Chapter 57

"Ugly Damn Volkswagen"

HOUSE:

FIVE P. M. AND IT'S DARK AS A WEST VIRGINIA COAL MINE. STREET LIGHTS AND CHRISTMAS LIGHTS ARE THE ONLY SOURCES OF ILLUMINATION IN THE WHOLE DAMN TOWN. LOOKS LIKE NOBODY'S AT HOME ALL ALONG THE BLOCK, BUT THEY'RE PROBABLY HOLED UP AGAINST THE WIND. THE WEATHER CHANNEL REPORTS IT'S ABOUT SEVEN DEGREES OUT THERE. I LOOKED OUT THE FRONT WINDOW A WHILE AGO, AND WAS SURPRISED TO SEE THAT ALL THE PACKING FROM THE OLD RADIO IS GONE FROM THE PORCH. JAKE MUST HAVE COME BACK AND PICKED IT UP WHILE I WAS IN HERE STARING AT THE TV AND CATNAPPING.

I thought about taking a hike across the street for supper, but getting bundled up and fighting the wind on crutches just didn't appeal to me. I got out a small pack of hamburger, an onion, a jar of pasta sauce, and one can each of tomato soup and mushroom soup. Mix 'em together and it makes a good batch of spaghetti sauce that only takes a few minutes. I also put a pot of water on the stove to boil. Spaghetti sounds pretty good in a pinch.

Maybe I'll go across the street for lunch tomorrow. It'll be Saturday, the day I usually trade places with Lily … a week's worth of peeled veggies in exchange for her services as my housekeeper. I wondered briefly whether Jake had told her I was scheduled for amputation. If he did, she would be all over me about it the next time I saw her. My Guardian Angel would be all teary eyed and solicitous when she found out I was going to lose the leg, and I needed to prepare myself for an outpouring of sympathy. Not welcomed, but that was Lily …

I stood at the front window, in the darkened room, looking through the glass at the old hotel across the street and scanning the deserted neighborhood. Tree limbs and Christmas decorations danced a jig in the wind blowing down from the mountains. I could hear the wind whistling around the eaves of the old Sylvester House, and feel the phantom cold that gave me spastic shivers even in this warm environment. So much for the fantasyland of a New England winter. But I had asked for it, and here it was, and it was actually filled with amazing charm.

Lights were bright inside the Watson Inn, and there are a few cars in the parking lot. I suspected most of them belonged to people who wanted a good meal and were used to New Hampshire weather extremes. They already knew Lily Chamberlin's reputation for haute cuisine and impeccable service.

At the front of the lot, facing the street, was a puke-green Volkswagen bug; an old one, from the looks of it. Arc lights glinted off its dingy paint, smeared with salt residue and road dirt. The reflections highlighted one of those ugly clam-shell carryalls attached to the roof. Shadows below made the thing look like an ancient Panzer tank that an angry army had shot off its big-gun muzzle, once mounted in front. It certainly didn't belong anywhere near this neck of the woods. It had traveled a very long distance. I squinted, trying to see the front license plate.

FLORIDA?

*Long way from home, aren't you, friend?*

The front plate, however, wasn't issued by the state of Florida. It was there to fill the empty space created by the absence of a second official license plate. It depicted a large orange with a smiley face painted onto it. At the top, it read "FLORIDA" and beneath: "THE SUNSHINE STATE".

My heart skipped a beat as I continued to stare. The driver of that jitney either didn't know hot from cold, or else … the way every hair on my body was suddenly leaping upward to stand on end … meant that it could be the miracle I'd been longing for …

I grabbed for my glasses and looked again.

*That car came all the way up here from Florida! In the dead of winter. Don't tell me that's where the mensch has been hiding out all this time!*

I remembered Vince Crane telling me years earlier that Wilson had traded his Volvo on a smaller car. He wasn't shittin' … that thing was like trading a grasshopper for a flea …

I scanned the windows on the hotel's second story, looking for illumination indicating someone staying there. Sure enough, there were lights on in the corner room, but turned down. As I stared, I saw movement behind the curtains, as though someone was looking over here as I was looking over there.

