A/N: I thought I would explain some of the Yiddish terms used in this chapter before you start reading. Shvartze is a neutral term meaning black, however it can have a derogatory connotation, depending on how it is used. Daven means to recite Jewish liturgical prayers, usually done while swaying or rocking lightly. A mensch is a good guy. Fukokta means crazy or inane. A goy is a non-Jew, another word that is generally derogatory. Chutzpah means nerve or audacity. Gott Im Himmel is German for God in Heaven. Hope that helps, and thanks for reading.

Disclaimer: House belongs to David Shore and Fox.

Beta: Thank you, NaiveEve.

-14-

Somewhere along the way she must have done something wrong. She was being punished, there was no doubt about it. Frannie was a woman, a mother who had devoted her life to her children. And a woman who puts her children's needs ahead of her own should be rewarded, not handed such trials.

She must have done a very bad thing.

Just look at her Georgie, lounging on the bed like he was Lord King of the World. Those things were in his ears, that horrible jungle music blasting through them. The volume was so loud she could hear it. Fffft! By the time he was thirty he would be deaf. But did he care? Did he listen to her? And look at how he bobbed his head up and down like he was davening. But would he ever daven? Would he ever stand in a holy place and bow his head to God? No. He wouldn't go to synagogue to pray but he would bow down to the terrible people who made that music. Where was the fairness in that?

And what did she do that was so wrong?

Oh, and to make matters a whole lot worse, that...crippled goy Myrna was marrying took Georgie out and bought him new CeeDees. He was actually encouraging the boy to listen to that clattertrap. How was that helping anything? To ostracize your future mother-in-law was no way to make your entrance into a new family. But she shouldn't have expected anything more from this...Doctor House.

Doctor or no, he looked like trash, not like a mensch, like that other man...James. What a catch James would have been for Myrna. Jew or no Jew, he was the perfect example of what Myrna should have looked for in a husband. Sophisticated...handsome and smart. But no, Myrna always went for trashy types...like Thomas. He was an arrogant fool who swaggered around like he owned the world. This Doctor House would have a swagger like that too--if he weren't a cripple.

"Georgie." Frannie stood at the foot of his bed, tugging at her earlobes as a signal for him to pull the plug on the music.

He either didn't notice or didn't want to notice. He was mouthing along with those rappers, his head bobbing to the beat. He looked like a chicken, a ridiculous clucking bird.

Frannie clenched her fists and pressed her lips together, attempting to stifle the scathing words clamoring to break free. They were coming. She sensed the first tremors of the quake, the first cracks in the earth. Such insolence she was forced to deal with. She had done nothing to deserve this treatment, yet it was all she got from everyone.

She yanked an earbud from her son's ear, making the terrible rap noise that much more pervasive. She could hear actual words now: curses, terrible foul language and Georgie was mouthing that too, like he was reciting some kind of twisted nursery rhyme.

"This is awful, Georgie. Why can't you listen to real music? Something with nice words. There are so many beautiful songs..."

He glared at her and then at the white wire dangling from her fingers.

"Georgie," she snapped. "Can't you see I'm trying to talk to you?"

"I don't want to talk right now, Mom." He made a 'gimme' motion with his hand.

"Fffft! What is this?" Her jaw dropped as she mimicked his gesture. He had never been so arrogant.

"Greg does it."

"Oh, really? Greg does it?"

Georgie snatched his earbud from her. She gave him a scowl, planted her hands on her hips and watched him push the earpiece back into place. In the span of one evening, this Greg House had corrupted Georgie more than Georgie's friends ever had. Frannie resolved that it was going to stop. Today.

She hadn't survived widowhood and raising two children alone without being crafty. Her ace in the hole was now what it had always been: surprise. Her appearance was hardly imposing: a skinny, diminutive fifty-seven year old woman who looked like a feather could knock her over. But the schoolteachers, insurance agents, loan officers and other similar types she had come up against over the years all learned never to underestimate her. Frannie always, always got what she wanted.

