Chapter Five
"Do tell." Wilson continued scribbling in a chart while House accosted him with the improbable story of a good Samaritan coming to the aid of a waste-of-breath drug runner.
"Why do you people do these things?" House exclaimed. "God knows what diseases that girl was carrying besides all the heroin in her gut. Damn, Sally CPR could be high for a week!"
Wilson chuckled. "Did it ever occur to you that perhaps Sally CPR felt that all life is sacred? Something along the lines of, oh say, the Hippocratic Oath?"
"The Hippocratic Oat is hypocritical, explain that conundrum." House shot back.
"Only you, House, would find that to be true, only you." Wilson was still chuckling.
He waited until House calmed down to break the news to him. "Oh, by the way, Sally CPR is, in fact, my Cherie. Glad you two were able to meet."
House stared at Wilson for several seconds, blinked a time or two, then quipped, "Nice ass." Wilson glared at him for a moment. "Don't look at me like that, she had it sticking up in the air doing CPR, I couldn't help but notice!"
Wilson continued scribbling and House pondered. "Doesn't rattle easily does she?"
"Don't be making any plans on testing that theory, House." Wilson smiled into his paperwork.
"Why, you two think you're safe?" House started to leave the office, an evil chortle echoing behind him.
"You ready for dinner?" Wilson asked.
"What, you're not taking the inimitable Cherie to some classless upscale joint?" House fired.
"Nope, I'm taking you to the Triumph for a bite to eat and a drink. My treat, as usual." Wilson closed the file he'd been working on, stood and shed his lab coat, grabbing his sport coat and shrugging into it.
They left the hospital, Wilson stopping momentarily to fill Cuddy in on some trivia or another, then headed to their favorite bar. The air was crisp, just enough to invigorate, not quite enough to freeze. They chose to walk to the bar, as it wasn't far at all and both strode along in companionable silence.
"So what is it that this woman has that I haven't? House mumbled.
Without so much as skipping a beat, Wilson's response went something like this, "Two beautiful, natural breasts that the best plastic surgeon would die for, a soft look in her eyes that was not created by makeup and a secret garden that you could get lost in for days. She sends flowers to me rather than the other way 'round. She reads me O Henry and I read her the comics from the newspaper. We are our own book club, which is very stimulating. She simply likes me, and steps over my need to be needed. Doesn't mean she doesn't need me, but she's not co-dependant in any way."
"Sounds like foreplay to me."
"Yes, but without the horses." Wilson looked at his old friend. "It's for real, House, this time it's for real. She has seen my 'need to be needed' side and I've seen her 'need to be independent' side. We seem to be able to juggle the two without dropping either. I know you are you, House, and I know your MO. Please don't try to interfere, please don't try to humiliate me or Cherie, Just accept that your oldest, dearest friend may have found the right one this time."
House studied on this for awhile until they got to the Triumph. Entering, they found a table near the middle of the rabble and made themselves comfortable. The waitress took their drink orders, Bombay Sapphire and tonic for Wilson, Scotch neat for House and promised to return.
"So what were you doing in the herbal shop today anyway?" Wilson asked between sips.
"Don't know, really, maybe hoping to find some ancient Chinese secret for getting rid of chronic pain." House mumbled into his Scotch.
Wilson looked at him with concern. "And did you find anything?"
"Just a lot of crap whose cleanliness and quality can only be questioned." House's voice truly sounded disappointed.
During the next few weeks, House did his best not to interfere with Wilson and Cherie. However, in the end, his curiosity got the best of him and he started to do a little digging, finding the club where Cherie did her dance instructing.
The place was small, cozy, intimate even. Everything called out, 'Don't be shy, it's only a dance'. While his eyes were adjusting to the dim lighting, House was accosted three times by young women offering temporary vertical partnership. Each in turn saw the cane and apologetically excused themselves.
"Dr. House, I presume?" Cherie's soft voice floated over his right shoulder and he turned to confront that which had so captivated Wilson. Her smile was constrained, but genuine. She waited patiently.
"Cherie the Wilson-killer." He tried to sound cutting. It missed a bit.
"Would you like to dance?" Cherie offered, ignoring the cane.
"Fourth time's the charm, I suppose."
They walked out toward the dance floor, Cherie in the lead. Somehow, House didn't see her motion with her head to the trio in the corner, indicating her wish for something slow tempo'd. The music filled the little space without overwhelming it. She turned and offered herself to the person who, she knew, one way or another, would make or break her relationship with James.
