Chapter 8
"Prowlers in the 'Hood"
Thursday night … Midnight-ish …
Jim Wilson had never in his life been a rule breaker … a nose thumber … a practical joker. It was simply not in his nature, unless the joke was on, or in cahoots with, House. But tonight he was going to "learn the ropes," so-to-speak!
Tonight the Wonder Boy Oncologist was going to learn how to become a thief of sneakery. Literally! And he was actually in the company of one of the best. Eric Foreman stood near his left shoulder looking skeptically indulgent, but quite willing to share a few of the tricks he had learned as a teenage thug from the 'hood. (Show the dumb white boy how it was done, and all that.) It was very late and the two of them were about to go on a mission.
("You turn off your cell phone yet?" "….. Uh … yeah …")
It was a loong story!
Jim had taken the day off from his normal duties and remained with House off and on throughout the day, just as he had remained with him overnight last night. He'd already known he would be with him. Wild horses couldn't have kept him away. Determinedly, he'd catnapped in the visitor's chair, keeping an eye and an ear tuned to House's ability to sleep, and soon started to feel as though his neck was growing out his arm pit.
However, those were the dues one paid for the privilege of close friendship; dues laid down gladly and willingly, and chalked up to the fortunes of life!
John and Blythe House had been with Gregg most of the day also, and Wilson was happily surprised that his friend was actually taking the time to speak to his father in a vaguely civilized (for him) manner. Wilson did believe, however, that if House had not been confined to a sickbed and unable to escape John's presence, such civility would probably have been the furthest thing from his mind. He was a captive audience of "one", and had to make the best of it if he expected his mother to remain there too. House's parents were worried sick about their son, and had expressed a desire to remain near him overnight also. Only Wilson's kind insistence that they go back to the apartment and get some rest had deterred them from digging in. He assured them he would be there.
Thursday, four days after the accident, House's doctors had authorized the final removal of the morphine IV. The drip had been diminished considerably, beginning the day before while his pain level escalated gradually back up the scale. They'd also relieved him of the Foley and the other IVs. Wilson knew that House would rather die than be caught giving in to pain, and so he would stop by House's room every couple of hours, even as he sneaked off from time to time to consult on an entirely different matter with Eric Foreman.
Wilson managed to invent a variety of ways to get rid of John and Blythe long enough to allow his friend to gather himself for the next round of the macho charade. Among the excuses were bandage changing, sponge baths, shots in the butt, a trip to X-Ray to check the broken hand, and a few difficult wheelchair excursions to the bathroom. Some of these intrusions were even legitimate. But they all had one thing in common: they spared House's parents, for a time, from seeing their son try to deny the increase in pain. House would allow Wilson to see him falling apart, but no one else.
Finally, by late Thursday evening, after the supper hour, and after John and Blythe had reluctantly left for the night, Gregg had resumed his normal Vicodin intake and the morphine IV had been detached and removed from the room. The worst was over.
Maybe …
Wilson knew he had to make an excuse to Gregg and manage to get out of the hospital by 9:00 p.m. It was not going to be easy. Wilson hated to leave, but it was necessary. House was frustrated, angry, stiff and sore from the extended inactivity, and becoming extremely vocal about it. Wilson absorbed the whining and the bitching and the grumbling and the empty threats, and took a page from the "Manual According to Col. John House, USMC, Retired:"
Suck it up!
When Wilson figured he'd finally had enough, he walked around the bed, poured House a glass of cold water and held it to his lips while he drank.
Sated, House resumed his bitching. Wilson stood with hands on hips for a moment, counting to ten under his breath. Finally, he bent down to his friend's eye level, reached out with his left hand and covered House's mouth gently with his palm.
"Shut. Up!"
Sparks flew like javelins from the fierce blue eyes just above the place where Wilson grasped a handful of silver-threaded scruff. "Do I have your attention?"
House's chin dipped fractionally, the best he could manage under the circumstances. The twin pools of blue shifted from outrage to pitiful in a heartbeat.
