Reflections in the Undertow

by Betz88

If you have read "Darkened Wings", the story I posted here in 2014, you may have wondered how House got that way. This is how!

41. Chapter 41

Chapter 41

"Burning Bridges"

I BACKED OUT OF THE HOTEL'S HANDICAP PARKING SPACE AND STOPPED AT THE EXIT FROM THE LOT. THE TOWN WAS WIDE AWAKE AND MOVING. NO LONGER A SLEEPY LITTLE BURG, IT HAD COME TO LIFE LIKE A WARREN OF FIELD MICE AT THE SMELL OF GRAIN IN THE AIR. TRAFFIC WAS MOVING AT A BRISK PACE. WHILE I SAT WATCHING, CARS PASSED BY IN BOTH DIRECTIONS, AND A GUY IN A BIG BAKERY TRUCK HONKED HIS HORN AND WAVED TO SOMEONE ON THE SIDEWALK.

PRESENTLY THERE CAME A BREAK IN THE FLOW AND I TURNED LEFT. THE CAR DRIFTED ACROSS THE STREET AND PULLED UP BESIDE THE BIG BROWN APARTMENT BUILDING. THE PASSENGER SIDE TIRES MOUNTED THE LOW CURB AND CAME TO REST ON THE SIDEWALK. I STUDIED THE BUILDING'S DULL, WEATHERED SIDING FROM UP CLOSE, AND WAS PLEASED TO NOTE THAT IT LOOKED SOLID ENOUGH FOR THIS OLD A STRUCTURE. THE EMPTY APARTMENT DIRECTLY TO MY RIGHT WAS THE LARGEST IN SIZE, IF THE CONFIGURATION OF THE BUILDING WAS ANY INDICATION. AT THAT MOMENT I DECIDED I DEFINITELY WANTED TO SEE IT … WALK AROUND INSIDE IT … LOOK IT OVER … FIGURE THINGS OUT AND MAYBE MAKE AN OFFER.

THE FOLDED-UP TEN-SPOT WAS STILL IN MY WALLET, AND I PULLED IT OUT TO READ THE PHONE NUMBER I'D SCRAWLED ON IT. I DUG OUT MY CELL PHONE AND PECKED AT THE DIGITS CAREFULLY. IT RANG. ONCE, TWICE. THERE CAME A CLICK AND A PAUSE, THEN A FEMININE VOICE: "BANK OF AMERICA, LEBANON BRANCH. MAY I HELP YOU?"

"GOOD MORNING. I'M CALLING FOR INFORMATION ABOUT THE APARTMENT BUILDING ON THE CORNER OF FOURTH AND MAIN STREETS IN ETNA. COULD YOU PLEASE REFER ME TO SOMEONE WHO CAN …"

"THAT WOULD BE MISTER PERRY, SIR. PLEASE HOLD THE LINE …"

I GOT AN EARFUL OF "MOON RIVER", PLAYED ON A HARP FER CHRISSAKE.

THEN ANOTHER CLICK.

A DEEP VOICE SAID IMPARTIALLY: "WILLIAM PERRY HERE. MAY I HELP YOU?"

"YOU INTERESTED IN SELLING THAT OLD BROKEN-DOWN APARTMENT IN ETNA? IF YOU ARE, I'M INTERESTED IN BUYING. I'D LIKE TO SEE IT … AT LEAST THE EMPTY APARTMENT ON THE GROUND FLOOR. CAN WE SET UP A TIME TO GET TOGETHER?"

THE PAUSE THIS TIME WAS LONGER. THE DUDE WAS PROBABLY PEEING HIS PANTS IN ANTICIPATION. I GRINNED TO MYSELF.

"Unhh … good morning. I can do that pretty much at your convenience … Mister … ?"

The question in his voice was skeptical, but hopeful, and I couldn't blame him. Some idiot calling him out of the blue to ask about a white elephant that has been a millstone around his neck for years … I'd be a little suspicious too. How did he know I wasn't just wasting his time?

I toned it down and turned off my snark switch. I began again. "The name is Gregory House, and if possible I'd like any negotiations to remain confidential. Is it possible to look the place over today?"

His voice changed at that moment from speculative to jovial. I could almost hear the cash register in his mind ringing up a possible sale. "Of course, Mister House. You called at the right time. One question, however: since this building rents only to handicapped tenants, I need to know, up front, whether you're going to be renting or buying."