Doctor House had yet to experience Frannie Bromfeld's wrath. Once he did, he was sure to be sorry he had ever crossed her. With any luck, he would be so intimidated by her and feel such shame in his slovenly appearance, his poor manners and his chutzpah, he would gratefully slink out of Myrna's life. And that would be that. It would be for the best. A learning experience. Myrna would get over it, maybe even return home to Minnesota-where she belonged.

In Frannie's mind, the scenario played out like a four star movie: the arguing, the tears, the breakup, the 'I told you so's'. But this was no Hollywood fantasy. This was real life, and it would happen. Even if the wedding took place, could the marriage could be annulled? Frannie would certainly look into the possibility. Such was the power of her conviction. Myrna would see reason and realize this man was not nearly good enough for her.

Mother always knew best.

She wrenched the earbuds from Georgie's ears, "Get washed up. Your sister is taking us to lunch."

"You go," he muttered. "I'll get a burger downstairs."

"You...will...not." She stomped her foot. "Get-"

Someone was knocking at the door, the sound insistent and sharp, grating on Frannie's nerves.

"Get up, Georgie." Frannie shouted. He continued to bob his head, even though the buds in his hands had gone silent. The music must have ended, thank the Lord.

Why did life have to be so hard?

She hurried to the door, hoping Myrna was behind it. Myrna had a calming influence. She could make George see reason, get him off his butt and listen. Even if her mind was in outer space these days, Myrna could still be a positive influence on George.

"You are not staying here by yourself."

"What the hell, Mom?"

"I am warning you."

"Shit."

"Gott im himmel," Frannie moaned as she peered through the peek hole. "Myrna." She had never been so glad to see the girl. She pulled open the door, already spewing the first commands of the day. "Talk to your brother," she snapped, "he's being impossible."

Myrna entered the room slowly, like she didn't quite feel her best. She wasn't sick, no, just...out of sorts. Her usually pink cheeks were pale; she looked tired. Perhaps she hadn't slept well last night. Maybe she was having second thoughts about this marriage. Frannie held her elation in check because it could be something else. Maybe (God forbid) Myrna was pregnant.

Myrna's eyes wandered the room, restless, troubled.

Frannie narrowed her eyes. "What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing," Myrna said quickly.

"Your brother will not listen to me. He refuses to take those things out of his ears."

"He doesn't have them in his ears now, Mom," Myrna said softly, somehow managing to throw a small smile George's way.

"You okay, Myrn?" George's look of belligerence changed to one of concern.

Myrna lowered her head, brushing the toe of her shoe against the carpet. "You want to go to lunch, George?"

"See?" Frannie snatched her purse off the dresser. "That sounds like a good idea. We passed a nice Italian place just down the street. We'll go there-"

"I asked George, Mom." She licked her lips, took a breath. "Not you."

Frannie might as well have been gut punched; she took one stumbling step back as her breath escaped her in a long whistling wheeze. Myrna and Georgie, her children, were excluding her and didn't feel a lick of remorse. Not one little bit. They just...stared at her. Georgie thought it was funny. The corners of his mouth trembled. He was going to laugh at her. Laugh at his mother! Myrna just stood there like the foolish girl she was: sad eyed but resolute.

This was unacceptable. Absolutely deplorable. And when Frannie found her voice she would tell them so. It was insolence, arrogance, chutzpah...

The door drifted open. Frannie might not have even noticed, except that the hinges squeaked... a little. Now she would have to call downstairs, tell someone to come up with the WD40. There was no excuse for a squeaky door in what was touted to be a four star hotel...

Outside the door something thumped. Georgie sniggered. Myrna folded her arms and looked at her shoes.

"What is going on?"

Thump...thump...thump.

Frannie's pounding footfalls brought her to the door. It was open just enough so she could see the royal blue carpet, the room service tray by the door across the hall. The tray was loaded with soiled plates, on top of which lay a half eaten strawberry nestled between two pink tinged wine glasses. Some cheap classless...trash was having a little party, a damn swell old time. It was a Friday afternoon. Don't people have any sense of decorum? Don't they know there is a time and place for-

Thump...thump...thwack!