Wilson let go and stepped back. His hands returned to his hips. "I have some things I need to take care of in town tonight, so I have to leave in an hour or so. I'm not going to stay with you tonight, so I need to get your numbers … now!"
House turned those puppy dog eyes dolefully upward and pinned Wilson to the wall with them. There was an unvoiced interrogative hanging in the air.
God, he's good at that! Wilson thought.
"Well? Numbers, please!" Refusing to take the bait.
Wilson reached down to the spot where House's broken hand lay cradled gingerly in the crook of his opposite elbow. He slid his fingers gently beneath House's injured hand and lifted it to enfold it between his own. The splint was cumbersome, unwieldy and very awkward. No wonder it hurt him! The stitched laceration on the thick part of his palm must be driving him crazy.
"Seven," House replied, his voice barely vocal, "and headed for number eight." His gaze lay riveted on Wilson's two warm hands against his hurt one.
Wilson's eyes narrowed in sympathy before he could school his face not to react in that manner. "I'm sorry. When did you last take your meds?"
"An hour ago. It's too soon. I'll be fine." The usual response was right there when he caught someone doing more than the minimum amount of caring. His nose wrinkled painfully, eyes closing, taking a breath and holding it.
"Really wish I could do something for you …" Wilson leaned down and blew a soft, warm breath beneath the padding upon which the splint lay holding the fractured bones in place.
Distracted for a moment, House raised his eyes to Wilson's, expelled the breath he'd been holding. "Thanks. Do that again! That actually helps …"
Wilson exhaled another breath. Longer. Warmer.
"Really?"
"Yeah." There was an awkward silence between them for a moment. "You are doing something for me …"
Wilson frowned questioningly. What?
"You're here."
"Only for another forty five minutes …" Wilson grinned.
"You got a hot date?" Still pressing for answers.
"Something like that." Wilson refused to be baited. "Tell me about your leg."
"Just peachy!" Prying questions still unanswered, House was turning pissy again.
Wilson ignored him. "Yep. I can see that. Sore?"
"Tolerable. Haven't tried to move it. My ass hurts and I'm soon going to have to go to the head. Ask me after that!"
"I could get them to hook up the Foley again …"
"In your dreams!"
"Then it's two big-boy orderlies … or the wheelchair and one big-boy orderly. Take your choice! You can't do it alone, and you know it."
"Shit!"
"House … you knew this was how it was gonna be …" Wilson replaced the broken hand carefully into House's lap.
House shifted it back to the crook of his opposite elbow where it had been cradled before. "Yeah, Jimmy … but now that the 'gonna be' is here, it doesn't make it any easier."
Wilson clammed up. There was no answer to that one. He stood there feeling pole-axed, hands dangling helplessly at his sides. His face was blank, knees weak; balancing his entire body weight on one leg in much the same manner he'd seen House do it for years.
He felt a sudden impulse to take his friend in his arms and just hold him, allow him to hide his face in the depths of the voluminous lab coat and shut out the rest of the world.
That was the one thing that he could not do. Not only would House be mortified beyond all reason, but Wilson's embrace would hurt more than comfort.
And so Wilson did nothing.
Lisa Cuddy stopped by to check up on her errant "Bobbsey Twins" just as Wilson was conjuring up a reasonable excuse to get out of there. He had never been so glad to see someone in his whole life. He gave their boss a complete rundown on House's condition and pain levels while House sat listening, bristling at the fact that he was being discussed as though he were not even in the room.
After that, Wilson had the perfect excuse to get away and go meet up with Foreman. Cuddy was there to push the boulder up the hill awhile.
Behind him as he exited into the corridor, he could hear House bitching at the tops of his lungs: "Goddammit, Cuddy … get me some help! I need to go pee!"
Wilson cringed in empathy, but kept going.
Foreman met him in the parking lot. He was standing right next to the front fender of Cuddy's new Pontiac Torrent. "I take it she's still inside, right?" Eric asked unnecessarily.