My snark returned. "I'm interested in buying … with an option to rent."

"I beg your pardon?"

I turned the sarcasm back down a peg. "Sorry. I'm interested in renting and perhaps buying. I assure you, I'm more than qualified in the 'cripple' department."

Again there was a pause that was hung with silence. "The question wasn't meant to pry, sir. If I have …"

"No-no-no … " I said quickly. "I'm just super-sensitive about it. I hate when my crutches become the focus of every conversation … but, inevitably, they do. How soon can we get together?"

"How about a half hour? Are you able to meet me on the premises that soon?"

My laughter was touched with irony. "What if I told you I'm parked right out in front of the place with two tires on the sidewalk?"

He chuckled, a little more at ease than before. "Well, then I guess that puts the ball back in my court. I'll grab the file on the property and be on my way in five. My car should pull up behind yours in about twenty minutes."

"Works for me, Mr. Perry," I said.

We rang off and I settled down to wait. Turned on the four-way flashers. The wind buffeted the car and gave me a bumpy ride, even standing still.

The space between my car and the apartment building's ground-entry door left plenty of room for foot traffic to pass by unimpeded. I received a few curious looks as people walked around to the side, but no frowns of disapproval or suspicion. I figured that my handicap license plates took care of that.

I kept an eye trained between the rear-view mirror and the street.

The black and white 1990s Chevy Caprice of the local constabulary rolled slowly past me. The cop looked over and nodded, then continued on. I guessed he'd also seen the handicap plates and was giving me a free pass for now.

A blue Prius slowed to a crawl and pulled up on my back bumper a short time later. Must be the Mr. Perry I'd talked to on the phone. I opened the car door, shut off the flashers and the engine, grabbed my crutches and maneuvered out to greet the guy.

Perry came around behind me quickly and closed the door of the Dynasty out of courtesy. "Thanks," I said. I climbed the curb with extreme caution before turning to put my hand out to him. He was a youngish guy … late thirties; brown hair, brown eyes, slender, but not near as tall as me.

"Welcome," he said, taking note of the Jersey plates. He clasped my hand warmly with his own, but did not hold it long. "Gregory House, I presume. I'm Bill Perry, Chief Administrator of The Bank of America, Lebanon Branch. So you're interested in The Sylvester House …"

"So that's what it's called, huh? Pleased to meet you. Yeah, I might decide to take the white elephant off your hands if we can come to an agreement. You can call me 'House' for now, but don't get used to it. I'll explain why … later. Can we get in and away from the wind … to look around?"

Perry's eyebrows elevated in avid curiosity. "I have the keys right here, if you'll follow me …" He stepped ahead of me and walked up to the wide front door of the vacant apartment. The door opened inward and we walked into a large, very boring beige room. It looked a lot like the living room of my apartment in Princeton, except no fireplace. I looked around. It smelled musty, but it probably hadn't been entered or aired out in months. My eyes swept over the floors, ceilings, walls. Nothing worn or cracked or leaking. So far, so good. It just looked tired. Like me.

"When this place was renovated five or six years ago, the owner installed hardwood floors, wide doorways and easy-to-reach light switches. Everything here is wheelchair accessible, and the bathroom is fitted with handicap facilities.

"This is the largest apartment of the four, and the other three are leased, long-term, to their tenants, who've all lived here for years. The rooms are laid out almost exactly like this one. Only difference is, this one has two bedrooms. Both ground-floor units have back doors that lead outside from the kitchen. The two upstairs units have back doors also, but they're something like emergency exits on a plane. The door leads onto a platform that opens to the outside, and lowers one or two persons to the ground. It operates on a chain-crawl system. Doesn't need electrical power to work. Fortunately, no one has ever had to use one."

I eyed him with surprise. "Seriously?"

He nodded. "Yep. The building inspectors decided to try one of them out. It broke the seal and buzzed all the way to the ground. It cost the local authorities five hundred bucks to have it resealed and reactivated. The owner threatened to take them to small claims court if they didn't."

"In other words, you don't let your family or the kids fool around with them …" I was half grinning when I said it.

"You got that right," he replied. He held up a finger and continued. "The second-floor units also share an elevator for easy access to the main doorway out front. So you see all the bases are covered. The complex is in very good shape. It just needs some cosmetic updating. The apartment we're in has stove, refrigerator, washer and dryer and a dish washer … and a walk-in shower."

