Chapter 22 "Crutch Ballet"

Roger was in pain.

The gymnasium's stereo was rolling to the rhythm of: "It's a small world after all, it's a small world after all … it's a small world after all … it's a small, small world …"

He was in the second hour of therapy and still had another to go. He wished the goddamn stereo would fall off the shelf! He had just come from the hydro pool where the hot water had begun to loosen his muscles, and now he faced his first attempt to regain use of his legs. Jerry Wescavich took his wheelchair and rolled it over by the wall out of the way. "Give it hell, Bozo!" Jerry teased. Roger ignored him. Maria Colby stood by his side on one side of the parallel bars and the two women who ran the rehab gymnasium stood on the other.

He had not wanted to get out of the wheelchair, but they insisted, even as they buckled a pair of lightweight braces onto his emaciated legs. Roger remembered appliances almost like them from his childhood, and he eyed them with a smoldering hatred. Although these were not the heavy, metal torture devices that had chafed his skin and left scars with their passing so many years before, they were close enough to be daunting. These were lightweight. They fit over his sweat pants, and were maneuverable enough that they did not cause his feet to drag any more than they had while he still lived with pain on the dirty streets of Princeton.

The stereo droned on. "Oohhh … I got a loverly bunch'a cocoanuts … there they are a-standin' in a row … big ones, small ones, some as big as yer 'ead … give 'em a twist, a flick-a-yer wrist, that's what the showman said, 'e said …"

Drop dead!

The women had lowered the leg rests of his chair, and one of them stood close by with a pair of underarm crutches in her hands. Haley and Nicole lifted him easily out of the chair from beneath his arms. His feet, encased in new white sneakers, touched the floor at last. The pain escalated, but they would not allow him to fall back. He took the crutches and fit them under his arms angrily, but the women were still there, steadying him and murmuring encouragement.

If the damned music would just tone down, he might be able to hear them. He stared at them owlishly.

"Turn it down a bit, Jerry!" Nicole called. "Thanks!"

He could feel the blood pounding in his head with the effort, and it wouldn't have taken much for him to pass out dead-away right where he stood. He fought it doggedly and dragged ahead, one foot at a time. He was surprised at the concentration it took just to remember how to do it, and the realization came as a shock that the high-pitched keening he could hear was actually coming from his own throat. The pain he experienced as his tendons stretched toward more normal lengths, was horrendous. Tears rolled down his cheeks in spite of efforts to hold them back. He cursed heartily; a long string of invectives that made everyone in the room stop and stare at him in astonishment. At least now they would know he was not, indeed, some innocent child! He might not look it, but he was an adult in every sense of the word. Best they know it now. They would know it soon enough anyway!

"Oh give me land, lots'a land under starry skies above … don't fence me in-n-n-n …"

Shit!

Step by tortured step, Haley, Nicole and Maria led him gently until his body was between the parallel bars, and then removed the crutches gradually from beneath his arms and placed them to the side nearby. He was standing; leaning his entire weight on the bars like a limp scarecrow, held up by a stake in the ground, but standing.

Off to the side of the room, Jerry, Jimmy and Jules watched him nervously, feeling his pain, but knowing this was something he must do on his own if he wanted to experience as much of the healing process as he was able. He stole a glance at the three of them, and felt a moment's amusement. Jimmy's hand was covering his mouth, eyes wide and aimed in supplication at the heavy aluminum rafters supporting the ceiling. Jules, beside him, was dancing in mirth, not surprised at all by his partner's long string of colorful cuss words, some of which he hadn't heard since he'd hopped the ship off the island! Jerry Wescavich just stood grinning like a naked ape.

Roger's body was supported on his elbows. His legs felt like they were made of hummingbird feathers, useless under any weight at all, even within the sturdy composition braces. He felt weak and helpless, and he hurt, and he was getting more and more angry. They expected him to walk to the opposite end of the bars, maneuver himself about and return!

You fuckers! You're hurting me!

He desperately wanted to scream his outrage at the tops of his lungs. Clumsily he jerked along, both legs moving in a parody of walking, his arms still taking the brunt of his weight, and he could feel his elbows crunching painfully against the damned hard wood.

"Some-wheeere, over the rainbow … waay up high …"

Somehow Roger made the turn at the far end of the bars, releasing his grip on one side and smashing his right hand across to the opposite bar before he slipped and went down like a ton of bricks. He snatched his left hand away and swung across, seizing the smooth wood, jamming his knuckles in the process and damn near missing it. He cried out in panic, but his fingers made contact, barely, and he grabbed fast with all his remaining strength. Straightened up and then doubled over, gasping.