Another jolt of static electricity skittered down my spine; re-igniting the pain in my leg and making me list to the side dangerously. My breathing changed momentum and my heartbeat accelerated as I quickly recovered my balance and took a last long look across the street.

I heard the spaghetti water boiling over and spilling onto the burner. I smiled to myself as I lurched to the stove to add the pasta, lower the heat, chop the onion and shred the hamburger into the pan. My hands were shaking and I could feel emotion spilling out of me … just like the pasta water spilling onto the hot surface.

*Wilson is here … at last …"

WILSON:

IT WAS GETTING LATE. I DON'T KNOW WHAT TIME IT WAS WHEN I PULLED VANNA INTO THE BIG PARKING LOT AND SHUT OFF THE ENGINE. I WONDERED IF THE LITTLE CAR WAS AS TIRED AS ME. THE ICY WIND TORE AT MY LIGHT JACKET AND DIVED DOWN INTO MY OPEN-NECKED SHIRT AS I UNLOADED MY LUGGAGE AND DUG MY WINTER COAT FROM UNDER THE MESS IN THE BACK SEAT.

I LUGGED MY CARRYALL AND ANOTHER SUITCASE INTO THE LOBBY OF THE CHARMING OLD HOTEL AFTER A BRIEF WRESTLING MATCH WITH THE STRANGE FRONT DOOR. I SET THEM DOWN AND LOOKED AROUND. CHRISTMAS DECORATIONS DOMINATED THE COMMON AREA, AND STRINGS OF BLINKING MULTICOLORED LIGHTS GAVE THE ROOM A FESTIVE AIR. I COULD SMELL A COMBINATION OF SAGE AND ROSEMARY AND CINNAMON AND OTHER WINTER SPICES THAT TICKLED MY SENSES WITH HERETOFORE NEGLECTED AWARENESS OF THE FAST-APPROACHING HOLIDAY SEASON.

I decided the front door was tricky only if you were unfamiliar with the mechanism that opened it. It almost hit me in the butt, but I jumped out of the way quickly, banging both shins with the edges of the suitcases.

The man tending the registration desk was a thin senior citizen, hawk-nosed and white-haired. He was sitting on a tall upholstered stool behind the counter pretending to read a newspaper. His glasses were perched low on his elegant aquiline nose. He smiled as I approached, and slid the paper discreetly out of sight beneath the counter. "Guess you didn't see the sign on the door before you came in," he accused casually. "Next time just press the bar and it'll open automatically and give you time to get your luggage inside before it kicks you in the rear end. I reckon you're an out-of-stater … you got a tan, and nobody from New Hampshire in their right mind would dress like you … this time'a year …"

I got the impression that he was holding back laughter. I dropped both pieces of luggage to the floor, pursed my lips and glared at him for a few seconds and then smiled in return. "Thanks. I'll try to remember that. And you're right … I'm from New Jersey by way of West Palm Beach ..."

"Thought so … can I help you? I gather you would like a room. You look like you're frozen half to death."

"You're right about the frozen part," I admitted. "I knew New Hampshire got cold in the winter, but this wind is brutal. I've been on the road awhile."

He climbed off the stool and opened a huge old registry book, flipping it around to face me. "A single room will run you one-twenty-five a week, meals and maid service extra. Right now you have your pick of every room on the third floor, and all but one on the second floor. The ground floor consists of offices, conference and banquet rooms, dining facilities, kitchen and meat locker and a room reserved for handicap guests. So sign in on the dotted line and choose your space. Will you be paying with cash or credit? My name is Paul Friedline, by the way, and I'm the night clerk. So … welcome to Etna."

I pulled out my wallet and placed my Visa card on the counter. "Thanks. Glad to meet you, Paul. I'm James Wilson, and I'll need a room for … let's make it a week."

He slid my card through the slot, pushed it and the receipt across for me to sign. I did so and we were square. "Got a room preference?"

"How about second floor, west corner. Seems like a good place to get a look at the town."