With a gasp, Frannie jerked out of range of the rubber tip of a cane. It had been gunning for her ankles and had...just missed, connecting with the door frame instead.

"Woah...," Georgie breathed.

The door opened wider, propelled by the force of the cane. And when the owner of that cane sauntered in the room, Frannie automatically took two unsteady steps back. She couldn't help gawping at the nerve, at the audacity of this...this...mess of a man, this...cripple. Her speech center was under siege; there was much she wanted to say but her words were frozen, stuck in her gullet, choking her.

"You really should watch your step, Frannie." Doctor House brandished his cane, then gave it a twirl before setting its tip against the carpet. "You never know what sort of nastiness life has up its sleeve."

George giggled.

"Shut up, George." House said, his eyes never leaving Frannie's.

If he thought he was going to get away with this behavior--making her look like a fool in front of her children--he was very much mistaken.

And Myrna? Frannie had never been so disappointed with her daughter. The girl should be defending her mother. But no. She had moved beside the cripple, her chin up in that silly defiant way of hers, like that was going to make a difference in how this all panned out.

"This man almost assaulted me, Myrna. He shouted at your brother. You're going to let him get away with it?" Frannie's words tumbled out in a rush, her throat hot, her cheeks burning.

Myrna shrugged. "It looks that way, doesn't it, Mom?."

"I am ashamed of you."

"Lunchtime, chop, chop!" The cripple hitched his cane under one arm, clapping his hands three times, like he was casting a spell. "Get along, kids."

"And who put you in charge?" Frannie set her hands on her hips, intending to set him straight right this instant.

"Why, Frannie...I think this might be the day you never thought would come."

Her eyes widened as her shoulders sagged. He didn't look deflated at all. If anything, he seemed energized.

"Myrna and Georgie need a break from you, so I've come to save the day."

Georgie cackled.

"Get him out of here, Myrna." He waved an impatient hand at the bed, keeping those eyes fixed on Frannie.

"Let's go to lunch," he said.. "It'll be Frannie and the gimp. My treat." A slow grin spread across his face as he raised his brows. "We have so much to talk about."

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She squeezed herself against the passenger door of the Corvette, putting as much distance between herself and the cripple as possible. Not much room in this thing. But her unease stemmed more from the situation than her proximity to the man.

He treated her was like she wasn't even here. Once she'd settled into her seat and strapped herself in, the cripple busied himself with driving too fast and twiddling with the radio dial. He made the car squeal around corners, turned the radio too loud and guffawed at the announcer's stupid jokes. Then, to make matters worse, he put on a CeeDee, some howling wretched thing that made her want to throw herself out of the car.

They stopped at a light. Frannie peered out her window, anxiety making her stomach ache as the light turned green. They were traveling deeper into this terrible neighborhood. Now the old schvartze on the CeeDee was wailing about a train he had missed. Too many black people were on the streets, a good number of Spanish people were wandering around too--probably all living on welfare. Dregs. Filth. Suspicious looking young men lingered around storefronts, smoking cigarettes. One of them caught her glare and gave it back to her.

Insolence. Chutzpah.

"Where are you taking me?" she wailed, finally.

"Lunch."

"But where?"

"That," he said, checking his rearview as he changed lanes, "would be telling".

She ducked her head, wanting to press her hands against her ears, wishing this whole day would just...go away. But no, she wasn't about to give the crippled goy the satisfaction. She stole a look at him. He was tapping a finger against the steering wheel, warbling along with the colored man.

"What is this...noise?" She couldn't stop the words from tumbling from her lips.

"Why, it's the blooos, Frannie." One corner of his mouth lifted, making her sorry she'd asked. "Robert Johnson's Love In Vain. You likee?"

"It's terrible."

"Ooh, that stings."

"Fffft! And why, tell me, would you care what I think?"

They turned down a side street. The asphalt here was cracked and broken. The Corvette rumbled over the rubble, rattling and clattering as it spewed a series of noisy complaints. Sunshine kept clear of these graffiti riddled walls, these rust dappled fire escapes. The brick building was infused with shadows, those dark fingers stretching up and over grime streaked windows.