I wandered around slowly, poking my nose into every nook and cranny I could get to easily. It was well-appointed, even to dark burgundy curtains at all the windows. The paint was gawdawful, but that was easily remedied. The kitchen opened off the living room. A short hallway led to the two bedrooms, across from one another at the back; the bathroom sharing common walls between them.

When I was finished, I returned to the living room where a work table and chairs were set up with pencils and paper and brochures from B. of A. in a display box. My leg was hurting and ready for meds, and I needed to sit down. I pulled out a chair and eased into it. Palmed two Immitrax and dog swallowed.

Perry stood at my side and looked at me doubtfully. "You probably get sick of hearing this all the time … but … you look like you're in pain. What can I do to help?"

"Not much you can do," I said quietly. "I just need to rest a bit. I'll be fine. Thanks."

"Sure. You intrigue me, House. You tell me to call you 'House', but you tell me not to get used to it and you say you'll fill me in later. So. Is this … 'later' … enough?"

I looked up at him and nodded. "In a minute. Let's talk."

Perry picked up a large accordion file that he'd laid on the table when we came in. He set it down in front of the other chair and then sat down himself. "This is the file folder for the entire property. It has information on just about everything a new owner would need to know … and some he probably wouldn't. All the tenant info is in a separate envelope in here."

I drew out a thick stack of papers and began reading. And massaged my leg with the heel of my hand.

There were building code and utility assessments, tax levies for the past seven years or so, an appraisal estimate of the building's approximate worth on today's market (an amount that made me whistle through my teeth). There were insurance assessments of all four units, and another on the building as a whole. There were code appraisals for a three-car garage at the rear of the property; a structure I had not realized was there. There were precise measurements of the land boundaries by a real estate appraiser, and all the coded fol-de-rol that meant absolutely nothing to me. I assumed everything was accurate, because all kinds of goddamn agencies would be on the bank's ass real quick if they weren't. There were other miscellaneous papers there: bills for upkeep, for repairs and heat and past renovations. Old proofs of renewal and replacement of damaged or worn plumbing and electrical fixtures; stuff I had no interest in whatsoever. That's why a landlord hired craftsmen, right?

I thumbed through the rest of it and closed the file. "This says heat and hot water are furnished with the rent," I said under my breath. "Oil heat? The owner is asking a hefty price for the place, isn't he?" I asked, fishing a little.

Perry looked at me levelly and nodded. "Oil heat, yes. It's on automatic delivery. Nobody has to call for oil or worry about running out." He paused. "And the owner is dead. He died intestate."

"Oh?" I figured it had to be something like that.

"Yep. Three years ago. What you see tacked onto the selling price is mostly interest the bank couldn't legally collect for handling the estate. The owner was the sole survivor of his immediate family, and he had no dependents. Nobody wants the property because the income can't justify the bulk of the asking price. The asking price keeps going up because nobody wants it under those circumstances. What nobody around here seems to understand, is that the rents paid in are accumulating interest also, and will offset the amount of the asking price. IF a buyer forfeits the rents in lieu of dismissing the interest until the amounts even out, and then begin accumulating them again ... you see? And around and around. So B. of A. holds the deed, and it just keeps bleeding out both ends because nobody wants to take the chance of having it explode all over them. It's complicated."

I looked Perry in the face incredulously. "No shit." I hadn't understood a word he said. (I'm a doctor, not a mathematician.) "Jesus! That speech just made my brain start leaking out my ears."

He laughed. "This is New Hampshire, Mr. House. They're tight-lipped and tight-fisted and straight-laced. I might as well stand on a street corner and talk to a fire plug …"

I laughed too, loud and long. "Call a meeting of your board of directors, Mr. Perry. Sit down and let them hash it out. Cut to the chase and see if we can't get all this crap untangled so it'll stop the sideways hemorrhaging. Come up with something that'll benefit your bank and benefit the IRS and benefit me. If you all can come to a decent solution, you and I and they can sit down again and sign some papers and shake some hands and it's done. You and your bank are off the hook and everyone can breathe better. I don't mess around. In the meantime, draw up a contract that will put me in this apartment as soon as possible."

Perry looked at me hard. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"Yeah. Somebody should do it, don't you think? I can afford it. If it goes south, then I've paid my dime and taken my chances. But if it works, everybody'll benefit."

"How do you know?"

