"GUESSWORK"
- Chapter Eleven -
"The Day That the Rains Came Down"
The mileposts told him he was in Maryland. Twin ribbons of smooth, white, divided highway affirmed that he was finally on the interstate and headed due south. His raw, angry physical discomfort told him there would be no easy way for him to get through this.
Gregg House lowered his head and hunched his shoulders in an effort to present as little flat body surface as possible to the force of the wind. The heel of his right riding boot was hooked tight on the peg that rode just ahead of the drive wheel. The impaired, deformed muscle of that thigh shrieked with the pain of forced immobility. The only good thing about it was the fact that all sensation from his knee downward had ceased to exist. Even if his foot had come loose and was smoking with friction against the churning concrete, he would never have known.
The temperature was up a little, and he could smell snow in the air.
Oh great!
The weather was definitely darkening, and a black storm front was rolling in from the west, just off the point of his right shoulder. Gray clouds roiled like celestial tumbleweeds. They looked like they were attempting to scale the peak of the Cotoctins and ride roughshod down the other side. Just what he needed: the experience of battling fierce wind gusts and driving snow, keeping the bike on the damn road and out of the way of larger vehicles, hell-bent on sweeping him away with sheets of winter whiteout and vicious wind shear. There were no exits for the next fifteen miles or so, and by the time he found shelter, he would look and feel like a freezer-burnt ice cube.
Lovely!
The Honda surged ahead into the mouth of the approaching storm front, and House gripped the controls tightly. Both hands closed around the handlebars until his fingers turned to claws and his wrists to stone.
The snowy mixture hit hard just south of Elkridge, and blew in blinding sheets across both lanes of highway. House backed off the throttle and let the powerful machine run at cruising speed, keeping abreast of, but not ahead of other vehicles traveling in the same direction. After a time, he locked into a pattern of similar traffic flow and maintained a steady 50mph, a snail's pace normally, but fast enough in this mess. Gregg hoped that the onslaught was a single storm system, and that it would dissipate as he traveled further south.
Through the gloom he was beginning to see an increasing number of hazy billboards and roadway advertisements, a sure sign of encroaching civilization. He was nearing Baltimore, and he debated whether or not to pull off the road long enough to get dry and stop somewhere for a decent meal. He would need to make up his mind soon. The first exit was coming up in another two miles. Even in lousy weather, the Honda kept eating up the highway.
House took the Towson exit and cruised down the ramp at the northern outskirts of the city. Out here it was a miniature metropolis of nightspots and luxury hotels, a strip mall, lots of eateries of all types. To his right, the Hotel Marriott loomed ghostly through the swirling snowflakes and sleet, aristocratic and dignified. Just beyond it, a Raddison, rising boldly through the wintry curtain. Looking at their manicured grounds, even gripped in the harsh bonds of winter, he could almost see the dollar signs embedded in the accumulating drifts.
He rode past them both, brushing a rivulet of melting snow from the front of his face shield with a soggy gauntlet, and continued to cast about for an appropriate stopping-off place. He was hungry, and his body was clenched with pain. He needed more meds and some time to unwind where it was dry and warm.
He felt as though his sacrum and coccyx were ready to bore right through the skin of his ass cheeks and stab the bike's saddle! In spite of the tiredness, that random thought made him smile.
He found the place he was looking for a half mile further toward town, a mom-and-pop place called "Charlie's". It was a wide, dark, low building with a flat roof; an outside concourse filled with handmade furniture, flea market items and a smattering of antiques. A white electric sign with black lettering invited folks inside for "homemade potpie, fried chicken and biscuits and all the hot coffee you can drink".
House took a deep breath and expelled it through his teeth. He turned into the parking lot, gearing down, leaving spidery, snail-like tracks in new snow on the lee side of the wind, and shut off the Repsol's engine. A few pickup trucks and cars were parked haphazardly, their hoods and windshields already turning white. Slowly he lowered the kickstand and sat there letting his bones unclench for a few minutes before making any attempt to dismount. His right boot slid off the peg and his foot hit the soggy ground with a jolt, causing him to grunt in pain and blink his eyes momentarily.
"Damn!"
When he looked up, his gaze met the questioning stare of a heavyset woman of indeterminate age, leaning against the side of the building with a cigarette in her hand.
House blinked and lifted the helmet off his head, placed it on the right handlebar, and followed that with the heavy gloves, which he placed on the gas tank. The two of them glared at each other for long moments, and then the woman gestured toward him with a smirk on her face. Her eyes were strikingly blue.
"You look a little soggy, friend," she said. "Why don't ya pull the bike under the overhang so it'll stop drippin'. Then come on in and get somethin' hot inside ya. Ya look like ya could use it." She took a final drag from the cigarette and spun it away with a flick of her fingers.
House stared at her ample blue-jeans-and-sweatshirt-clad body, short dark hair and dark-rimmed glasses. He nodded shortly. "In a minute," he said. His leg was not yet ready to move, and he did not care to fall on his ass in front of any woman.
She nodded, still looking him over. "You're hurtin' some, aint'cha?" The words were spoken softly, and she said them with no indication of anything except a mild curiosity.
He looked at her with a sharp, wary expression, at first not realizing he had given anything away. She must have seen the cane he was reaching for on the side of the bike.
"Some," he replied uneasily. He restarted the bike's engine and let its power roll it ahead far enough to move out of the snow. Then he shut it down again. "Thanks."
"Sure." Came the answer. "Take your time comin' in. I'll fix a table over to the right, near the wood stove. You can dry out and warm that leg at the same time. I'll bring a stool out'a the kitchen for ya." She turned briskly and walked inside the little restaurant, leaving Gregory House open-mouthed behind her.
