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The Writing on the Wall - Part Six
by Evilida
For a moment before he opened his eyes, James Wilson experienced love for the person beside him - something pure and perfect that filled his whole being - and knew also that he was loved. He did not have the words to describe how it felt, knowing that all the love he had to give was accepted and returned, and it didn't matter that he couldn't have named the person for whom he felt such perfect love or even told you that person's age or sex. For that second, the feeling of cherishing and being cherished was enough. Then Wilson woke up. The feeling of sublime love faded away like the dream it was and he opened his eyes to an empty hotel room. He felt lost and abandoned. He knew that he hadn't lost anything real, but that didn't make his sense of desolation go away, just made it seem ridiculous and childish.
He groaned and twitched open the curtain to see the day outside. It was clear and sunny. He had an appointment with a university student at nine thirty. The young man was a freshman taking a summer course in economics and working evenings as a pizza delivery boy. Wilson had to tell him it was unlikely he'd live long enough to graduate; it was probable he'd be dead in six months. Wilson got up and went to his suitcase to get the bottle of anti-depressants he'd been prescribed. So far, they weren't doing very much that he could tell, though his therapist kept telling him to give them a chance to work. He took one pill out; then hid the bottle underneath a pile of neatly folded underwear. He didn't want the hotel staff to know anything about him so he packed everything back into his suitcases before he left for work every morning. Inadvertently, he made himself a man of mystery to the cleaners, who wouldn't have paid any attention to the odd bottle of prescription medicine or porn magazine, but who found his habit of locking everything away deeply suspicious. They knew that he had been visited by the police.
House woke up from a dream where he was having his leg amputated. He thought the dream was triggered by the scent of industrial cleaning products, which his sleeping mind associated with hospital disinfectants. In fact, his apartment smelled much more medicinal than the hospital. Before he even opened his eyes, House reached for the Vicodin, just as he did every morning. Actually his leg pain was reduced from the previous few days - an improvement he credited to sleeping on his own mattress in his own apartment - and he felt far less irritable. He took a couple Vicodin, limped to the window, and opened it wide to let in some fresh air. It was going to be a bright summer day.
Raymond Pope was an important man and he wanted everyone to know it. He wore his hand-tailored suit as if it were the robes of his high office - a visual symbol of the power he wielded. In Washington, D.C., he was courted and feared, driven from appointment to appointment by respectful chauffeurs in stately black cars, protected by a phalanx of secretaries, assistants and aides. In Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, however, he was just another supernumerary, waiting for news from one of the bustling doctors and nurses who seemed intent on ignoring him. His wife - a tall, African woman with a regal manner - was his only supporter.
In desperation, Mr. Pope grabbed the arm of a passing doctor. He was one of the doctors attending his daughter - the blond, foreign one. Pope felt a lingering distrust of all foreigners - a distrust that marriage to a French/African aristocrat and postings in a dozen countries had done nothing to alleviate. He thought that his daughter deserved an American doctor.
"I'm Raymond Pope," he said. "You're the doctor treating my daughter."
"I'm one of them. My name is Dr. Robert Chase. I'm a specialist in intensive care. Your daughter is under the care of a team of doctors headed by the hospital's Head of Diagnostic Medicine."
"So you're not in charge."
"No, I'm not, but I'm well informed on the circumstances of your daughter's case and I can answer any questions you have. I also have some questions that I'd like to ask you about Leonora's medical history. Unfortunately, she seems to have taken against me and won't talk to me. She starts barking and growling whenever I get close."
"She thinks you're a lizard person," Mrs. Pope said. Her husband winced, but she continued in a calm, dispassionate voice. "She believes that a lot of people, including her father, have been replaced by lizards."
"Lizard people," said Chase, making a note.
"Yes. She has a dog called Poppy. She says her dog is can sense one of the lizard people and always barks and growls when one comes near. The lizard people hate and fear dogs because they can detect them. That's why she growls. If you look upset or surprised, she thinks you're a lizard person."
"I want to talk to the doctor in charge - the Head of Diagnostic Medicine," Mr. Pope said.
"I'm afraid Dr. House is not available."
"Not available. Where is he?"