"Done," Paul said. "Good choice. Room 208. I'll call Nancy to come tend the desk, and I'll ride along up with you. He pressed a button on the side of the counter, grabbed a key and pointed to a short hallway across the room. Elevator's over there."

He bent to pick up my luggage, but I beat him to it. "You've got a couple of years on me, Paul. I'll take these. You lead the way."

He nodded. "I will indeed. Thank you."

A sandy haired middle-aged woman pushed through a pair of bat-wing doors from an area I decided was the main dining room, and walked up to us. She smiled and slid behind the counter. "Good evening, sir," she said, and I nodded politely. "Go ahead, Dad. I've got ya covered."

Paul nodded and started across the room with me following.

The elevator was small and its mechanism very quiet. The trip to the second floor took about six seconds. When we got off into the dimly lit hallway, Paul turned to the right and led me to the last room on the right. He unlocked the door, turned on the lights and showed me inside. I followed him and set down the suitcases. The room wasn't huge, but it contained all the amenities I would need. He pointed out the bathroom, the location of the closet, the house phone and the TV. There was also a port for my laptop, plenty of electrical outlets, a comfortable chair, a table and a handsome queen-size bed.

"You can call for room service any time before ten at night. After that, they'll make you sandwiches and drinks, but not full meals. Press the "O" for the kitchen staff. The "9" will get you an outside line." He paused a moment, then: "You here on business, James? "

It was a fair question and a familiar conversation starter. "Not really," I said. "Actually, I'm trying to locate someone. I've tracked him as far as Etna, but I'm not sure if he's here or not." (I knew he was, because I'd seen the car.)

"What's his name?" Paul asked. "I've lived here all my life. Maybe I know him."

I inhaled a deep breath and took the plunge. If I were stepping out of bounds, this man would surely tell me. "His name is … Kyle Calloway … he's a few years older than me … and he has a bad leg. Walks with a cane the last I knew …"

Paul's eyes widened in recognition. "Kyle? Well sure, everybody knows Kyle Calloway. In fact they all keep pretty close tabs on him … watch out for him … kind of dote on him. The two of you must have been out of touch for a loo-nng time. He doesn't use a cane anymore. You do mean 'Doctor' Calloway; that right?"

I blinked.

*Keep tabs on him? Watch out for him? 'Dote' on him? Really?*

"Unh … yeah. We were colleagues a long time ago. Then he dropped out of sight. I happened to read an article in the Journal of the American Medical Association that was written by him. I decided to try to find him."

Paul looked at me with raised eyebrows, and a smile widened across his face. "Well, you've about hit the jackpot on that one. He lives directly across the street from here." He pointed a finger at the front window. "Ground floor apartment, this side. You might want to go say 'hello' tomorrow. Or just wait 'til morning and walk downstairs. He works in our kitchen 'most every Saturday …"

I was speechless and unaware that my mouth was hanging open. "He's really here …" I was also unaware that I'd spoken out loud.

"Uh-huh. But he's … probably not like he was when you knew him …" Paul's voice sounded a little "off".

I frowned. What was he getting at? Something with House's bad leg? I looked a whole pile of questions into the space separating us.

"He uses crutches now. Or a wheelchair. Depends on how he's feeling. His leg is in sorry shape. You should be aware of that before you see him."

Stunned, I barely answered. I should have known. Trying to perform surgery on his own leg while sitting in a bathtub, could not have had a positive outcome, especially after flying the coop with stitches separated and his wound seeping blood through the thick material of denim jeans …

I thanked Paul sincerely and told him I would take "Kyle's" situation into consideration. He handed me the room key and left shortly after that. I had a lot of time to think. Mostly, I was heartbroken about the news, but it was what it was. I would deal with it. I had to. Just as House did.