Wilson inclined his head. "Yeah. She's … with House … if you can believe it."
"Get outa town!" Foreman grinned. "Guess we're good to go then, right?"
"Uh huh. Good to go." Wilson was having second thoughts about their little excursion, but it was too late to back out now. He did not intend to look like a wuss in Foreman's dark, piercing eyes. "I'm ready whenever you are."
"My car's in the next row over," Foreman told him. The young neurologist owned a dark grey Explorer, coincidentally a car amply suited for the night! "I put the back seats down. Lots of room back there. Hope he doesn't get car sick."
Wilson smiled a little. "He was okay in my car coming back from the vet's the other day, so I don't think we'll have a problem."
"Good. Cleaning dog puke out of the back of this heap ain't high on my list of priorities. I'd probably trade it in first!"
"Eww!" Wilson said, then laughed. They could pull this off!
They rode in amiable silence. Foreman's car radio was tuned low to an NPR station, and they were playing progressive jazz. House would have loved it! If House was here, the music would be blaring, not discreetly muted. He would also relish the prospect of sneaking around at night. But House was not in a position to do much sneaking around anymore. Purposely or otherwise!
Both men were a little wired. They could feel the electricity in each other. Eric had changed his clothes after work, and now sat dark and mysterious behind the steering wheel, wearing black sneakers, black jeans and a black tee-shirt. He would be literally invisible if he kept his mouth shut and held his eye lids at half-mast. Jim Wilson, a little less so!
Across from Foreman, Wilson was similarly attired. His necktie was a fancy pastel blue one, but after he'd taken it off and stashed it in the lab coat pocket, then removed the lab coat itself and tossed it in the back, his shoes and pants were also black, and his work shirt was Navy blue.
The night was dark and Cuddy's place was not beneath a street light. She had left a light burning in her living room window, but of course her Pontiac was not in the driveway, and the new moon in the night sky afforded little by way of illumination. Foreman said he'd put his penlight in his back pocket, but that would be like having a single match flame in the middle of an airplane hangar.
Foreman pulled in against the curb and shut off the engine. "Now what do you want to do?" He asked. "Where are we going? I was never here before."
Wilson shrugged. "I dunno. In the back yard, I guess … you tell me! You were the delinquent! Besides, you know what Bax looks like. You saw him at the culvert the same as I did."
Foreman wrinkled his nose in exasperation, and on his serious face it looked clownish. "The mutt I saw at the culvert looked like a dirty floor mop! And I was never a delinquent!" He growled. "I got into one scrape with the law when I was a kid!"
Wilson laughed again. "This morning you thought you were Al Capone!"
"This morning I was still half asleep! Well, come on … we gonna do this or not?"
Wilson nodded. "Let's roll!"
That remark got him a look of exaggerated disbelief and a snarky throat clearing.
They got out of the car and closed the doors quietly. Anyone witnessing their movements might have suspected instantly that they were up to something. Fortunately the quiet neighborhood lived up to its reputation. Nothing moved. Not even a breeze was stirring. The new moon plastered a silly grin on the face of the night sky, and all around it, star-studded confetti littered the heavens.
Wilson and Foreman tiptoed … tiptoed! … across the manicured lawn and around the corner of Cuddy's neat little bungalow, sneaking along like Elmer Fudd stalking Bugs Bunny, in the direction of the fenced-in back yard.
They might have been okay had not Wilson tripped over a length of spouting that ran down the corner of the house and extended a short distance onto the grass. His shoe sole slamming against the hollow metal cylinder produced a loud "BONK!" that echoed in the night and resulted in a flurry of wild barking from a very short distance ahead.
"Oh shit!"
"Good shot, Honky!"
They both expressed their ill-contained laughter at the same moment, and a light blinked on in the house next door.
Quickly, they ducked down behind the fence like gophers into their burrows and froze. Baxter's noisy machine-gun barking from beyond the fence escalated and accelerated. The screen door on the other house popped open and a bedraggled man poked his face into the halo of illumination from his porch light. "What the hell's going on out here?"
