Pictures at an Exhibition
Chapter 2
In truth, House was not crazy about Hockney's more recent works. Landscapes, with their rolling hills and places to see, placed the edges of yearning into too clear focus. Reminders of what was and will never be. And he was tired of imagining.
House's artistic taste was eclectic. He liked Picasso's sketches for their spare elegance and Magritte's precise surrealism. But he also had a taste for the old; the ancient, even. His flat and his office were repositories for objects d'arte spanning centuries of history from ancient Egypt to Victorian England. Of course, to most people, House and "art" were as incongruous as caviar and peanut butter. But then again, House was, himself, a bundle of incongruities. And he largely preferred it that way. The better to not know him, he would muse.
House had planned on sleeping on the drive to into the city: an hour and a half. As tired as he was, House's brain would not let him rest. How had it happened? How had he let it happen? House tried retracing the steps that he and the team had taken; every conversation in front of the white board; every word.
Hazy. It was the only way he could describe it. It was almost as if he hadn't cared to listen. As if he was watching the case unfold from a distant window sill, peering into the diagnostics office. Hazy recollections; that's all he had. And it freaked him out more than a bit. He tried again. How could they have missed an infection? A simple staph infection, no less. House realized that, more and more, he had been granting his staff the freedom to find the solutions to their own cases. He would hover in the background, solving the DDx on his own in parallel, ready with his own elegant answer waiting in the wings, but only if necessary. But this was different. And he couldn't quite put his finger on it.
"…House?" Cuddy's voice was raised, annoyed.
"Sorry, must've been dozing." He sounded distant.
"Are you OK?" She knew it was a loaded question. And a stupid one. To everyone else, he was "OK." Even to Wilson. She knew better. House nodded, stretching his tall frame as best he could in the small car.
"There." House pointed to the brightly-lit gallery. "Mind if we use the valet? I'll pay."
"Your leg bothering you?"
"When does it not?" he responded flippantly. House fidgeted in his jacket for the Vicodin bottle, turning away from Cuddy as he tossed two pills into his mouth. "Need to save my limited daily dose of walking for the exhibit. Don't want to miss anything."
"You know, you could have said 'no.'"
"And miss and my evening out with the dean of medicine?" The thought emerged more earnestly than he had intended, causing Cuddy to smile broadly. He nearly believed the sincerity was worth the result. He had intended to make some wittily biting comment about it being his turn in the sandbox, but the words evaporated before they formed on his tongue.
House moved quickly past the Yorkshire paintings, leaving Cuddy to linger in the brightly colored landscapes. "I've always wanted to go there," she mentioned wistfully, catching up with him before a large photo-montage.
"Where?" He replied distractedly. House was gazing into the montage as if seeking something within it.
"Yorkshire. What do you find so fascinating in a photograph of a guy sitting in an office?"
"It's a photomontage. Been there. Done that. Hills. Rocks. People with funny accents. That guy in the montage is in a cage. No better than my rat. See how he's looking out onto the skyline? He wishes he was Superman. Or Spiderman. Or something." House moved slowly away from the montage. A deep sigh signified his own resignation.
Cuddy tugged at House's arm, steering him towards a painting excitedly. Her eyes sparkled. "Hey, I can only go so fast, you know. Leg? Cane?"
"Yeah. I've seen how slow you move when you want to get out of the clinic. C'mon." Cuddy stopped in front of an enormous set of paintings depicting the Grand Canyon. "It's 60 canvases. Almost 300 inches wide. I camped there for a week once. Have you ever been there?" House shook his head wordlessly, turning away, heading for a bench at the far side of the hall.
Cuddy followed him to the bench, sitting close beside him, concerned. "House?" He stared at the expanse of canvas from the vantage.
"It's a better view from here." The canvas took up nearly the entire opposite wall. He stared at the multiple canvases for several minutes before rising unsteadily from the bench and heading towards the exit. It was too much; too beautiful; too real; too late; too distant; too near. A honeymoon spoken of but destined never to happen, planned in a dreamy post-coital haze in four years of delight and one of anguish, only to evaporate into hopeless despair. He wasn't quite sure why he'd thought of it now, after seven years. He hadn't even recalled it when she had come back into his life and into one more together. Of course there could be no talk of honeymoons then, as she was married.
"House?" Cuddy had caught up with him as he stood on the sidewalk just outside the gallery. He was pacing. She watched him for a moment, hesitating to intrude; clearly, he was upset about something. On his third pass by her, she stilled him with a touch of her hand on his elbow. She knew that he wouldn't reveal what was bothering him, especially if she asked.
"Got you something." She wanted to bring him out of this sudden funk. She hadn't planned on buying anything, but seeing the poster in the small gallery poster shop, she couldn't resist.
"Why, Cuddy," he responded, arching an eyebrow, recovering himself, "you shouldn't have. Playing favorites amongst your doctors is a big no-no. Could get you sued…"
"Shut up and open it."
"Here?" When she was excited like this, eyes aglow, Cuddy was almost irresistible to House. He glanced inside the large plastic bag as Cuddy waited, watching him. It was a poster of Andy Warhol's "endangered zebra," featuring a zebra's head in red and black.
"Thought this was a Hockney exhibit" House had no other comment. "Warhol had his 15 minutes." Cuddy shrugged, disappointed that House seemed indifferent. She thought he'd get the reference: the zebra—one colored red and black, no less. The print so completely illuminated House's genius to her, she was sure he would love it. "Do you want to grab some sushi?" He pointed at the small tiny Japanese café across the street.
Cuddy shrugged, let down at House's non-reaction. "Fine."
End chapter 2