"GUESSWORK"
- Chapter Forty-Eight -
"An Old Man's Gift"
A sunny Sunday morning …
Warm North Carolina breezes and fleecy white clouds lied to the world and bragged that it was early in June, and not really the middle of March. The sun was climbing steadily in the sky and bouncing its glaring rays off every glass and metallic surface that could reflect back.
The big Escalade SUV, with all House's and Wilson's belongings packed in the back, was parked at the bottom of the wheelchair ramp of Paramar Clinic. Its gleaming white surface bounced the sun's rays outward with retina-burning intensity. Its motor was already running, the powerful A/C set on "low", and time was slowly counting down to the moment when it would be back on the road, northbound.
The large black wheelchair emerged slowly from the door at the top of the ramp, and Gregory House found himself squinting in the sun's brightness. He was so frail looking in the daylight. His clothing hung off him like a raincoat on a fishing rod, and his pale skin was reminiscent of frosted glass, almost translucent in the glare of 9:00 a.m. brightness.
His bum leg and foot were encased in a lightweight aluminum and Velcro brace that ran its entire length overtop his pantleg, and the leg was extended stiffly in front of him. He was not happy about it, but he'd had no choice in the matter. He'd been outnumbered seven-to-one … even the damn kid had chimed in on the matter … and so he would begin his journey back to New Jersey trussed up like a mummy en route to a museum.
Inside Gregg's head, however, where all his devious thoughts roiled together like witches' brew in a cauldron, he was determined that the fucking brace would be gone by the time the SUV crossed the Carolina-Virginia border!
Bet me!
Behind his wheelchair, Kip Bernoski, once more a burly, two-legged hunk in blue jeans and scrub top, held tightly to the handgrips as he eased the chair down the ramp with a minimum of jostling to Gregg's body. "You take it easy, man," he was saying. "When you get home, give us a call and let us know how you are. The emotional investment we have in you two guys is worth more to us than all the money on the freaking planet, and we need to know how it is with both of you. Okay?"
House turned his head and squinted upward. "I'll try to remember that, ya damn Indian-Giver!" There was a hint of humor in the rejoinder, and Kip wondered momentarily what it had cost House to acknowledge the clinic's multitude of failures in such a light manner.
"See that you do!" He snarked back.
Behind them, the entire professional staff of Paramar closed in around the wheelchair to extend warm wishes and farewells … all except for Lillian Chan, who had remained behind out of necessity. She and Gregg and Jim had said their goodbyes the night before, and the two men had hugged her gently and kissed her on cheek and forehead with thanks and best wishes … and encouragement for her ongoing "Christopher Reeve" research.
Alone later in her sterile cubicle, Lillian had mournfully played Moonlight Cocktails on her magic piano and cried quietly in the privacy of her sanctuary. Even her Techies turned their backs temporarily to her sorrow and regret, allowing her some privacy.
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In the sunlit parking lot, James Wilson held the passenger door of the Escalade open as far as it would go. He had already maneuvered the luxurious leather seat back and down, all the way to its limits. With care, House would be able to ride in relative comfort with pillows wedged against his body and his legs, and another behind his back.
The wheelchair sat facing the open car door, his bad foot close to the forward post. Kip reached down and engaged the brakes on the big wheels so the chair would not surge suddenly forward and hurt him. All they had to do now was assist Gregg to slide slowly across into the seat and maneuver his legs into the cubby beneath the dash.
The crutches House had used the day Bobby died were already lying across the wide back seat. He'd vehemently refused to load up the wheelchair, muttering under his breath that … "you'd think I was a goddamn cripple or something …" and … "these freakin' things are a dime a dozen where I come from …"
They rolled their eyes collectively and abandoned the wheelchair, stark and empty, where it stood.
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On the driver's side of the car, James Wilson stood with his head lowered, both hands positioned on the sturdy shoulders of Bartholomew Kirkpatrick. Bart was talking to him in a low voice, and James nodded from time to time, knowing Bart could feel his body movements, solemnly acknowledging the old man's words.
