Pictures at an Exhibition
Chapter 9
House's chess set had been a gift from a dying patient 15 years earlier. A lifetime ago. He kept it on the bottom shelf of the hallway bookcase; he rarely played at all, and told himself that he eschewed the intellectual pretentiousness of simply displaying the thing without ever using it. Everybody lies.
House was never very good with names, but Robertson Cantwell's name and face, even now, occasionally haunted the periphery of House's consciousness. Cantwell was dying. Fast. First his kidneys, which had brought the referral to House's desk, then his liver and finally his heart began to fail. Cantwell had three days. A week at the most—a painful week of dying alone: no family, no local friends. He had plenty of colleagues from the University mathematics department, but no one from whom he would hear comforting words or who would hold his hand in the final hours.
"Play me a game of chess," he had asked House a week before the heart went, and days before the liver problems became insurmountable.
"I don't play," House had lied. In truth, House had no desire to engage a patient on that personal a level. Even if Cantwell was a ranked player. Semi-famous, even, if you at all followed the game.
"Yes you do. And pretty well, as I understand."
"I don't know where you got your inform…."
"I have my sources. Humor a dying old man."
"You're not dying." And then the liver began to shut down. "But I don't have a chess set," was a valid excuse. And came after the next request, a day or two later.
"Ah, but I do. Tomorrow. And now I am dying, so no more excuses."
"You're not…" But, in actuality, he was; and both he and House knew it. What House didn't expect was Cantwell eccentricity. The old professor had a colleague transport his favorite set to his hospital room. The exquisitely elaborate set was from India—an antique with carved and enameled ivory pieces depicting battling warriors riding elephants. The board was intricately inlaid and designed to hold the pieces when closed.
House beat the elderly mathematics professor. It hadn't really even been much of a contest, not surprisingly considering the man's age and physical state. The game concluded, Cantwell had grabbed House's arm. "It's my time to go, you know. I'm dying. You can't save me. No one can. And soon, too, if I can read the faces of all those nurses and technicians who seem to hover all day and all night. Give me something. To…you know…to make it quicker." House had known the implications of the request. He could lose his license—end up in jail. Those things mattered to House…then.
"That's not a fair request. You know I can't…"
"Who'll tell? I don't have any family. There'll be no autopsy. I'll be dead in a week anyway…or less."
"No. I can't…I…Sorry. I can't…" But House had done it anyway. Two more days of pleading. They had stopped all treatment on Cantwell's request. Morphine only… for the pain. Palliative treatment. It was only a matter of time.
And now, years later, calloused and scarred—immune, he would tell himself, to the Cantwells of the world--House stared at the set, lying dust-covered on the bottom shelf. He hadn't thought about it for a long time—years and years. A memory, vague and tamped down flickered on the edges of House's mind. It had been the first time he had helped someone…someone in dire condition, on the brink of death…end their suffering. He'd never told anyone—not even Wilson. "I heard that your patient on four died last night. I'm sorry." House had only nodded slightly in response. "Nice chess set," he added, admiring the board, now sitting on House's desk. Cantwell's colleague, who had brought the set over to hospital only days before, insisted that Cantwell wanted him to have it.
But House hadn't wanted it, despite the craftsmanship, the beauty and gracefulness of the pieces; the reminders they held for him of Kipling stories he had read as a kid, himself living in faraway places. But he wanted no reminder of Cantwell or what he had done to him. It was the right thing to do, House knew. But even something that is right, can make you feel like crap and steal part of your soul. So it sat on a shelf in his flat, gathering dust. He'd never even shown it to Stacy. Because he would have had to explain to her where it came from and what it had meant. And how ghoulish accepting it had made him feel.
But now Cuddy was coming over, and it was the only set in his possession. He'd meant to grab the set from the doctors' lounge and had gotten distracted. House hooked his cane on the bookcase and bent down gingerly avoiding too much stress on his right leg. The chess set was heavy, requiring lifting strength his legs no longer possessed. But he managed to retrieve it, sagging back against the shelves to recover his balance, blowing the accumulated dust from the closed wooden case. He nearly failed to hear the knocking at his door.
"I come bearing Panang Curry and Tom Yum Kai." Cuddy was precariously balancing a boxed Asian feast against the door jamb.
"What? Did you order one of each thing on the menu? Did you invite the entire faculty to join us?" House eyed the box's contents, noting the sheer number of bags and cartons.
"I couldn't decide and I didn't know what you liked…or didn't. And since I'm paying, I get the leftovers." Cuddy made it to the kitchen, placing the large carton on the butcher block island. House grabbed two bottles of Grolsch from the refrigerator and two sets of ornate chopsticks from a drawer. "Plates," Cuddy directed, pointing to a glass-fronted cabinet.
"Asian food is meant to be enjoyed au naturel: straight from the container," he admonished smugly, brandishing a skewer of beef satay and before balancing it on a container of pad Thai. Finding his way back to the living room, he sat at the far end of the leather sofa, propping both legs on the coffee table. Cuddy soon joined him, occupying the opposite side.