Haley and Nicole stood by, bodies prepared to spring, but they let him find his own way and did not interfere. Across from them, Jules and Jimmy and Jerry held their collective breaths. He was halfway to his goal before his strength ran out and he began to cry with frustration, fear and murderous hatred. Hot tears ran down his cheeks and he gave voice to the pain, deep rasping moans that fell from his lips in waves.

"Oh God!" (He didn't believe in God!)

From the other side of the room came a sudden, unexpected peal of mocking laughter, and Roger threw his head into the air, searching for its source.

And the band played on …

Across the gym, the thump-step of a now-familiar, awkward-graceful cadence thundered in Roger's direction. The stereo was beginning another song: this time, waltz tempo.


"Wunderbar … wunderbar … there's a shining star above … like that bright shining star, oh our love is wunderbar …"

"Turn it up, Jerry!"

Gregory House was hustling, his long legs covering ground quickly as he crossed the floor. His bad leg was taking amazing weight. His body was curled forward only slightly, and his right side graced by his strong right hand on the cane, muscular right arm and powerful shoulder. He was wearing blue jeans, gray Nike Shox and a blue button-down shirt that stretched across his chest as though it had been made for a much smaller man. Sometimes House looked frail, almost fragile. He did not look so today! The shirt was open at the throat, revealing the black tee shirt beneath. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, exposing sinewy forearms, and his usual sports jacket was not present, nor had he cast it off anywhere on his way in.

He stopped in front of Roger Wilson and stood there, towering to his full height, an imposing figure filled with haughty, arrogant disdain. Only James Wilson, ever alert to his friend's theatrics, caught the fractional shift to the left and the weight ease off the right foot. If you didn't know the man and weren't watching intently, the move was all but invisible. James held his breath, sensing disaster in the making. At his side, Jules danced from foot to foot nervously, probably picking up some of Wilson's nervous tension unconsciously.

House stared at the young man sagging and sobbing at the parallel bars. He tipped his head back between his shoulder blades and allowed the kid to see him laugh. The music, booming through the room in sensuous three-quarter time, drowned out the sound of his mockery.

Roger saw the meaning and understood the implications, although his body sagged and wavered with fatigue and pain. He was being made fun of.

House saw the anger rising in the kid; saw the mounting hatred in the dark eyes where there had been only compassion and benevolence before.

What a piece of work this little shitass is!

House gathered himself and began to move, never taking his eyes off Roger. "What's the matter, Sweetie? No guts? Can't cut it, huh? Even the shriveled up old cripple has bigger balls than you!" He bellowed. His shouts were easily heard over the music, and as he yelled, the song ended and the gym echoed with residual reverberations of the orchestra's final notes and his booming voice. He moved toward Roger's position at the bars, his limp minimized, left hand fanning the air for balance. Nothing stopped him. He continued past the young man at the parallel bars; passed him as though he was not there.

House continued to the wall just beyond where a rack of crutches hung suspended from individual hangers, easily accessible. His fingers played across the rack like a xylophone, looking at the sizes, and then stopped at a pair marked "6' 3"'. Carefully he pulled them off the hooks and replaced them with his cane.

As the small group of people in the gymnasium stopped to watch, Gregory House deftly positioned the long crutches beneath his arms.

Someone gasped. "What the hell's he doing?" The words echoed in the sudden silence.

"Play that song again, Jerry!" Cautiously, Gregg looked around, unsure from which direction the question had come. "Watch me … and I'll show you what I'm doing! It's a matter of discipline ... something I don't think our young friend here …" indicating Roger Wilson with a crutch pointed in the young man's direction … "has!"

The music began again. "Wunderbar … wunderbar … what a perfect night for love … Here I am, here you are … why it's truly Wunderbar …"

Gregg's electric eyes pinned Roger in place with a stare that would have melted icicles. "Get over to the end of the bar and take your crutches back from Nicole. Watch me, and then follow … if you think you can!"