"I know you'll do well with this, Jimmy. It's a gift that was meant to be shared, I think. I don't understand it and I don't pretend to, but you're a man of compassion, and I could feel it in my bones that you'd be able to handle it. I never tried to give it away before, and I don't think Gregory was able to reap all the benefits with me. With you though, I think he will. Remember what we talked about yesterday, and you'll both be fine with all of it."
Wilson nodded deeply again, finding it difficult to come up with words that would express what he felt. Finally he sighed, and moved his palms from Bart's shoulders to both sides of the old man's face. "Thank you," he said. "You honor me, and you honor House. I'll do my best not to disappoint you …"
Suddenly they were clasping each other in a bear hug of great extreme, and then backing away again for propriety's sake, both laughing softly with what looked very suspiciously like embarrassment when they felt all eyes upon them.
Bart turned away with solemn dignity, angled his body against the body of the SUV, judging his distance, then walked away from the remainder of the gathering, grasped the handles of the empty wheelchair and pushed the conveyance slowly up the ramp ahead of him. He disappeared inside without another word.
James Wilson stood still and watched the blind man's retreating back until he gradually disappeared into the gloom beyond the doorway. Then he looked across the hood of the Escalade and raised his eyebrows at Kip, Bill, Neeka and Tyree. He shrugged and said nothing further, but was already picturing in his mind the interrogation to come later when he and House were on the road. Actually, he welcomed anything House cared to ask. His friend was going to get an earful.
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"Don't forget to have Jim help you do the exercises with that leg!" Bill was telling House. "You need to try to get your mobility back as soon as possible … you know how important it is. Some old guy in a wheelchair is one thing … but a macho dude like you riding one for the rest of his life would really suck!"
House tore his attention away from the perplexing scene with Wilson and Kirkpatrick and glared at Bernard with his lip raised in a half-friendly, half-aggravated sneer. "Do you even begin to realize how huge is this choir you're preaching to? It's as big as the Herald Angels, the Boys' Choir of Harlem and the Mormon Tabernacle combined …"
Bernard glared for a moment, then puffed out his cheeks like a chipmunk. "Sorry, House … you asshole … but you know what I meant …"
House grinned and held out his hand. "I know. Thanks, Bill."
"Anytime," Bernard replied. "Good luck, man." They shook hands, both grinning.
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Behind him, Tyree Tolliver groaned with impatience at all the "mush", and broke free of his mother's side. Boldly, he clunked forward until he was leaning against the side of the car's open passenger door. With a silly look on his face, he scrunched down until he could peer at House through the open window. He dropped the handgrips of his crutches and dug in a pants pocket. Brought out his iPod and ear buds and held them extended in both hands. "Here," he said, holding his tiny treasure out to House. "Take this! I know yours finally bit the dust. Next time you ride 600 miles in the rain, stuff the thing somewhere that it don't get drowned. An' think of me when you use it … an' remember what I good kid I am. I'm sure gonna remember your goofy ass!"
Tyree dropped the iPod into Gregg's cupped hand and smirked at the man's truly astounded expression. He clumped hurriedly away in the direction of the lower parking lot without waiting for thanks or even acknowledgment. Anyone who saw Gregg House as a mean-tempered grouch, he thought, was just so full of shit! He was too damned big to let anyone see the tears that were running down his face.
His mother looked after him in wide-eyed surprise. "Did that boy just say what I thought he just said?"
House grinned. "Yep." He stared at the iPod. "You sure it's okay for him to do this? These things don't grow on trees."
Shaniqua smiled disarmingly. "Well, it's worth it just to see that he's got a generous nature … and that he respects somebody worth respecting. Take it with our blessing, 'Baby Boy'." Her grin was splashed all over her painted face.
"Thanks …" He might have said more, but the emotional display would have been embarrassing.
Shaniqua came around the door of the SUV and bent over to put her arms around House's neck. She squealed as he rose to the challenge, reached to draw her close and bussed her soundly on the lips. She didn't fight him, but rode with it, and then drew away with eyes and mouth wide open. "Whoa!"
He was smirking, extending a forefinger, beckoning her to lean closer in order to whisper in her ear. All around them, hoots and catcalls came from the three men still standing there. She ignored them and leaned down.