House hooked his cane over his elbow and took Cherie's proffered hands. He pulled her close, studying her eyes, watching for any reaction. Their bodies gently swayed in time with the music. He resisted the temptation to hum along. Instead, as was his wont, he went straight for the jugular.
"You know he won't be able to say 'no' when I call on him."
"A man in need, are you?"
"I don't like being without him for very long."
"Now that is a cryptic statement. Could be interpreted in any number of ways."
"I don't care how it's interpreted. He's the one person I haven't been able to push completely out of my life and I've come to want it that way. What I want, I eventually get."
"And what is it you want right now, Dr. House?"
"What I want is a tour of this secret garden of yours. I'd like to see for myself if it's as charming as Wilson claims."
"I'm flattered. However, I see no reason to share myself with you or anyone else. James is all I require and all I desire. I'm afraid I'll have to rebuff your advances, Dr. House, you understand."
House suddenly pulled her closer, locking her arms behind her back. He kissed her deeply, stridently, doing his best to break down her façade. He would prove Wilson right-- or wrong-- one way or another.
Her knee found its way to his groin, then moved slightly to her left. That one motion told him just how much she was ready to hurt him. Her eyes stayed calm, but her lips quivered slightly.
"Don't ever attempt that again, Dr. House. You will surely regret it."
Chapter Six
House never saw it coming. He was leaving his apartment building, rounding the corner out into the street. He blinked into the sunshine and when next he opened his eyes, he was sprawled on the sidewalk, a severe burning sensation settling into his right eye socket. He didn't try to defend himself for some reason, he just sat there looking up.
The vision that greeted his upturned face was none other than an extremely agitated, not to say angry, James Wilson. His nares flared, his face dangerously red, his eyes virtually popping out of his skull. His mouth moved again and again with a silent soliloquy known only to him. When speech did return his tone was high-pitched and dangerous. "I asked you to leave her alone. I told you to leave her alone, I told you to leave us alone. But you couldn't do that, could you, House? You had to stick your big nose in where it doesn't belong. You had to put Cherie to the test. Do you honestly think every woman, when attacked by you, succumbs to your brutishness?"
"Calm down, Wilson, I proved my point. You should be happy. She loves you and you alone. She turned down my advances flat. Even after my finest James Bond kiss. She well-slapped me and sent me on my way. You have nothing to fear from the charming Cherie."
"It's not Cherie I've ever been afraid of, House. It's always been you. I can't continue to serve as your emergency conscience, to be tapped into night or day. I can't continue living my life while looking over my shoulder waiting for you to swoop in and screw things up. You have got to learn to back off and leave my personal life alone. If, and I say, if I need your help I'll ask for it! Can you possibly understand that?"
Without waiting for an answer, Wilson spun around and strode away, turning his back on his best friend. It had to be this way. It was time.
Cherie had not intended for James to attack House. She certainly hadn't intended to end a years-long friendship. She simply told him of House's visit and how, even to her surprise, he'd pushed the envelope just a bit too far. Cherie hadn't been afraid of House. It was quite odd. It was as though she knew what he would do and simply watched him do it. He was testing her and she knew that, too. Why he felt he had the right or the cajones to do so was interesting as well.
"James, don't hate him on my account. It simply isn't worth it." She was fussing over yesterday's leftovers.
James stood behind her, his face lying gently against her shoulder. "You're worth it, Cherie."
She turned to him, noting the sadness in his eyes. Silently, she ran her fingers through his thick, brown hair. "He's been your friend for so long, James. Try to… no, you must forgive him."
Wrapping his arms around her, he pulled her close. He so wanted to forget everything and everyone, concentrate solely on her. His mouth found her mouth and he lost himself again.
The night was bittersweet. Her gentle moans of contentment, his sighs of desire echoed 'round and 'round her bedroom. The aroma of jasmine and coupling assaulted every sense. Slowly they gave of themselves and took from one another all that was needed, all that was wanted, all that was intended. They serenaded each other with passionate kisses, their bodies swaying and tumbling. Time and again they catapulted into bliss, calming, then returning once more. Just once more.
In the cool light of morning, his fingertips traced patterns over her skin. His mouth sketched warm, wet trails over her breasts. He stopped momentarily, then frantically tried to forget his medical training, his years of experience. Something was wrong. Desperately wrong.
"Cherie?"
"Yes, mon amore?"
"How long has your nipple been red like this?"
Cherie nearly giggled. "Probably since you began suckling it so intensely, my sweet."
