I called a tow. As the bright yellow vehicle hooked up my car and carried it off like a piece of dirt that needed whisking away, I considered calling a taxi to get into work. Scratched that. I had a feeling staying home would be a better idea, considering my suspicion as to who had slashed the tires to begin with.
He was, I anticipated, a rather agitated, aggressive boyfriend who had either tracked down Julie, had a source somewhere, or heard her mention House's apartment in conversation.
A part of me was annoyed that she might've been sharing details of me like I was a hand of cards she could exploit, while she kept him hidden under the table from me.
And the river turns…
She'd gotten up since the tow had come and gone. Sitting still and silent at the kitchen table, she nursed half a glass of water.
"So how does he know you're here?" I asked, voice tight.
She shrugged.
"Did he follow you?"
"I would've noticed."
"Well, obviously, he knows where you are. And he knows what car is mine, so he must be staking out the house."
"How do you know it was him?"
"Because I haven't heard of anyone who's ever gotten their tires slashed in this area. Even House didn't have to worry about vandalism, and if I'd been a kid I would've egged his apartment every chance I got."
"Things happen," she said blandly.
I watched her incredulously as she took a thin sip of water. "Tastes funny."
"Julie. Your boyfriend just ripped apart my tires and I'm guessing he'd like to do some more damage if gets the chance. This is serious."
"He's not my boyfriend." She tossed me a look as if it took more effort than she was willing to spare, then returned back to her water. "And he'll go away."
"Oh, yeah, I believe that." I shook my head, moving for the phone. "I'm calling the police."
"No—don't!" She snatched at my shirt. "He might do something."
"He's already done something," I snapped. "What's the difference? He's still lurking around out there. If I at least call the cops he'll have someone chasing after him, too."
"James, please. You don't know—"
"Of course I don't know, because you never told me until it got to this point!" I stared at her hard, vaguely realizing she still clung to my shirt. The slender razor phone in my hand felt like weighed tons. I bowed my head, preoccupying myself with the glowing blue buttons on the cell, and said more softly, "I'm going to need a description of this guy."
Slowly, she gathered herself up and stood in front of me. She was a good five inches shorter, but it suddenly seemed as if she were looking down on me, and I was the one curled on the floor, waiting for instruction.
"Well," she said, her tone tightrope-thin, "you won't be getting that description from me."
The rest of the day was horrible. I'd stayed home to protect her in case he got overconfident and tried to break in, but nothing eventful happened. She and I managed to avoid each other by occupying whichever room was empty. She watched some home cooking show on TV while I messed around on the piano; then I wandered in to watch General Hospital so I could update House as to what had happened (his request, not my offer) while she caught a nap in the bedroom.
We were little figurines acting out our own selfish roles, stomping on the other's script with no guilt to stop us.
By evening, I'd realized I wasted the entire day, and possibly several more years if I counted this particular failed marriage that got us to this pathetic point.
Habits are hard to break. I called House.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
He seemed dutifully impressed at my misfortune when I relayed my car story. "This doesn't mean you can borrow the 'Vette, you know. Don't want Boyfriend to start taking out his anger on your friends, too."
I'd pulled out a box of instant mashed potatoes from the closet and found a can of cream corn from under the sink. I checked the expiration date and grimaced.
"Haven't you cleaned this stuff out in, I don't know, three years, House?"
"I'm not responsible for the toilet."
"I mean the kitchen cabinet," I retorted, smiling despite myself. "This is disgusting. The corn probably crystallized."
"There's steak in the freezer," House offered.
I frowned. It was already six o'clock. "I'll have to unfreeze it."
"Yes, that's typically how it works. What do you care? So it's a late meal."
Sighing, I settled for canned green beans and dug out the frosty meat. "Maybe I should just make something easier. Quick. Then I can go to sleep and get this day over with."
"Rough one, huh? That's all right. Your car was ugly anyway."
"It's just the tires, House."
"For starters. Windows go next. Then bumpers, finally the body… At least you'll have an excuse to get a more attractive car."