They ate from within a silence overflowing with subtext: words unspoken hanging between them, punctuated by furtive glances at each other; neither quite comfortable small talk.
House looked up, casting his eyes on Cuddy. "She's beautiful; has a zesty bod," he remembered remarking, seriously, and with a certain amount of envy, after Cuddy had asked Wilson to dinner a year ago. House had always had a thing for dark-haired women; he always had a particular weakness for Cuddy—even through his deep and unremitting love for Stacy. Both women were strong, over-achieving, smart women, but Cuddy had a softness that emerged when something moved her; Stacy never did. His love for Stacy had been something immovable, even after she had betrayed him; selfishly keeping him alive for her own sake, even when she knew his wishes. Understood and articulated that death would have been preferable to the life he knew lay ahead for him—trapped in limbo between pain and pills.
But his feelings for Cuddy were different. She, too, had rescued him when he wanted to die: alone and in pain six months after Stacy had tired of his sullen brooding and constantly accusing eyes. But salvation at Cuddy's hands was consensual as she convinced him that life might be a worthwhile endeavor; coaxing and cajoling him out of his dark hole one freezing night in the back room of a filthy bloodbank. He both resented and loved her for it. The sensuality of her hands washing the tears from his face as he wept in her arms, humiliated and in pain, never far from his thoughts.
House rose suddenly from his position on the sofa to pace restlessly around the room, alighting finally near the fireplace. "I don't need him," he said, an exasperated sigh breaking the quiet. Cuddy cocked her head, confused by the random comment. House glared at her as if she were a dim-witted child for not following this train of thought. "Foreman," he clarified brusquely, waiting for her to pick up the thread of a conversation aborted hours ago.
"Ah. Actually, you do." They were both back on more comfortable ground arguing. "Why are we talking about work? I can talk about work…at work. And usually that means arguing with you. I don't want to argue with you. I want to…"
"He's useless since last spring. His arrogance cost a girl her life… even Chase is a better…"
"This judgment coming from the paragon of humility, of course. He stands up to you; he gives whole new meanings to the term 'devil's advocate.' I don't want to do this. We've been over this ground. Talk to him. I thought we were going to play chess. Do you even have a set?"
"What's this sudden interest in chess? I've never even known you to play." House retrieved the board, setting it on the coffee table as Cuddy removed various food containers to the kitchen.
"Hey! I was first female president of the Ann Arbor High School chess club."
"I can just imagine the caption on the yearbook picture: 'beauty and the nerds'," he called out towards the kitchen. Cuddy returned to find the board opened and set up. House was sitting on the floor, his back propped against the sofa, right leg cushioned by a large floor pillow and extended under the table. Cuddy sat on another floor pillow opposite.
"This set is gorgeous. Look at these pieces." She picked up a knight, a turbaned noble riding a tiger. "Where did you get this?" She'd always admired House's collection of rare antiques—from trinkets to artwork—an eccentricity that was at odds with the self-professed boorishness in which he daily reveled. House looked away, not wanting to say too much about it.
"It was a gift."
"Some gift." His eyes fixed on the elegance with which she touched the pieces, as she insisted on examining each one—the intricacy of detail in the enamelwork and the carving. "This must be worth a fortune." She picked up another piece, this time the king; House mesmerized by the way she seemed to caress it. He broke his gaze, perusing the board.
"Black or white," he asked, impatiently, infusing his voice with a forced annoyance. "Or are you planning to simply sit there all night and touch the pieces?"
"Fine. White. Remember? You're a black night; said it yourself. Wouldn't do for you to have possession of the white knight, now would it?"
"Give me time. Six moves, tops, and I'll have not only both of your precious white knights but your queen at my mercy."
"That a challenge, House? Care to put your money where your mouth is? Or rather: care to put your money where your mouth is, Sucker?" Cuddy rubbed her hands together in anticipated delight.
"Not money…" He leered dramatically, a sly smile crossing his face. He thought for a moment, the possibilities, and not a few recent fantasies, fleeting through his mind. "First significant piece taken, and pawns don't count, the loser of the skirmish has to do one thing the winner says."
"Fine. First 'check'. Same thing. Lose a queen: two somethings."
"And checkmate?"
"You win, no clinic for a week. I win you give me double hours in the clinic—no sending of lackeys allowed."
"Agreed. How about adding something more personal to the final outcome?"
"I thought clinic was personal to you. You hate it more than everything else put together. The bane of your existence, you keep telling me. I can't think of anything…."
"Loser fulfills one fantasy of the winner. Any fantasy." His eyes became serious. "I'm not talking sexual…" Cuddy quirked an eyebrow, having assumed that was exactly what he did mean, and was about to quash the notion completely. "Could be a full day in the spa—all expenses paid—for you; trip to Antigua, whatever desired." The game had suddenly gotten to be pretty high stakes. But she couldn't convince herself to back down.
"Fine. Can hardly wait. White moves first."
"I have played this game before, you know."
"Pawn to King-4."