There was a silence that demanded relief.
"Why? What's wrong, James?"
"When was your last mammogram?"
"Oh my God, James, you're scaring me!"
"When?"
"Six months ago. Everything was fine. What is it?"
He had been on the other side of the desk for so long. His professional nemesis had never reared its ugly head within anyone he was close to, certainly never anyone he loved.
"It's probably nothing. It's probably my imagination. If I schedule another mammogram for today, will you come?"
A tear slid down her cheek. "Of course, whatever you say."
"It's probably nothing, Cherie. I'm sorry I frightened you." He held her close, stroking her back, wishing he'd never said anything. "It's probably nothing."
She called her office later that morning, cancelling any appointments she had, explaining she was ill. Cherie was never ill. Her secretary was concerned. "Are you alright, Ms. Robertston?"
"It's probably nothing, Claire. I'll talk to you tomorrow."
Cherie hated mammograms. It's not the discomfort, it's the embarrassment. All that tugging and pulling, kneading and stretching. All to alleviate fear. All for naught. She endured it and the follow up ultrasound with characteristic stoicism.
"Cherie, we need a biopsy." His eyes could barely meet hers.
"It's bad, isn't it, James?"
"Let's not get ahead of ourselves."
"Too late."
The biopsy revealed what he feared the most. Inflammatory breast cancer. It had already metastasized, he knew not how far. James admitted Cherie to the hospital and ordered a battery of tests, including chest x-rays, CT and bone scans and a plethora of lab work. Toward evening, they knew the worst.
James sat on her hospital bed, holding her hand, trying hard not to cry. "This is an aggressive, fast-moving cancer, Cherie." His voice slipped into his characteristically compassionate tone. "There are treatment options including surgery…"
"Stop it, James. Don't speak to me as a doctor, speak to me as a lover."
Unable to restrain his sorrow and fear any longer, he clasped her to him, tears coursing down his face. "It's too far gone, Cherie. I can't stop it, I can't make it better. I'm so sorry. I've failed you miserably."
"You've done nothing of the kind, James, nothing of the kind."
She was too stunned to think, too numb to weep, too frightened to let go of him.
Chapter Seven
High overhead the sun leant its rays to the winter-weary landscape, dappling through the leaves of the great old oak, highlighting the sparkling laughter of the five year old girl reveling in the attentions of her favorite person. Higher and higher the swing soared until she just knew she could fly into that gorgeous blue sky if she were only brave enough to let go. "Hold tight, baby girl!" was all that held her to this earth.
These were the glory days of any young girl. Alone in the whole wide world with the first man she'd ever fall in love with. The man who would shape the rest of her life. Little Cherie Bolay loved her papa with the intensity only a child knowing nothing else could Her heart held nothing but him. He was her refuge when maman took one of her spells, her strength when she felt all her smallness in the universe. The gentle thudding of his heart in her ear would reverberate throughout her entire future.
A small town in northern Louisiana might seem a unlikely venue for such a fairy tale, but bear with the teller. Mostly Cajun folk live thereabouts, everybody knowing everybody else, everybody probably related if you look hard enough. Mind you, the Cajun part is almost gone, but the frequent use of cher and okra (sounds like a duo, huh?) remind you of their roots. The oldest folks still speak the fractured French, but everyone else was raised by the television.
Papa Bolay (it's a long story) owned the local general store-slash-post office (that's a long story, too in this day and age) where everyone who was anyone caught up on all the local gossip, that is to say, news. Fit to print or otherwise. Old men played checkers in the front corner and young boys stared into huge jars of candy. Okay, it's cheesy, but go with it.
Cherie wasn't even her given name. She was baptized Marguerite Elizabeth wearing the lovingly hand-crocheted christening gown worn by every child born into her family for the past 150 years. Grand-mère had hand sewn the silk underdress just for her. She was to keep it in her hope chest for her own first child. Her world was sunshiny most of the time. She witnessed weddings, births and funerals, went to school, fell in love and had her heart broken.
Claire Bolay had been diagnosed as manic-depressive soon after her marriage to Robert 'Papa' Bolay. Everyone in town knew she was odd, but Bobby loved her anyway, and was willing to do anything to protect and shelter her. He proved it time and again by sheer physicality, pummeling or being pummeled by anyone and everyone who insulted or derided her in any way. The town thought he was as crazy as she was, but admired him all the same for it.