"I assure you I can answer all your questions," Chase said
"Listen, young man. I could have you deported. You'd never be able to come back to the United States. You'd be stuck in England or whatever other godforsaken hole you come from, forever. I can get you put on the no-fly list. I could have you sent to Guantanamo Bay! Take me to Dr. House!"
Chase knew that any encounter between Pope and House would be disastrous. Pope's pomposity would provoke his department head to never-before-seen heights of rudeness. In desperation, he spotted Dr. Cuddy down the corridor.
"Would you like to speak to the hospital's Chief of Medicine? Dr. Cuddy has taken a great interest in your daughter's case."
Chase waved franticly at Lisa Cuddy. His expression was beseeching; he needed her help. Cuddy glanced at Chase and then at the imposing man beside him. Chase was obviously incapable of dealing with him. Assuming an air of gravitas and authority, she walked toward them.
As soon as Chase could, he left Pope with Cuddy and went to House's office to warn him.
"I don't know how long Dr. Cuddy will be able to hold him off," Chase said. "His wife seemed fine, but I don't think you'll want to meet him."
"Are you suggesting that I flee my own office?"
"Yes. He's coming this way."
House's natural perversity made him want to meet Mr. Pope, just because Chase was so anxious to prevent such an encounter. Then he heard Pope's voice - overloud and filled with self-importance. The authoritarian tone reminded him of his father's voice. He wanted to avoid this man. He could not go out the front door, since Pope would see him. Instead he went to the balcony and manoeuvred over the low railing that separated his office from Wilson's. House looked through the glass door; the office was empty. He opened the unlocked balcony door and slipped in.
Wilson's office offered few distractions. House opened Wilson's desk drawers, but there were only the usual paper clips, pens and breath mints. His bottom drawer was locked, but House had picked the lock before and knew that it contained a seldom used half-bottle of whiskey. Still, he might have put something else in the drawer since that last time he had checked. House took one of Wilson's paper clips and began to straighten it out. He wished he had Foreman's skills; the neurologist was much more adept at lock-picking than he was. The telephone rang. The departmental secretary was on her coffee break, so the call went straight to voice mail. Wilson's had left his phone in speaker-phone mode, so House could hear the caller.
"Hi, Jimmy. It's Roy. I guess you never expected to hear from me again. Actually, I always intended to get in touch with you again, but I wanted to have my life back in control before I did it. I didn't want my little brother to be ashamed of me. I remember our last meeting. Maybe I was a little hard on you then. I guess we were hard on each other."
House could hear a deep sigh of relief on the other end as if the effort of making an apology, if apology it was, had exhausted the speaker. Now, the voice sounded stronger and more confident.
"I probably shouldn't have phoned on a Friday - you're probably off playing golf with all the other doctors," Roy said.
"I've been doing well, basically. I've kicked the drugs totally - been clean a couple years. Getting off drugs was hard - unbelievably hard, but I did it. Just be thankful you never got addicted, because detoxing would have killed you.
I've been working, just day labour sort of stuff right now; I've got some legal troubles that have to be straightened out before I can find anything better. Anyway, I'm calling because I've got this cop who's been asking around about me. He seems to have it in for me, and I can't figure out why. As far as I know, I've never set eyes on the guy. His name is Tritter and he just hates me for no reason.
Anyway, when a man is in serious trouble, the way I am, that's when he appreciates family. Maybe you won't be able to help me, but just knowing that you still care about me, after all these years, would mean so much to me. Mikey was always jealous of me, and I know I can't go to him for help. I don't want to bother Mom and Dad. They deserve some peace and quiet, and besides they gave up on me years ago. You're my only hope.
I can't leave my phone number or anything just in case. I'll phone you back and maybe we can arrange to meet. I'd really like to see my baby brother again. Anyway, gotta go."
House pressed star 69, but the call had gone through hospital reception. Remembering his earlier conversation with Michael Wilson, House was tempted to erase the saved message. He was certain that Roy's return was bad news for Dr. James Wilson. However, Roy had promised to phone back, so erasing the message would only alert Wilson to House's snooping.