"It's our wedding song."

Frannie ran her tongue over her lower lip, not sure whether to believe him. There was no trace of a smirk on his face. No sign that he was pulling her leg.

"My daughter would never agree to such a thing."

He chuckled, throwing her a smile so devoid of 'niceness' it could only be called malicious. "Your daughter picked the song, Frannie. " His voice held a terrible note of triumph. "Shows how much you know about the little girl in your life."

Frannie sniffed, deciding she was absolutely on target about him.

Greg House, the crippled goy, was a hateful, hateful man.

------------------------------------------------------------------

She wouldn't eat. She decided this the moment they entered the dive, this poor excuse for a dining establishment. He'd brought her here to unnerve her, to torment her. The faded lettering on the door told her the place was called Elmer's. What kind of fukokta name was that for a diner? The floors were sticky and stained, the leather seats was cracked. Gray stuffing poked out of the fissures in places, like a group of old ladies were trapped inside, waiting patiently to be released. The tables were rickety wooden things: not fit for a backyard barbecue much less a place where people spent good money to eat.

They sat across from one another, five booths from the door. Through the window she could see the cripple's red Corvette flanked by an ancient dented Chevy and two motorcycles. Beyond the parking lot traffic flew by. She fiddled with her napkin, wishing she could leave. Maybe she could. Maybe there was a bus...

Tap, tap, tap!

"Wakee, wakee, Frannie." Cripple tapped his fork once more against the table. "No time for mulling over all the wondrous ways of avoiding the issues."

She gawped at him, stunned.

"That trick is only for experts like me to know." He glanced down at his placemat and frowned. "And I don't give my secrets away." He raised one hand and looked around for the waitress. "Yo."

"Do you have to do that?" Frannie snapped.

"Yes."

"You're embarrassing me."

"Really?" He turned to her slowly, lips peeled back, white teeth gleaming--so bright against the dark stubble. "If I decide to embarrass you," His grin widened, "you'll be very, very sorry."

The waitress moved from behind the counter, her footfalls heavy and plodding as she lumbered down the length of the diner.

You'll be very, very sorry.

Those words, spoken in that subtle yet intimidating tone, ate at Frannie's innards.

Forget it. Think about something else. Oh, yes, what about that waitress? She looks like a real bundle of fun...

Pleased to discover this small diversion, Frannie donned a haughty smirk and gave the waitress a quick, critical scrutiny: Her hair was too blonde; she wore an overabundance of rouge, that lipstick was too red, she could have used to lose about thirty pounds.

"No, you can't make me!" Greg blurted out.

The few diners at the counter turned to gape at this new development in their day.

Cripple slapped his hands against the unwieldy table, causing it to shudder and Frannie to flinch.

"I will not have sex with you, Mom."

Frannie's jaw tightened as her fingers clenched her thighs. Silently, desperately, she willed some entity to come along and stuff an apple in this madman's mouth to shut him up. She could feel the bite of her nails through her dress slacks. Later she would find angry red marks on her skin.

"You have some nerve," she gasped, scrambling around in her head, trying to make sense of this horrible day. She couldn't recall the last time she had been this mortified, a time murder did not seem such a far fetched solution to her problems.

"No. You can beg, plead, throw money. But I will not have sex with you...not after what happened...last time."

"Shut up! You horrible, horrible-"

The waitress appeared, her arms folded, seemingly ready for anything. Cripple raised his head and gave her a charming grin. "Ah, Selma. Still here, I see. Can't get enough of this greasy spoon?"

Nonplussed, Selma took a few chomps on her gum before retrieving her pen and order pad from the pocket of her blouse. "You folks know what you want?"

Frannie opened her mouth. She planned to say she did not want anything that passed for food in this hole, but never got farther than putting her tongue to her teeth.

"Two orders of fish tacos and two Cokes." He winked at Selma. "And let's replace these boring white placemats with the other kind. You know, the ones with those cool underwater scenes."

"You want crayons?"

"NO!" Frannie bleated.

"Oh, of course we do." Cripple reached over and grasped Frannie's hand before she could pull away. "She just doesn't want to be any trouble." He tilted his head and offered Frannie a saccharine smile. "But she just can't help it."