"Great, no steak knife either," I muttered, reaching for a smaller and much duller cutting utensil instead. "House. Your kitchen is a disaster."
"Well, don't be mopey. You're not the only one who had a bad day."
I laughed. Scoffed, really. "House. I hardly think your day could compare with mine."
"Still haven't discovered the secrets of marital bliss? Hmm, always thought three times was the charm."
"Keep going, House. I'll hang up and leave you with Cameron."
"And that's a bad thing?"
"You know it is."
He paused for a moment, and I waited to hear the clinking of Vicodin falling from the container into his palm, but there was nothing. Odd.
I examined the stove in consternation, the steak like an ancient rock that had crashed in a landslide onto the counter. "Maybe if I broil it…"
"Marits Corenlius Escher."
I closed my eyes, bracing myself for whatever tangent he was going to dash off onto this time. "Come again?"
"Answer this question: Can a person be so skilled at something that he's horrifically bad at it?"
"Please tell me this isn't an attempt to justify your love for humanity."
"Take Marits Corenlius Escher. First name, better known as M.C. Art guy. Wrote a bunch of books on 'impossible space' and is now regarded as a breakthrough mathematician."
"And…?"
"He flunked out of math in his schooling. Several times. Couldn't do it to save his life."
"So…what? He viewed it differently, maybe."
"Maybe?"
"School was too formulaic for him," I theorized, hands in my pockets as I rocked back on my heels. "He needed to interpret things his own way to understand them."
"Bing! Congratulations, Wilson, you win a prize. What's behind door number one?"
"An end to this conversation?"
"You," House barged along, "know the exact balance between sincerity, manipulation, and concern. And yet, applying that skill within a standard environment, you can't use it to save your life."
"Yes. I'm the perfect husband, which is why I can't stay married." I stared blankly in flustered amazement. What was strangest about these theories was that most actually fit the bill. I glanced toward the bedroom, where Julie had strayed off to again. She'd never bothered going into work.
"Genius, if I say so myself. And behind door number two… Our man MC is most famous for all his optical illusion junk."
I sighed, but contributed, "Yeah. You have that one piece framed in your office, right? The contorted staircase that goes up and down at the same time?"
"Ascending and Descending," House informed. I could just picture him tapping the cane spuriously against the ground in rapid succession, then abruptly stopping. "How can that happen? Two opposite directions at once." House implored keenly, "How far is a person willing to descend to ascend?"
"You mean, how low is a person willing to stoop to get ahead?"
"Exactly. Now, I have a very close friend."
"I wonder who this could be."
"Don't flatter yourself. I'm talking about my Vicodin."
"Oh, sorry, my mistake."
"Now, this close friend seems to have been confiscated by someone who thinks she's doing me a favor."
"Cameron snatched your pills? What for?"
"You're ruining the flow of my hypothesis. Now. She knows that I need the Vicodin, that without it I will be in pain and may even be unhappy, and that she must tolerate my company anyway. Why would she take something that's obviously going to create more problems?"
"Simple: She didn't take it. You lost it."
"Let's not point fingers. As the great Sherlock Holmes once said, 'Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.'"
"You deduced that Cameron must have been the one to steal your Vicodin?"
"No. But I know I didn't lose it. Somebody's got to point the fingers."
"What about all the other doctors there? I'm sure you annoyed at least some of them enough to—"
"Why would they bother? They don't even know me. In another few weeks I'll be out of their lives permanently. But, if they antagonize me first, I'll have a reason to retaliate." He paused, as if admiring his caustic reputation. "I think they're wary enough not to test me."
"House." Dinner was looking more and more unlikely. "I have no idea what you're getting at."
"I didn't misplace the steak knife. Check in the dishwasher."
"What?" My brain looped, trying to catch the latest swerve in conversation. "Why would it be there? I haven't even used it."
"Julie has."
"For what?"
"For your car tires."
The silence hung like a canopy between us. House sighed, disappointed that he neither got to see nor hear my reaction.
"After you find it, send up a prescription of Vicodin. Express delivery. Better make it three bottles. These conferences are unbearable."