"That'll show you who's a 'baby boy' and who's not! Still think I'm a 'baby boy'?"
Neeka rose to her full height, smiling, and there was something suddenly beautiful in her dark eyes and in the deep bronze face framed with the bizarre orange hair. "Y'awl are really Denzel Washington with a bleach job!"
House guffawed and the others looked puzzled.
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Kip was the last. This time it was he who initiated the bear hug with James Wilson, and even appeared to enjoy it.
His final handclasp with Gregory House was a sandwich of both Kips's hands enclosing one of Gregg's. "You guys taught me some very rich lessons without even knowing it," he said at last. "And that's all I'm gonna say, because I don't want to make an ass of myself by getting all misty over you. Get your asses out of here, drive careful, and have a good trip back." He removed his hands, backed away and closed the passenger door. His fingers trailed briefly down across Gregg's shoulder.
Then as a P. S.: "I'll give ya a call when the Amtrack folks pick up your bike!"
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Wilson climbed behind the wheel and closed the driver's door with a solid "chunk", thinking of it as the "period" at the end of a very long "sentence" … word play intended.
When he turned the Escalade onto Farmington Road and headed for the interstate, a glimpse in the rearview mirror showed three hands still waving in the air from the parking lot. He thought about waving back … but a period was a period. The sentence was ended, and they were on their way home.
Passing through late-morning Sunday traffic on the outskirts of Raleigh, Wilson took his eyes off the road momentarily to check on House. His friend was reclined all the way back in the comfortable seat with his bum leg pillowed and stretched before him. Gregg still looked pained. His face was turned toward outside traffic, but his face was reflected in the side window.
While stopped at one of the many traffic lights near the interstate ramp, Wilson paused and leaned across to get House's attention. "Doin' okay?" He asked.
House swung his head back in the opposite direction to catch Wilson's eye. "I'm fine." He then turned back again, firmly noncommittal.
Wilson sighed. Back to the same old same old …
The light turned green and they were off again. The arrow on the sign pointed to the right … 85 North … and Wilson canted the wheel to make the ramp.
As they left the city behind, House turned his head again and stared at Wilson. "Wasn't trying to be an ass," he said. "My head is buzzing like a beehive right now. My leg isn't far behind …"
Wilson smiled and nodded acknowledgment. My God! He's talking!
"Need your meds?" He asked. "They're still right here in my jacket pocket …"
House grunted in the affirmative. "Yeah … could you?"
"Of course." Wilson reached for the Vicodin vial and handed it across. House thumbed off the lid, dry swallowed one and handed the vial back. Wilson took it, looked at it with a puzzled expression, looked back at House. "Why don't you hang onto it … they're your meds after all."
"No. That's how I got in trouble the first time."
"Huh?" Am I really hearing this?
"Rehab, remember?" House's voice sounded dry, brittle. Wilson listened closely.
"What about it?"
"Don't want to start that downhill spiral all over again. Alternative pain management … working at getting my meds regulated … maybe listening to you a little bit more … not trying to run the show all by myself …
"Dammit, Wilson … this trip wasn't a complete washout. I've done a lot of thinking. I thought I could make everything better if only I could find something to make the physical pain go away. But there's other pain besides physical. Those people taught me a hard lesson too … along with convincing me I was one lucky bastard because I have a friend like you. And I thought about that … and … God … how I hate to admit this! They were right. I had the world by the tail on a downhill drag, and too fuckin' stupid to see it … and if you ever repeat that to another living soul … I will beat the livin' shit right out of you!"
James Wilson struggled to keep a straight face. "And this is … the reason why you're asking me … ME? … to regulate your meds? Why thank you, House. You might just end up amounting to something yet."
"Fuck you, Wilson."
His face was turned to the window again; he had just finished inserting the ear buds of Tyree's iPod into his ears, and his right hand gently palpitated his thigh. There was a smirk at one corner of his mouth.
As the miles fell away rapidly beneath the big tires, Wilson thought: just wait 'til I tell him what Bart asked me to tell him …
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