Selma lumbered off, shaking her head, while Frannie wrenched her hand away from this abhorrent excuse for a human...

This wasn't happening. It was some sort of nightmare. Maybe she was still on the plane and had yet to meet Myrna's intended. In her daydream he turned out to be James. He and Myrna would honeymoon in the south of France. He would lavish diamonds on her, treat his mother-in-law with the respect she so truly deserved...

She smiled at the thought, her gaze wandering to the mustachioed man two booths away. He pushed the last of a burger into his mouth and gave her a sloppy grin.

"Sooo, having a nice day, Fran?" Cripple was tapping his fork again. It set her teeth on edge.

"No."

"Good."

His blue eyes twinkled, reminding her the world was a nest of unfairness. A horrible person like this man should never have been blessed with such beautiful eyes.

"What's good about it?" she spat.

"Oh, poor you, Fran. You are just so put upon. Nasty old world, isn't it?" Those stunning eyes widened. "But it seems like you might just be getting the picture."

She cringed. The longer she sat here, the more intensely the man seemed to glow.

"Picture of what?" she asked.

"Of what it's like being saddled with you," he said slowly, leaning forward, "of having to deal with your whining, your crit-eeques. Well, here's a news flash: nobody gives a rat's ass what you want or what you think. When you go on and on, nobody thinks it's fun or cute or 'mom' just having one of her moments. Your children are sick to death of you." His lips quirked his annoyance. "Hell, I'm sick of you and I've only known you a day."

She puffed out her chest, folding her hands stiffly before her. "What you don't understand is that I have the life experience to teach a lesson. I am a wise woman."

Selma returned with the placemats, crayons and Cokes. With an easy flourish, she set the drinks and crayons on the table and replaced the 'boring' placemats with the 'cool' ones.

"Frannie has life experience, Selma." Cripple gave the waitress an earnest look.

Selma chomped her gum, giving Frannie a quick once over. "I'll bet," she said and plodded away.

"I've been through marriage and widowhood." Frannie was on a roll. "Bringing up a teenager at my age is difficult-

"Oh, and you're doing a hell of a job. George must be a pillar of his community."

"I am a wise woman. I tell people how they should act so they can better themselves."

"The world according to Frannie." He picked up a green crayon and began filling in the smiling fish's gills. "Color your picture."

"I will not."

His head remained lowered but his gaze lifted to meet hers. He looked like a bull ready to charge. "Color the damn picture or I'll leave you here in ghettoville. You can make your own way back."

"Fffft! Myrna would come get me."

"Myrna has better things to do."

"What? Like marry a goyish gimp like you?"

The Cripple lifted his soda to his lips. He chugged it down then leaned back with a satisfied smirk and let out a long belch.

"That is absolutely disgusting. You should be ashamed of yourself."

With great care, he set the glass and his crayon on his placemat, then threw Frannie a nod and a wink.

"Don't do that."

He raised his fists over his head, like a triumphant prize fighter...

"What are you-?

...and pounded the table, which tilted up and back in response. Frannie's glass wobbled like a tenpin, looking like it might almost right itself. But gravity prevailed and the glass clunked over, spilling the brown fizzy liquid over Frannie's side of the table.

Greg arched a brow. "Oops."

Pretty soon, Frannie's crayons, placemat, the thighs of her trousers and the lower half of her blouse were saturated.

"Wow, can't take you anywhere, Fran."

She lifted her arms and...gawped at the damage, as if some creature might rise from the mess and explain it all to her. The mess seemed the safest place to set her gaze. Farther down the row of booths, some unsympathetic soul was sniggering. But she wouldn't give the derelict the satisfaction of a response. It was safer staring at the liquid pond spreading its little brown tendrils in all directions. It was best not look at any of the curious diners, the short order cook, Selma the waitress or...him. Especially not him.

He was...a monster.

Selma arrived with a handful of napkins, a dish towel and a sponge. She handed Frannie the napkins, rescued the glass from the puddle and wiped down the table. "Come on out of there for a minute, honey." She motioned to Frannie. "Let me dry off that seat."

