ZIPPED AND HADN'T SPLLED A WORD TO ANYONE. WHAT A WOMAN!
QUITE THE OPPOSITE OF POOR PATHETIC PATTI GRESH.
"SNEAKERS" WAS SNEAKING OUT OF TOWN AGAIN … BUT THIS TIME I WAS RUNNING TOWARD SOMETHING, NOT RUNNING AWAY FROM SOMETHING. I HOPED DESPERATELY FOR SOME KIND OF HAPPY REUNION. BUT I WASN'T HOLDING MY BREATH …
I pointed Vanna's nose toward the north, then followed the road as it curved east on Route 4 near Whitehall and widened into an expressway. Suddenly I was on my way to an unfamiliar destination that could easily make or break me. There would be no second guessing; no more nightmares with imagined tragic endings, or bone-chilling dream scenarios in which I was turned away by the angry dismissal of an elegant, long-fingered hand.
Somewhere in the small town of Etna, in the tiny state of New Hampshire, I would find destiny or oblivion. In that little town of 850 souls resided the one person with whom I wanted to spend the rest of my life.
He was a friend first. This time I would be a friend in return, not a judgmental know-it-all.
I wanted my best friend back.
I wanted to see for myself the reality of the cookie-cutter creature known as 'Kyle Calloway', and watch for evidence of some of the statements he'd made in that JAMA article. Was it based on his actual experience? Or was he speaking only as a Nephrologist and Diagnostician?
I had to know.
It took some time to get settled into this last leg of my journey, and try to calm myself down. Inside my head, I had often anticipated the day I would find him; and what I would say when we finally met face-to-face. Where would our lives go from there? Where could they go? Now, that day was imminent, and I was not so prepared after all … and scared to death that he might not be all right.
My cold shaking hands gripped the steering wheel like I was trying to choke it to death. My teeth chattered in nervous excitement like castanets in a Mariachi band. I was jittery all over. Bursting with anticipation and trepidation and adrenalin and worry and fear.
Inundated with "what-ifs" …
What-if his physical condition had deteriorated since the last time I'd seen him; the day he walked away from me in front of Lisa Cuddy's ruined house … limping … bloody blue jeans hard to miss … ?
What-if his stubborn pride led him to ignore the effects of self-surgery in his own bathtub, and the patchwork surgery, switching back to his cane instead of remaining on crutches … tearing the fresh, hours-old stitches?
What-if he had never consulted another doctor about the condition of his leg after that third surgery? (The stubborn bastard …) Surely he wouldn't attempt to administer to the wound himself. Would he?
What-if everything that was suddenly nagging at me was true, plus more; like the addition of another five years onto his age? How could he have endured more years of excruciating pain without drastic measures having been taken? Did he still have his leg? Or had he become a bitter amputee who hid from the world? Had the 'Kyle Calloway' alias really been a means to lure me, as I'd so egotistically assumed? Or was it his sole means of communication with the outside world from some hidey hole of his own making? He would soon be sixty years old.
I knew that because I was nearing fifty …
I had no way of knowing the answers to any of these questions until I actually saw him in the flesh.
I turned the radio up and barreled along the interstate …
I stopped for gas and an oil check near Woodstock, very close to Bethel, New York, where the historic Woodstock Festival had been held in a farmer's hayfield in 1969. Jimi Hendrix had stood on the stage and performed all night long that last night.
I remembered reading about the concert's closing on the morning of August 18 by Chip Monck: "Good wishes, good day and a good life …"
And then the music stopped and the crowds dispersed … and Woodstock was history.
The legendary Roy Rogers had been invited to close the festivities. But Roy backed out, saying: "I'd have been booed off the stage by all those goddamn hippies …" So he and Dale and Pat Brady went to headline the Bloomsburg Fair in Pennsylvania instead … a place where even Trigger and Nellybelle would be welcomed with open arms …
I smiled at the conglomeration of thoughts milling around in my head as I pumped gas and checked Vanna's oil. Back in August of 1969 when Woodstock took place, I had been about seven months old.
My, how time flies!
I stayed the night at a Comfort Inn at Killington Center, Vermont, near the Ottauquechee River. It was 7:00 p.m. and way past dark when I checked in. At this hour on a December evening, it was black as midnight and biting cold. There were Christmas lights glittering on lamp posts up and down the streets, and a few houses were decorated with bright red and green and white. It made me a little homesick … but for where? I was kind of homeless at the moment.
Actually, I was homesick for a "Who" … not a "Where" …
I checked in, and after taking my carryall to my room, I returned to their small pub-like café and ordered a cup of hot chocolate and a slice of carrot cake. I was more tired than hungry, and it didn't take me long to finish and return to my room for a hot shower and a soft bed.
The shower felt good on sore, road-weary muscles. The bed was clean and the sheets were sweet-smelling. I closed the venetian blinds on the Christmas decorations and after some tossing and turning and residual thoughts of Gregory House and 'Kyle Calloway', I finally dropped off to sleep.
Early the next morning I was up and packed, turned in my room key, loaded the carryall into the car, and returned for breakfast in the little café. On my way back across the lobby I paused to walk over to a large laminated map of Vermont that hung on the wall at the other end of the room. I traced my finger along Route 4 into New Hampshire and was half surprised to note that I was only about ninety miles from Lebanon … which was about six miles from Etna.
I could very easily get there today, maybe sometime in the early evening. I would have to keep a tight rein on my enthusiasm and anticipation, and not go barreling into town like the Charge of the Light Brigade. I had no idea what House's status might be in the town of Etna. Was he still such a hardass? Insulting people right and left? Was he able to practice his profession … perhaps at the Dartmouth-Hitchcock Medical Center? Or did his health prevent him from anything except acting the hermit; isolated and alone with only bitter memories for company?