He waited another five minutes until sensation began to return to his extremities. When finally he pulled himself off the bike's broad saddle, his leg was throwing off waves of pain that made him gasp for breath. He found that the amount of weight he had to place on the cane was compromising its usefulness, and he found it difficult to maneuver well enough to stumble inside and make his way to the corner table the woman had indicated.
He lowered himself with effort into a sturdy captain's chair beside the wood stove, and, grimacing, stretched his leg in front of him. His jeans were soaked, the riding boots were soggy, and as the woman had reminded him earlier … so was he.
There were other patrons in the room, and he suddenly found himself under full and intense scrutiny. He was a stranger, and he had the feeling that the rest of them, mostly men, were locals and probably regulars. He gritted his teeth and held his ground, not looking up. They would get tired of watching him eventually. The room had hushed when he'd entered, but after a time the buzz of conversation commenced around him once more, and he began to relax.
From across the room, a flurry of activity caused a stir near the serving counter. House looked up finally. The woman he'd met earlier moved in his direction with a large cup of what he assumed was coffee in one hand, and a folding stool in the other. She placed the coffee at his elbow and opened the small stool near his feet.
"If ya take off them boots," she said in a low voice, "you'll warm up faster, an' maybe the leg there won't feel like you been sittin' in a snow bank."
He looked at her, questioning, and reached down to unzip the riding boots and pull them off. His socks were fairly dry, but his feet were like ice. She was a savvy old girl, he thought. Without a word, he picked up the painful right leg, hefted it onto the stool and stretched it out. The elevated position helped considerably. He sighed and leaned back.
Across from him, the woman watched with a twinkle in her eye and a quirk at the corners of her mouth. "What can I getcha to munch on, mister?"
House met her look and allowed his expression to soften. "Chicken and biscuits sounds good," he said. "I'll try that."
She winked. "Comin' up," she said. "I'm Molly. Drink yer damn coffee!" She turned and started toward the kitchen.
House watched her. "I'm Gregg."
What the hell … ?
He put the cup to his lips and took a sip of the incredibly hot black coffee. It was delicious.
Gregory House sat by the wood stove in Charlie's Café for the better part of two hours. It was an easy choice. He munched leisurely on a stack of excellent fried chicken legs and thighs that Molly forked onto his plate, along with biscuits and gravy and a mountain of home-canned corn, slathered with butter that ran down his chin and settled agreeably in his stomach.
Molly kept his coffee cup filled and the wisecracks coming until she finally coaxed a smile out of him. Then she sat down at the table across from him and they fell into a wisecracking snarkfest that had them both grinning and shaking their heads. After a time, the warmth of the room and the warmth of Molly's easy banter relaxed House almost to the point of comfort.
She did not question him further about the problem with his leg that she had obviously noticed, but refused to bug him about. Finally, Gregg's curiosity got the better of him, and he asked her how she'd known …
"Charlie," she said at last, and with obvious difficulty. "My husband. He got kicked by a horse six years ago. It hurt him for awhile, and then it got better, and we forgot about it. A month later, his leg swelled up like a fencepost an' he woke up screamin' in the middle of the night. When we went to the hospital, there was a blood clot above his knee that the doc said blocked the artery and killed the muscle.
"When I saw ya sitting on that motorbike, an' I saw that awful dent in the front of yer leg like that … I knew you had the same thing that Charlie had. Charlie couldn't stand the pain, but he wouldn't let 'em cut the leg off. He had a dent in his leg just like yours, and then one night I heard a gunshot …
"Charlie put a bullet in his brain in the middle of the night. He couldn't take it anymore. I sure hope it ain't like that fer you, Gregg. So, ya see, the reason I did fer you today, is because when I looked at you, I saw Charlie, and I saw how much ya were hurtin' … an' I wanted to help.
"I hope you ain't mad …"
House did not answer. He was not able. Her sudden revelation had stunned him, sucked the breath right out of his chest. He sat with his coffee cup clutched between his hands, eyes downcast, body rigid. This was the first time he had ever heard of someone who'd had an infarction in the same quadriceps muscle as he'd had. Molly's story had moved him more than he could ever admit, and it brought with it a burning sensation that caught in his throat and blurred his vision.
Gregg wondered if he'd been drawn to this place for a reason. Destiny? Retribution? When he finally looked up into her too-bright eyes, it felt as though he were looking into a preview of his own future ….
All he could say was: "I'm sorry. I'm … sorry …"
Shortly after that, he put on his boots, his jacket, gathered his gloves and backpack from the end of the table where they'd been drying beside the stove, and left Charlie's Café without another word. His heart was empty, his mind devoid of cognitive thought.
He hobbled out the front door, mounted the Honda and started the engine. He pulled the helmet over his head and lowered the face shield. He clicked his cane into its place on the bike's frame, put on the driving gloves, geared up and rolled slowly from beneath the overhang in front of the restaurant.
Gregory House was aware of Molly, standing at the front window behind the curtain, watching him retreat slowly up the road toward the highway. He wondered if the telling of her story after all these years had eased her burden, and if it did, he was glad his own situation had helped her to tell it in his presence.
When she cleared his table, she would find the $100 bill he'd slipped beneath his plate.
It was the least he could do.
The only thing he could do.
It was still snowing when he swung the Repsol back onto 95 South.
House's cheeks were wet with helpless tears behind the dry shield of his helmet, and he powered up the tight little engine, leaving Towson, Maryland, and the woman with the sad blue eyes, far behind.
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