"She's just fine, Selma. Aren't you, Frannie?" The monster nodded, and Frannie found herself matching his motions while gulping back a sob.

"Hey, Selma." He waved a crayon at the waitress. "How 'bout those tacos?"

Selma squinted at two of them, her lips twisting into a bemused smirk. "Comin' up," she muttered, heading for the kitchen.

"I would like to leave now." Frannie laid the napkins over her trousers, which did nothing to accelerate the drying process. The napkins were rapidly reaching their absorption point, turning the color of watered down cola. She sighed then looked through her wallet, checking her finances. "I can get a cab."

"You...will stay put."

She considered defiance, thought about how she could just get up and leave, sodden clothes and all. But for the first time in a long time, she was going to have to silently concede. Her energy had flagged. She felt somehow...too old for this.

"Here's the plan, Frannie." Using two fingers, the monster straightened his placemat, then lifted a crayon and began to work on his art again. "You're going to dry off while you eat your lunch."

"I'm not hungry." A cold stone found a cozy place in her chest as she realized she sounded exactly like a pre-tantrum Georgie.

"After you eat...and you will eat. I'm going to drop you off at your hotel where you can spend the rest of the day wondering where oh where did I go wrong? " He let loose with an exaggerated sob while scrutinizing his artwork.

"Leave me alone now." Her voice was much too soft; any residual fight she might have had left was on a westbound train, goin' home.

"You made Myrna cry." The monster's accusation fell slowly and evenly from his lips.

Swallowing thickly, Frannie, rooted through her purse, seeking out a tissue. The napkins on her lap were now completely soaked through, and she didn't dare ask for his.

"I never saw Myrna cry in the six months we were going out, now you show up and I see tears. You upset her." He studied his artwork, then lifted his red crayon and added color to the fish lips. "Do you think we should let that continue, Fran?" He tapped the point of the crayon against his placemat as he evaluated his work. "Needs more green."

Frannie remained silent as she dabbed at her trousers with a thin, useless tissue.

"Ding, ding, ding. Bzzzzzt! Time's up, Fran. The correct answer is 'no'." Sniggering, he leaned his elbows on the table and rested his chin in his hands.

Selma arrived with a tray of tacos and drink refills. She set the plates and sodas on the table before disappearing as fast as her legs could carry her.

"Stop this. Just...stop." Frannie shook her head, her gaze falling to the culinary creation on her plate, then at him.

The monster was hungry. His mouth was already stuffed to the max, cheeks as full as a chipmunk's in winter.

She averted her gaze, lifted her fork and poked at the taco's innards. Reluctantly, she took a taste, blinking and scowling as she chewed and swallowed. Actually...it wasn't bad.

"How does it feel to lose your daughter, Fran?" House cooed after sipping his drink. "To her credit she's been re-ally patient with you. I would have told you to go to hell a long time ago." His head tilted one way, then the other. "I happen to know she's this close to wishing you'd take off for parts unknown and never come back."

The taco was in her hands (which she only just realized were trembling). A few pieces of the fish nuggets fell on her plate as she leaned forward to take a hearty bite.

"Doesn't seem to bother you much. Guess you have other things going on in your little world: Canasta games, casino trips, how to get rid of Georgie's rap music..."

She wondered if she could get the recipe for this fish taco. Georgie might eat it...

"Well, heck, Fran, it's only another day and then you'll be gone. Just one more reason to celebrate."

It couldn't be too difficult to make this dish. She could even add rice and vegetables to create a real meal...

One more day.

"Now, here's the scoop: you are going to behave until after the wedding. Then you and MC "G" have my permission to leave. Really, I insist. You don't have to bother coming to the reception. Make some lame excuse. Myrna will understand."

Yes, George would really like this taco. It certainly was different.

"Oh, one last thing, Fran: ruining Myrna's wedding day is the same exact thing as ruining Greg's wedding day. And, believe me, Frannie, old gal, you don't want to do that."

She finished up her taco, every last bit, without once looking into the monster's eyes.