Maybe, I reasoned, he had finally found a place to call home. Maybe his leg had finally healed to the point that he was ambulatory again, had his own practice, had a few people he spent time with … maybe even a woman to love. Maybe he kept his temper under control, so that if not pleasant, then at least tolerable to the point where people would talk to him … laugh with him … call him "friend" …
I had more unanswered questions than Heinz had pickles. I would have to proceed very carefully when asking anyone around there of his whereabouts.
I ate breakfast and went back to the car. Started it up and looked to the east to Route 4, deeper into Vermont. The weather was still bitter cold. There were snow flurries swirling in descending circles on the road ahead. Would it lay? Who knew? I turned on the headlights, the heater and the radio and proceeded cautiously.
By noon I was halfway to the New Hampshire border. The snow flurries had petered out. I saw billboards here and there, advertising businesses … mostly car dealerships … in New Hampshire towns I'd never heard of. Knowing I was so close to my anticipated goal, I could feel my insides clenching, and a roar in my ears that told me I was scared to death and imagining all sorts of frightening scenarios at seeing this man again after so many years. I even began to feel an uncomfortable urge to turn around and hurry back the way I had come.
Why in hell, after all this time, would Gregory House even want to see me? The 'Kyle Calloway' thing was probably nothing more than an alias he was using in order to keep the notoriety of his real name from reaching someone who knew him and wanted to have words with him … or sue him …
I told myself I was a fool for thinking this kind of stupid stuff and … cut it out, Wilson!
I crossed the Connecticut River at 6:30 p.m., and the road turned an abrupt right into New Hampshire. I was entering the outskirts of West Lebanon.
I swallowed hard and pulled over onto the right berm of the road. I laid both arms across the top of the steering wheel and stared out at the bleak dark countryside, pine tree silhouettes and black sky; moon and stars the only break in the monochromatic surroundings. Not much different than New Jersey at the onset of winter. Just a hell of a lot colder. The road had narrowed to two lanes here, and the lettering on a metal arrow just ahead reflected in the headlights: "Lebanon – 1 mi." I could make out the glow of bright lights in the distance.
*I'm here …*
House's essence was so close now that my memory recalled the scent of cigars and Scotch and pungent sandalwood to my nostrils. His was the look of old wool and worn denim and unironed sport shirts; the taste of Reubens (plain, no pickles), red lollipops, ice cream sandwiches and strong coffee in paper cups … and the ubiquitous cane. I felt a smile ghosting across my face.
I pulled back onto the road after a while, and drove slowly into the city of Lebanon. To my right stood the Dartmouth-Hitchcock Medical Center. I slowed down and stared at it. Large campus, some outlying specialty buildings, and the main structure. White. Lots of glass. Bright lights all around. Cars parked all over. It looked busy, even in the evening. There were people about; all bundled up like local Eskimos. Did House work here? Was he under treatment here? Maybe both … or neither …
I took my time going through town. There were Christmas decorations all over the place. Otherwise, it looked exactly like every other midsize town I'd been in before.
I began counting the businesses lining the busy main street: Wal-Mart. Toyota dealership. TJ Maxx. Lowe's. Ford dealership. KFC. Pet Smart. GM car dealership. Arby's. McDonald's. Dunkin' Dounuts. Dodge-Chrysler dealership, Home Depot, Kohl's. You get the drift. The area must be doing well economically, judging from the automobile dealerships lined up block-by-block all along the main drag. And the bright Christmas decorations taking a back seat to the multi-colored neon lights aglow with colorful advertising.
I continued along the road and out of town on the other side and was met with a diminishing number of residences. It was rural now, huge old houses with barns, here and there a newer structure breaking up the landscape. I passed a gas station that was attached to a little general store and small diner, but it was mostly deserted. Two pickup trucks in front. There were lights on, but not much movement inside. At least, not customers. I went on for a couple more miles, and then the houses began to pop up closer together again.
And I was in Etna. Not a town; more like a village. It stretched out for a few blocks as I drove through, and then went back to being rural again. I turned around and drove back the way I had come. It was 7:15 p.m. and pitch dark except for a short line of street lights … all strung with small-town Christmas decorations dancing in the wind. I could have sworn it looked closer to midnight. Not a car was on the streets, nor pedestrians on the sidewalks.
Exactly halfway in, I passed a drugstore on the left and in the next block a fairly large hotel on the right. I knew the hotel was called "The Watson Inn", because I had looked it up. It was brick, well kept, had three floors and an alley out back. Across the street from it was a huge dark … (I knew it was painted brown because I looked that up too) … apartment building. If my information was correct, Gregory House, alias "Kyle Calloway", lived there.
The Volkswagen's transmission geared down as I turned onto the lot of the hotel and pulled into a space facing the apartment across the street. There were lights on in one of the units I could see from here. Upstairs. It was dark at House's place, the downstairs one that faced the street. I turned off the ignition and sat there. Staring. Shivering.
House was very close now. I could almost feel his aura reaching outward. In front of the apartment stood a car, dimly illuminated by a street light on the corner. Squarish. Dark paint. Dirty with road grime. Hard to tell the make in the dark.
It was a 1989 Dodge Dynasty. Oh yeah. It was wearing New Hampshire handicap license plates.
House had dug in.
*Well hello, you old junkheap … long time, no see. Have you been behaving yourself? It sure is good to see you. You're proof positive that he's still able to drive. What else is he still able to do? Do you take good care of him when he's with you?
*You'd better, by damn …
*'Cause Santa Claus has just come to town …*
364