Baxter barked louder, dividing his attention between the angry neighbor and the exact spot where Foreman and Wilson crouched on their haunches, stifling helpless laughter and hunched together like fugitives.
The neighbor craned his neck to see what was going on, but thought better of actually stepping outside. Instead, he took the option of acting like any other normal suburban male roused from sleep. "Shut-the-fuck-up-you-mangy-mongrel-before-I-go-get-my-gawdamn-shotgun!"
The screen door slammed back into place and the light blinked out.
Baxter had heard similar words before, but knew these were all smoke and no fire. He was no longer frightened; only vindicated. He shut up, sat down, licked his chops and continued to stare at the section of fence behind which Wilson and Foreman squatted in the grass, both giggling like wayward school kids.
After a few minutes of straining to catch their breath, Foreman held open the fence gate and Wilson called the dog. "C'mon, Bax! C'mon boy! Let's go meet your daddy!"
Foreman snickered and closed the gate after Baxter ran up to Wilson, whimpering and beside himself. The whirling, tail-wagging excitement when Wilson laid a hand on the dog's back threw James wildly off balance until he landed flat on his ass with his arm up in the air, trying to avoid a long pink tongue that larruped his face with joyous doggie love. Foreman stood nearby with a look of utter disgust on his face and his head tilted comically.
"Is this prancing idiot the same dog that cringed in that culvert with its teeth bared?" Foreman couldn't believe his eyes.
Wilson laughed like a loon and pushed himself to his feet while Baxter continued to whine and dance excitedly at his heels. "Bax! Take it easy!" The dog backed off a little, but continued to squirm in the passion of adoration. He sat down, tail dragging furiously across the grass, and licked his chops, never taking his eyes off Wilson.
Wilson grinned. "Yeah … this is him. Cool, isn't he?"
"Somebody fed him Mexican jumping beans," Foreman observed stiffly. "Or else he's got St. Vitas Dance!"
"This is exactly the reason why we're taking Baxter to see House tonight. If this cool mutt doesn't get on his good side, then nothing will. How the hell can he possibly resist him? The LaValle cops said this dog was guarding House with his life, and wouldn't let anyone come near him. They had to lure him away with food, and practically hogtie him to get him out of there. You can't refuse somebody who single-handedly saves your life!"
Foreman looked skeptical as they walked back along the side of Cuddy's house. "This is House we're talking about! He wouldn't piss on his own father if he was on fire!"
"That may be … changing …" Wilson said slowly, but didn't comment further.
When Eric opened the SUV's tail gate so they could lift the dog inside the Explorer, Baxter took matters into his own "paws." He leapt effortlessly inside, sat down and stared out at the two men radiating smugness, tail wagging furiously.
Very "Hous-ish!"
Both men laughed and shook their heads. Foreman reached out a tentative hand so the dog could sniff at it. Baxter did so shyly and took a moment to explore the contours of the long, dark fingers. Then he did a very "Baxter" thing: He swiped his long pink tongue across Eric's skin, and then sneezed a thin spray of doggie snot all over his palm.
Foreman looked at his hand unhappily. "Yuk!" He then scratched behind the silky ears, effectively wiping the wetness off his fingers and back on the dog. "Yep, you and House oughta get along just fine. You both have the same kinda manners!"
When they made the right turn out of the development, a big Pontiac Torrent made the turn in the opposite direction. The street light shining through its window as it passed, easily identified its driver. They'd got away from there in the nick of time. Obviously, she hadn't recognized them. House must be asleep or she would never have left.
Heaven only knew what Cuddy would think when she got home and found Baxter missing … and maybe an angry neighbor sitting up with a shotgun …
Foreman and Wilson thought the same thought at the same moment and laughed all the way back to the hospital, accompanied by joyous yaps from the back deck.
oooooooooooooooooooo
12:30 a.m. at 221B:
Blythe House rolled slowly onto her side until she butted up against her husband's strong shoulder. "John? Are you awake? I can't sleep."