"Educated guess. My parents and stepdad died the same way this man did. Except they had wills. Their estate laid dormant and bleeding just like this one for almost a year because nobody could find me, and I was sole heir. Things piled up like woolly bears under a bed. Just like this place did. I was hiding on a tropical island. Pampering my leg … hoping it would heal. Not a single soul knew where to find me because I didn't want to be found. Well, the leg didn't heal and I came back after about a year.

"Nobody answered Mom's phone when I called, and I finally contacted her lawyer. That's how I found out that she and my stepdad had both died while I was hiding out. After my real dad died, Mom married again. I knew her new husband was well off, but I had no idea how well off. Plus the fact that she and my Dad had investments that laid by and accrued interest for fifty years … since before I was born. She and Dad never touched it … it was for their retirement … and then he died and she remarried. I didn't know about those either, and they piled up the same way your apartment owner's bills did. My parents and stepfather had savings that would have been the envy of King Tut. I inherited the whole works. Even after taxes and insurance and overdue bills and lawyers' fees, I'm still a wealthy man. And I wasn't poor by any means before then. The retirement money will pay for your Sylvester House three times over. And all the gimpy tenants will still have a place to live. Who the hell knows what would happen if somebody else got hold of it … ?

"I need a place to live too, and I qualify, and what's better than a handicap apartment right across the street from a classy hotel and restaurant? Can we do this, Perry? Shall we just hold our noses and dive on in?"

Bill Perry stared at me and shook his head. Then he grinned. "You bet. I'll have the lease drawn up for you by tomorrow, and we can transfer the funds and go from there. You can begin to move in the day after that."

"Huh-uh," I said. "No lease. It'll be cash. I don't want to mess around with monthly payments."

His jaw dropped, and I snickered. "Are you serious?" He asked.

"Yup. Serious as a myocardial infarction!"

There was a long silent pause, then a long indrawn breath. Perry's face was a deep shade of red. "Wow!" He finally said, "I wasn't expecting that. This will simplify things. Are you sure?"

"I'm sure, Bill ... and that's three times you almost swallowed your tongue."

We shook hands and that was it. I thought he might rise off the floor and float away, simply from the load I'd just lifted off his shoulders. I grinned and watched as he blew a huge whuff of air up toward the ceiling.

We continued to go over the figures and the snarled collection of money accounts until our vision began to blur. Our senses became nearly as convoluted as the interfacing of assets and liabilities spread out in front of us. We were both certain that a good team of accountants and money managers could figure it all out in a reasonable amount of time.

Probably …

Coffee was needed. And food. We decided to retreat to the Watson Inn and have lunch in their dining room. We got into our separate cars and drove across the street. Perry walked ahead of me and held open the trick door. I decided he'd eaten here before.

Lily hovered in the background as we entered. She beckoned for us to remove our coats, which we did. She hung everything, including my old newsboy cap, on the coatrack and said: "Good afternoon Bill … good afternoon Kyle."

We nodded and returned the greeting. Perry frowned when she called me 'Kyle', but showed no reaction other than a furrowed brow as Lily led us to my regular booth near the front windows.

"Coffee, gentlemen?"

We nodded and she hurried away toward the bar in the rear.

He looked at me across the table. "'Kyle?' You continue to amaze me," he said under his breath. "Might this be the 'later' that you mentioned awhile ago?"

I smiled and shrugged mysteriously, and then nodded. (I could keep on playing with this forever; it had the potential of growing into a giant snowball … growing and growing as it rolled downhill.) "It's really not a big deal. I changed my name legally. Mainly because I don't want to be found."

"For God's sake, why?"

"Because I'm a fugitive from justice, that's why."

"Wha-a-t?" The volume of his voice went up a few decibels and I held an index finger to my lips to hush it down again.

"Sorry … you surprised me. A fugitive? How?"

Lily was pushing a serving cart with our coffee and the lunch menus, and carrying the milking stool. We put a lid on the conversation for a moment.

"Here is your coffee, gentlemen. Kyle, I'm going to lift your foot now …"

"Thank you, Lily … I am a little sore today ..."

Gently she placed my foot on the cushion and straightened. I hissed softly; the neuropathy was spiking. She left us the coffee and the menus and hurried away again.

"Just how bad is your foot problem?" Perry wanted to know.

"Bad enough that I know I'm probably going to lose my leg above the knee. That's why I'm here … to see an ortho specialist at Dartmouth-Hitchcock."