Three boys and little Cherie later, Claire was beyond caring what the townsfolk thought and simply tried to live one day at a time, fighting off the voices in her head she never told the doctors about. Everybody lies. Thus are misdiagnoses born, and borne. There were good days and bad days, but there was always papa.
Growing up with three older brothers was a blessing and a curse. A blessing because they were always there to protect her. A curse because they were always there to protect her. She learned early to stand her ground and cry at just the right moment. She also learned to hide her emotions when it really counted. They depended on her to run the household when Claire could not. She depended on them to take care of themselves.
Cherie knew all about the voices. She seemed to be the only one and she shared that knowledge with no one. It was usually when Claire was really tired that the voices would come to her. Cherie watched, fascinated, as she would hold entire conversations with thin air. At first the little girl thought it was a game, a delightful game of hide and seek. It wasn't until years later that she realized this was not normal. So Cherie did what papa had been doing for so long. She took up for Claire, sometimes taking the verbal blows from others herself.
Cherie and the guidance counselors at school had come to the conclusion that she was good with numbers and they all decided she should pursue a career in accounting. It was a rewarding career, she was assured and altogether acceptable for a woman. Until she married.
Which happened far too early and without enough foresight.
On her seventeenth birthday, Cherie met Marc Robertston. He was an exotic creature, from a far off land called Wyoming. They called him a cowboy, she called him delicious. And he was. Tall and lean, with piercing black eyes and a mane of dark hair to die for, or get tangled up in. He was being groomed for the rodeo. How he and his family ended up in northern Louisiana is unclear. Some said his father stole some money, or horses, or another man's wife, depending on who was doing the telling. It didn't matter to Cherie. He was there, he was beautiful and he was wicked.
As predictable as sunrise, she found herself pregnant. Contrary to all her friends' and family's assumptions, Marc did the right thing. He married Cherie. He wanted to. He loved her. It was never determined whether or not her family ever really believed that.
Cherie was in her fourth month of pregnancy. The couple were in New Orleans for the Junior Regional Rodeo Competition. This would be Marc's third ever competition and, hopefully, his chance to make his mark on that world. The stadium, which saw such varied activities as tractor pulls, monster truck rallies and assorted 'proper' equestrian events stunk to high heaven as far as Cherie was concerned. All that manure, hay and sweat, both human and beast was more than she could take. She elected to remain in their RV parked at the far end of the sizzling asphalt parking lot.
It was the tea-concocting Herb who brought her the news. He didn't want to. But, he knew he had to get to her before anyone in the parking lot could. In the days before cell phones, word of mouth was the fastest method of spreading information, especially bad news.
She didn't want to know the details. It didn't matter how Marc's hand had gotten tangled in the rope, how he couldn't get free of his glove, how much blood was spilled in the dust. All these and more the little crowd that had gathered was dying to import, but she just shut the door and left them all quite unsatisfied.
Later that night, after viewing Marc's body laid out so cold and pale, and after making arrangements to have him escorted back home, Cherie went back to the RV and met Herb once again bearing bad news. Herb would go through life hating himself for this twist of fate.
Papa Bolay had received the phone call regarding Marc's demise and promptly dropped dead, the phone gripped tight in his fist. Some in town swore they could hear Claire's screams all the way downtown. Some in town could swear they could hear Cherie's heart breaking all the way down in N'awlins.
Somewhere in the wee hours of the morning as Herb drove the RV back home, the baby decided she didn't want to live without Marc or papa. Cherie wished she'd had that choice. It was Cherie who had to finally make the heart-wrenching decision to have her mother committed. Without papa, she just wasn't safe anymore. None of the boys could come to the conclusion that it was the best thing for Claire, the best thing.
So, at eighteen years of age, Cherie had fallen in love, become pregnant, married, lost her husband, her child and her father and put her mother in a nuthouse, garnering the everlasting disapproval of all who knew her.
Cherie took Marc's insurance money and headed east.
Chapter Eight
Margaret Wilson sighed in relief. This was her third son and her last child. She didn't care what David wanted. She'd had enough of these three day labors. Thankfully, this one was healthy and already seemed to be content. Not much of a crier, he'd opened his eyes once, then closed them again in innocent slumber.
"James? A New Testament name, David? We've got Jonathan and Joseph, why not Jeremiah or Josiah or Joshua, even? My father will have a stroke!"
"Your father is always having a stroke over something, Mags." He brushed the wet hair from her forehead with his fingers, "I took one look at him and 'James' popped in my head. I like it. James Wilson. Has a ring to it."