I stood in the shower a long time, and I'm sure there were some hot tears mixed with the hot water running down my face …

HOUSE:

I WOKE UP SATURDAY MORNING TO NUMBING PAIN. MY KNEE LAY FROZEN AT A FORTY FIVE DEGREE ANGLE; THE WASTED CALF, HARD AS ROCK. EDEMA HAD MADE THE ANKLE SPONGY AND ACHY. I BENT OVER AS FAR AS I COULD, TEETH CLAMPED ON MY BOTTOM LIP TO KEEP FROM MOANING OUT LOUD. I GRIPPED BOTH HANDS TIGHTLY ONTO THE HARD CALF MUSCLE AND WORKED IT AROUND … AND AROUND … UNTIL IT FINALLY EASED ENOUGH TO MOVE BACK AND FORTH AND I COULD BEGIN TO BREATHE AGAIN. I WAS SURE THAT AT LEAST PART OF IT STEMMED FROM MY DEDUCTION THAT THE ONE MAN I HAD SO LONGED TO SEE WAS SETTLED IN RIGHT ACROSS THE STREET.

WHEN I FINALLY ROLLED INTO THE BATHROOM, I FOUND THAT MY URINE WAS A SHADE DARKER, AND SLIGHTLY CLOUDY IN THE BOWL. THAT WASN'T GOOD. I WAS DUE AT THE HOTEL IN AN HOUR OR SO TO DO LILY'S VEGGIE CHOPPING FOR THE COMING WEEK. BUT I RECOGNIZED THE FACT THAT I WAS ABOUT TO EXPERIENCE KIDNEY FAILURE. I SHOULD DO SOMETHING QUICKLY. IT WAS TIME TO FISH OR CUT BAIT. NO MORE PLAYING AROUND WITH MY CHICKENSHIT GAME OF LIFE. I HAD TO CALL ED THOREAU AND TELL HIM TO PROCEED WITH PLANS FOR SURGERY. IT WAS WAY PAST TIME. I HAD BEEN SO DEEP IN DENIAL THAT I HADN'T EVEN REALIZED WHY I'D FELT SO MUCH EXTRA BODY PAIN THE PAST FEW DAYS. ERNIE FIRESTONE WAS RIGHT: DOCTORS MAKE LOUSY PATIENTS, ESPECIALLY WHEN THEY TRY TO TREAT THEMSELVES.

I called Lily first. "I can't come over today, dear. I'm sorry. I have go to the hospital and get my leg checked. It's to the point that It's making me ill, and the pain is just too much to deal with."

I hate doing this to Lily. Hers is the softest of hearts, and here I was, laying more shit on her. I heard her breath hitch. "Oh Kyle … I'm so sorry …" So I told her I needed to see the doctor … no use letting her know the truth.

Of course she understood. She hoped I would be all right and she would say a prayer for me, and please feel better, poor Kyle …

And I cringed and sighed and rang off. Then I called Ed Thoreau and told him I was going over to the hospital … and I was ready to have the fuckin' leg cut off. I'd finally had enough … and I told him about the dark urine in the bowl this morning. Ed said he would meet me there.

I got dressed and bundled up in my heavy coat and wool hat and set out to drive over to Dartmouth-Hitchcock.

"Ready to fish or cut bait, huh?" said the man.

"Yeah." Further words were unnecessary, and we both knew it.

WILSON:

IT WAS EARLY IN THE MORNING, BUT I WAS ALREADY UP. FILLED WITH NERVOUS ENERGY AND HIGH EXPECTATION, I MADE A POT OF COFFEE AND SAT DOWN AT THE TABLE WITH IT.

I WATCHED OUT THE WINDOW, UP AND DOWN THE STREET AND AROUND THE QUIET NEIGHBORHOOD. THE WIND HAD DIED DOWN OVERNIGHT AND THE DANCING CHRISTMAS LIGHTS WERE NOT ONLY TURNED OFF, BUT RESTING SEDATELY BETWEEN THEIR THIN ELECTRICAL WIRES.

ACROSS THE STREET I SAW THE DOOR OF THE FIRST-FLOOR APARTMENT PUSH OPEN. THEN I SAW GREGORY HOUSE IN THE FLESH. WATCHED HIM SMOKE A CIGAR AND TOSS THE BUTT INTO THE STREET.