"Jesus … I'm sorry …"

"Don't be. I'll tell you the whole story over lunch. Here she comes back, by the way."

After we gave Lily our lunch orders, she placed her hand lightly on my shoulder and smiled at Bill before taking the menus and returning to the kitchen.

"She has a crush on you," Perry teased.

I looked at him and snorted softly. "No she doesn't … she thinks she's my grandmother …"

We ordered meatloaf and mashed potatoes, the luncheon special, and continued our hushed conversation. I decided that since I fully intended to buy the old apartment building and all its crazy acquisition-and-legal problems with the help of this guy, he deserved to be told the whole sordid history of my outlaw past.

So I told him about driving my car through the wall of Cuddy's house and into the middle of her dining room, and then running off to Barbados for a year. I went into the wretched account of the infarction and its evil effects on my life. I told him of my mentorship of the young doctors I had supervised for years, and about the miracle cures which had been attributed to me, but which really belonged to these fledgling geniuses who followed in the wake of my madness.

I also told him that even with all my medical acumen and instinctive knowhow I was powerless to stop the progression of the malaise in my useless leg, and the constant pain as I fought a losing battle in my attempt to keep the damned thing attached. Which meant I had to admit I didn't know as much as I thought I did. I also didn't know how to treat people like human beings who had problems of their own. I didn't know how to make friends and keep them, and I didn't bother to curb my anger when I believed I was being pitied or patronized. I was so focused on my leg problem that I had no thoughts for anything or anyone else, and I chastised everyone who even noticed …

I told him I had been introduced to the work of Ed Thoreau and his team by a total stranger. I had abruptly changed direction and come here to enlist the man's assessment and decide what to do before my health deteriorated to zero.

Bill Perry listened intently and carefully with a sympathetic ear, interjecting a few educated and speculative questions from time to time. He had known about Thoreau and his medical research team for years …

… and when he paused to think about it, he also recalled the name of Gregory House: bigmouth, curmudgeonly genius diagnostician from Princeton, New Jersey.

"Jesus!" He exclaimed. "You're him?"

"I'm him," I said, frowning. "But I'm trying to shake the 'God-like' image."

Perry threw back his head and laughed again. After I dropped the "Kyle Calloway" bomb, he understood, not only why I prowled around incognito, but congratulated me on my ability to hide in plain sight. "Well hell," he growled, "it's not like you killed somebody. If you pay for repairs to the house, they'll probably drop the whole thing."

"That's kind of what I was thinking," I replied. "But first things first. Actually, it's kinda fun to hide under the bed sometimes …" I was beginning to like Bill Perry, and decided I could work with him. Period.

We finished our meal and left generous tips.

Perry assisted me to lift my foot off the stool and helped me get the crutches beneath my arms. He walked beside me to the front desk where he retrieved his coat. I paid the bill and exchanged a few words with Vern. After that we said our goodbyes and he left the hotel with the promise to return with a contract by tomorrow afternoon. I grabbed my coat and hat and staggered to my room to stash the crutches, hit the wheelchair and order a stiff drink or three from the bar … in that exact order.

Later, I called the storage facility in Princeton and arranged to have them haul my furniture and other stuff to Etna as soon as they could arrange to do so. I also called for painters and workmen to repair and spruce up the apartment's exterior and get it ready for a very important new occupancy:

Me!

The agreements were reached and everything would take place the following week. The movers would call me when the van hit town, and the painting contractor said their outside work could probably be done in two or three days, if it didn't snow. They would tackle the inside right after that. I agreed and we rang off.

I guessed my 'people skills' were slowly improving.

When I stopped to think about it, I realized that my need for some kind of action to combat the boredom had prompted me to buy this old apartment building with no idea how to be a landlord. To call a moving and storage company and arrange to have the rest of my belongings sent up to Eskimo Land pronto. And to take on more responsibility than I'd allowed myself to assume in ten damn years.

I had to come up for breath even thinking about it.

My incredulous 'head-voice' began bitching at me again:

*House, are you nuts?*

*Probably … but aint it gonna be fun!?*

My leg and foot hurt like hell. They hadn't been compensated enough for hanging around while I shot the shit with somebody for that long a time … in a long, long, freakin' long time.

I'd been too damn busy to pay the pain any attention, and now it was getting even …

C'est la vie!

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