She smiled up at him. He was such a dope. Things were always 'popping' into his head. Out of nowhere, he'd come up with some crazy idea or another. Luckily, very luckily, they weren't crazy at all. Almost every one of them ended up making him money. She always said he could stand still on a corner and make a buck. They were comfortable and happy. Their home in upstate New York was a modest one story affair, brick with pretty yellow window boxes which were always full of some blooming something or other, weather permitting.
Neither David nor Margaret were extravagant people. They lived within their means and saved amply for the future. They didn't count every penny and splurged when it was appropriate. As the boys grew, David became involved with the Scouts and Margaret hosted many a sleep-over. The basketball hoop in the driveway was the cul-de-sac's kid magnet and all the other parents on the street always knew where to find their juvenile delinquents at dinner time.
Jon, Joey and Jimmy were glued together most of the time. There was never a scrape one of them got into that didn't involve the others. They lived out of each other's back pocket. Jimmy was the baby and took the heat like all baby brothers do. But any threat to him from the outside met with heavy resistance or retaliation from the other two. He adored his older brothers. Jon and Joey were only a year apart, Jimmy was four years Joey's junior.
You couldn't pry those boys apart with a stick. Until high school. During Joey's sophomore year, David received the opportunity of a lifetime. It meant he had to relocate the family to New Jersey. Everyone was enthusiastic about the move except Joey. He had a girlfriend. He was a star basketball player. He played guitar in a makeshift band consisting of kids from school. The arguments raged on and on and in the end, Joey had to go where his family went. David's parents were dead and Margaret's parents were too old to dump a kid with, and a teenager to boot. There was no other choice.
Reluctantly, Joey went with his parents to this alien world. He hated Princeton before he ever stepped foot inside the city limits. Things were different after that. Jon dutifully fulfilled his role as eldest son, graduating top in his class and going on to Rutgers, a sad and heartbreaking separation for the youngest of the boys. Jimmy then watched his brother Joey fall apart and felt helpless to do anything about it. David and Margaret thought it was only a case of teenaged angst, that Joey would grow out of it. Jimmy knew better. He was with his brother when Joey started smoking pot and drinking. They kept the secret from their parents very well. Jimmy learned fast how to cover for Joey. The last thing he needed was losing another brother.
Joey barely graduated from high school. The Wilsons were as supportive as they could be but they simply couldn't understand what he was going through. It never occurred to them that he might need medical attention, that he might need a therapist. He just plodded from one day to the next, from one menial job after another, spending every cent he made on drugs. Spiraling downward slowly, but surely.
Jimmy stayed close to his brother, always acting as the designated driver, the dedicated wing man. He'd clean up the messes, hide the evidence, make up whatever excuse it took to keep Joey out of trouble with his parents and out of jail. Somehow, he managed to graduate high school with a 3.9 GPA, although he would tell you later, he slept through most of his classes. Joey stayed at home with his parents while Jimmy went off to college, then on to medical school. Jon, in the meantime, had garnered a prestigious job with MIT, researching the latest buzz on the planet: the personal computer.
Although Jimmy worked hard in college, he was lonely. His boyish good looks never failed to garner him favor with the girls and he took full advantage of that, but what he really wanted was friend. Someone he could pal around with, share confidences with, have fun and get in trouble with. That someone dropped into his life like a bombshell during his third year at medical school.
Be careful what you wish for.
Fresh from being booted out of Johns Hopkins, one of the most prestigious medical schools in the world, for cheating of all things, Greg House landed in Jimmy's dorm as his roommate. Theirs was not an auspicious beginning. Coming back one day from the library, Jimmy found to his dismay that most of his belongings had been shoved into a small corner of his room and some giant ogre was sprawled out on the bigger of the two beds.
It was immediately made clear who the alpha dog was in this relationship. House barely spoke to Jimmy for the first six weeks, yet at every opportunity turned him into his own personal servant. Never calling anyone by their first names, if House talked about Jimmy at all he made vague references to 'that Wilson kid'. Finally, Jimmy reached his breaking point and threw all of House's 'crap' into the hallway and changed the lock on the door.
What Jimmy didn't know and never did find out was that House had intercepted a letter to him from Joey, begging him to come home. He was hearing voices and it scared him. The letter had been written in the boys' long-ago worked out 'secret code' and although the code was easy to crack, the veiled reference to 'voices' somehow slipped past him. It wasn't until decades later that House realized it wasn't just a kid crying for his baby brother, it was an honest-to-God cry for help from a brother he never knew Jimmy had.