THEN I SAW HIM AGAIN … BIG AS LIFE AND SKINNY AS A RAIL, BUT VERY MUCH ALIVE … STEP OUT ONTO HIS FRONT PORCH AND HOP ABOUT CLUMSILY TO REACH HIS BALANCE. THERE WAS NO SHOE ON HIS RIGHT FOOT; ONLY A HEAVY HUNTING-TYPE SOCK TO PROTECT IT FROM THE COLD. THE VERY FANCY CRUTCHES WERE BRIGHT RED AND HE, OF COURSE, MANEUVERED THEM EXPERTLY. I FELT MY EYES MIST UP, AND I EXERTED ALL THE WILL POWER I POSSESSED NOT TO WEEP. I SUCCEEDED ONLY MINIMALLY. I COULD FEEL HOT TEARS TRACK DOWN MY CHEEKS AS I WATCHED HIM …

There was a world of weariness surrounding him. The long, easy stride he'd had years ago, even while using the cane, had lent him a certain unique grace: 'grace with ripples'.

Now that grace was gone, replaced by something else I couldn't quite define. He looked tired. Over burdened. He was thin. Too thin, even for him. There was a stringiness about his body that hadn't been there before. Like the world had become too much to bear. Like he was on his way to his last battlefield.

I followed his progress across the sidewalk and saw him open the driver's door of the car I'd spotted last night. He sat down on the driver's seat sideways. I couldn't see his movements clearly after that, but his body language told me he was lifting the crutches to lean them across the seat and settling the affected leg deliberately inside the car; moving it gentle across the transmission hump and down. He must be experiencing unknown amounts of pain. Finally he was able to tuck the rest of his lanky body into the car. For a long moment he leaned into the steering wheel, arms crossed on the top of it. Recovering from the small exertion. Gathering the strength to continue to where he was going …

I made no move follow him. When I met him face-to-face, I wanted it to be a pleasant surprise, not an unpleasant encounter with him suspicious of having been stalked and pounced upon …

HOUSE:

I started the Dynasty and let the defroster run until the windshield was clear. No way in hell could I stand out there and scrape it.

I could feel eyes upon me just now as I was walking across the sidewalk. The presence of eyes I had not seen for more years than I cared to think about. I felt the warmth and the concern and the intensity of unexpressed emotion I had so often felt before … now tempered with … goddammit! … pity.

*Aw, Wilson … don't you come up here and treat me like a carton of eggs! I have enough crap to deal with, without getting it dished out in spades from you. I'm anxious to see you too, but JEEZUS! Don't give me the 'brown-eyes' routine and make me bust your chops … that's a laugh, aint it, Jimmy …?*

WILSON:

He was late getting back. I stayed in my room, periodically checking at the window. Catnapped. Made another pot of coffee. Had a sandwich sent up to my room, midday. Scanned the TV channels. Found nothing, turned it off.

I saw the Dynasty's headlights pierce the dark in front of his apartment about 7:30 p.m.. The streets were just as deserted as they had been last night, except that the wind had died down completely. The Christmas decorations were no longer lashing around against the metal streetlight poles.

House got out and staggered inside his apartment, closed the door. After a time, all the lights went out.

Worried, but unable to do anything about it, I went to bed early.

HOUSE:

Sunday morning:

Yesterday had been hell.

I underwent test after test; treatment after treatment.

I'm not going into detail, but they drowned me in antibiotics. They strung me up to IVs. And they manipulated my damn leg until I yelled bloody murder. They smiled and said: "That's okay, Kyle … you won't have to put up with this much longer. Enjoy it while you can!"

Bastards!

They stuck their 'you-know-whats' into my' you-know-wheres' and wiggled them around.

"OW-W-W!"

They took measurements and calibrations and figured out nano-electronic configurations and smiled sweetly when I asked what the hell they were doing. (Like I didn't know …)

All they would say was that I was soon to become the new Six-Million Dollar Man.

"You can go home now, Kyle. Someone will assist you in getting dressed.

"Expect a call in a couple of days."

"Well Whooo-pee!

… Goldberg!"

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