"I can't either." His eyes glittered in the dim glow from the night light by the bed. He rolled over and reached up to touch her face. "Want a glass of warm milk? I'll make you one if you'd like. I keep worrying about Gregg, and I don't understand why. Maybe it's because he looks so frail and sick. It really bothers me."
She touched his hair tenderly. He was such a growly bear of a man, but a kind and tender one too. She'd always known that. He had always reminded her of "G. I. Joe," but with a deeply hidden heart that you had to look for carefully if you wanted to find it.
"Does he really, dear? Worry you? You've never talked about it very much, and sometimes I wondered if you cared. It's difficult for you to have a crippled son, isn't it? He is frail and sick and hurt. He hates it. I think he hates even more, looking so ill and vulnerable in your eyes."
"I've always cared, Blythe. Gregg is my son! I'd give anything … anything … to have him strong and healthy again. I'd give anything to have him love me … but he doesn't!"
She embraced him then, almost at a loss for words at what she was hearing from her husband. John House was letting the truth … his truth … speak out at last. "Oh, he does love you, dear. He does! But it's like the two of you live on opposite sides of a glass wall. You can see each other, but you can't touch. One of you needs to break down the glass wall."
"Tell me how …"
They didn't have an answer for that one yet.
Ten minutes later they were both dressed and in the kitchen. John put the coffee pot on. They'd both decided against the warm milk idea. Blythe stood at the butcher block table peeling a banana and watching her husband. Gregg wasn't the only one hurting. However, this was not her battle. The two of them had to find their own way to slowly reconnect as father and son. She couldn't help, and she was a little sad about that.
They'd stopped for groceries on their way back from the hospital, and their son's larder was well stocked. The freezer was full of fresh meats and easy-cook meals. Cupboards were filled to overflowing with canned goods and the pastas Gregg loved.
Steve the rat had eaten like a king the past few days, and he languished in his cage like a spoiled, well-fed monarch. His presence had disturbed Blythe at first, but the ugly thing was cute in a perverse kind of way, and actually, he fit in with Gregg's odd sense of humor. When John had first laid eyes on the large rodent, he'd stood with hands on hips and just … laughed. Belly laughed like a silly old fool! Blythe didn't ask, but thought that it might be a good thing …
Gregg's candy and cookie jars were full to their brims, and bottles of juices and sodas lined the shelves over the counter where Gregg kept the rat cage. A case of Coors Light was shoved under the little table in the utility room, and in the corner opposite the washer and dryer, bottles of scotch, vodka, rum and other potent potables stood at attention in full battle dress.
At two o'clock in the morning, they finished the pot of coffee and washed the dishes after indulging in bacon and eggs and toast. They were strangely quiet, but both were thinking the same thing.
"We need to go to him," Blythe said, finally. "We'll both feel better about it."
"Will they let us in?"
"He's a prominent physician. He's very ill. We're his parents. How can they refuse?"
"I'll go start the truck!"
oooooooooooooooooooo
Lisa Cuddy arrived home and parked her car in the driveway. She let herself into the house and hung up her handbag. She turned on a light in the living room and wandered into the kitchen.
She stood at the screen door and looked out into the yard. It was very dark. Strange. The dog did not come running to greet her when she opened the inside door.
"Baxter?"
Louder: "BAXTER?" He was not there.
Cuddy froze. Oh God! He got away! Wilson will have kittens! He wanted House to have that dog!
She hurried back inside and called Wilson's cell phone.
He'd turned it off. She called his apartment. It rang and rang. Answering machine: "This is James Wilson. Please leave your name and a …" She called his office telephone. Please James … be there! No answer.
Lisa didn't dare call House's hospital room! Only one thing to do.
Cuddy grabbed her handbag off the hook and hurried back to her car. She backed it out of the driveway and onto the quiet street.
All within the space of about ten minutes, she was headed back to the hospital.
Again!
oooooooooooooooooooo
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