Every eye was upon him as the music swelled. House moved the foot of his bad leg and positioned it so that the heel was resting on the toe of his left shoe. The piping around the edge of the shoe allowed him to maintain the position with little effort. He bent his knee and allowed the leg to flex gently back and forth, side to side. He made it look easy. Then he began to sway in time with the music. Crutch-to-crutch like an ocean wave. Deftly, he shifted the right crutch to a point almost perpendicular to his right shoulder, and followed through with a graceful sweep of his body, making it look as though he were a trapeze artist beginning an ascent to the apex of the Big Top.

"Like a bright, shining star … why it's truly Wunderbar…"

He followed through immediately with the crutch on the left side, swinging it around behind him and jabbing it with precision onto the floor, just at the point of his left heel, swung his body in the opposite direction like a ballroom dancer and followed through in perfect cadence, easing his weight carefully, gauging his balance like a high wire walker. The crippled right leg swung across in a graceful arc, its heel still guided by the toe of the left shoe, not too far, not too hard, in a curve that presented the illusion of a combination of ballet, and a modern dance pirouette.

"… Wunderbar … wunderbar…" The music soared, and the man performing the unique dance routine across the floor held the swelling numbers of his audience hushed, rapt and spellbound. But he was alone in his own world, doing nothing more than proving a point. He acknowledged nothing, no one else.

House glanced to his left, saw Roger Wilson at the end of the parallel bars, struggling, lurching away from the supports, reclaiming the crutches clumsily from Nicole's hands. As the music progressed and rounded into the second strain, House glanced across again and caught Roger's crude attempts to sway with the music as it swelled ever outward, his eyes downcast, face tensed in concentration. Gregg smirked to himself, satisfied with the anger he had generated, and turned his attention back to concentrate on his own movements. His leg was already aching, but the song would soon be over.

The bridge of the melody swelled with full orchestra and a whirlwind of strings and brass at counterpoint. House paused for a moment, then began to sway again, in the opposite direction; left crutch to the perpendicular, right one planted firmly behind, and swung around again. Both crutches came off the floor at once as he spun gracefully on his sound left foot, coming about to catch himself at the opposition point on both crutches, and then pushed off again immediately, in time with the rhythm. He ended with a graceful swing upward, like a water bird rising into the air, reversing its course with a swoop and a dive to catch the refrain when the bridge ended and the main melody overrode the string section for the final crescendo.

Woodwinds picked up the last strains and the song ended in a thunder of tympani and brass. House planted himself like a tripod for the final chord, breathing heavily, yet triumphant. He lifted the right crutch and swept it across his middle, bowing to the large crowd of frozen co-workers who had gathered in the doorway and spilled over into the gym.

The silence at the end of the song was deafening. He looked up, startled, suddenly noticing the swell of enraptured faces. He acknowledged them stiffly, nearly losing his balance when an instant of dizziness set in. He had to hop-step on the good leg to protect the escalating pain in the right one as he leaned hard on the crutches to hitch across the floor and retrieve his cane.

The applause, when it came, when the crowd finally snapped out of its thrall, was thunderous. And he darted his eyes warily about, as though it had scared him silly. He had only been proving a point!

By the bars, Roger stood slumped but still upright; eyes wide with awe and his sweat suit hanging off him, making him look like a skinny fireplug with outriggers. House could feel the kid's stare burning into his back, and everyone else's for that matter. He needed to get out of there!

Roger was subdued when House put the crutches back and grabbed his cane to leave. "Thanks, Gregg," the kid said softly at last. "I get it!"

Jules and James and Jerry and a few others were headed his way, but he had to sit down and take a Vicodin … in that order. But not here! He did not need recognition or congratulation; he had achieved the desired goal, and that had been his aim. He ignored them all and hurried back toward the corridor before someone noticed that he'd done a number on himself.

Cuddy and the ducklings were lingering outside the doorway. They were impressed, and chattering and wanting to tell him that they'd been stunned by his performance … and on crutches yet, for God's sake! There were wisecracks about Broadway and TV and the Tonight Show … blah blah blah …

He made no attempt to tell them that if they'd had to spend as much time in their lives walking with crutches as he'd had in his lifetime, they'd be crutch-ballet dancers too! He hurried on past them with only a few muttered words of acknowledgment, and headed for his office.

House sulked in solitary silence until quitting time, then clambered aboard the yellow suicide machine and went home.

The ride felt longer than usual. His leg hurt to the point of teeth-grinding, and it was colder outside than a witch's tit!

Somewhere in an obscure corner of his mind he wondered whether Wilson had managed to talk Cuddy into discharging Roger.

Ah yes … Wilson … Jules … Roger …

Shit!

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