House popped his head out of the door of Wilson's office and saw Cuddy leading Raymond Price to her office. Price had calmed down and appeared almost gracious as he gestured for Lisa to enter her office first. Sometimes, House was amazed by Cuddy's skill at handling egotistical assholes, until he remembered that she had honed her skills by coping with him.
After he had delivered his news to the university student, Wilson felt emotionally exhausted. It seemed especially cruel to talk about dying on a day when the sky was so blue and clear and bird song could be heard above the distant murmur of traffic. There was, of course, paperwork to do, as always, but Wilson allowed himself a little break. He sat on a bench in a park while men and women in shorts and t-shirts ran by. He was just deciding that he had taken as long a break as he could afford, when he saw House heading towards him. Wilson moved over a bit to accommodate his friend.
"Hello," Wilson said. "How was the first night back in your apartment?"
"It was a little uncomfortable but much better than your hotel. Whoever went berserk in my apartment broke my bed frame. I couldn't sleep on the couch, because it's still damp with cleaning products, so I had to sleep with my mattress on the floor like a college student."
"Has Steve McQueen shown up yet?"
"I thought I heard some rustling. I hope it was Steve McQueen and not one of his wild relatives."
"I've still got some furniture in storage," Wilson said. "You can use it until you get some new stuff, or until I move out of the hotel and get my own place, whichever comes first."
"Is it furniture from Bonnie's place or from Julie's place? I always hated Julie's furniture. It was so uncomfortable. It was designed to make you sit up straight and mind your manners."
"If that's what it was designed for," Wilson said, "it certainly didn't work. At least not for you. Anyway, it's about half Bonnie, half Julie, a smidgeon of Michelle. I've got stuff in there I haven't touched since med school, maybe even high school. I can take you out tomorrow."
"What about your appointment with the new realtor?"
"Oh, him. He keeps talking about Tuscan marble tile and nine-foot ceilings. I'm not eight and a half feet tall - I don't need nine foot ceilings. He's obviously not going to work out. I'll call and cancel. Anything else you need?"
House looked at his friend. When he had approached Wilson sitting on the bench, House could see his tension and unhappiness reflected in his body language - the tightness around his neck and shoulders that he tried to ease with massage. Now, the prospect of helping another person in a practical way had cheered Wilson. His eyes were brighter and he was no longer rubbing his neck.
"I was thinking of just buying everything over the Internet," House said.
"You'll need a new computer first. We can go computer shopping too."
"Why are you so keen to spend your weekend helping me?" House said. "Do you just want to avoid seeing the real estate agent? You can just phone up and cancel; you don't have to use me as an excuse. Or do you feel guilty because you think your brother broke into my apartment, and you're trying to make it up to me?"
"This is really annoying. I'm trying to be nice."
"I know you're trying to be nice. I'm asking you why you're trying to be nice."
"Sometimes people just want to do nice things for their friends. Other people, that is, not you."
"Now, you are accusing me of not being nice. My feelings are hurt."
"Don't be ridiculous. I couldn't hurt your feelings with an elephant gun."
"I'm a sensitive, feeling soul," said House," but I hide behind a gruff exterior. I'm like an M&M. Gooey centre, hard shell. Just ask Cameron."
Wilson snorted. He looked at his watch. He had a departmental meeting to attend in five minutes.
"I've got to go. Should I pick you up at ten tomorrow morning, or is that too early?"
House rose from the bench and they walked in unison towards the hospital.
Wilson's meeting took longer than he expected. It was late afternoon before he returned to his office. He intended to get in a couple of hours at his desk before the weekend. Then he listened to his messages and all thoughts of paperwork vanished from his mind.
Wilson's emotions were confused. He felt relief at hearing his brother's voice. For years, he had been replaying there last conversation in his mind, wondering what he could have said or done to change the outcome - to stop his brother from walking away. Now, that burden of guilt was eased. He was proud that his older brother trusted him more than Mike and more than his own parents. He was happy that Roy had kicked his drug habit and was living a clean life. However, he also felt something else - something he didn't want to admit. He felt fear.
Roy was a natural leader. When they were both young, Roy had been the centre of a group of teenagers, too loosely structured to be called a gang. His little brother had been thrilled to be allowed to spend time with them. Roy had sold some weed, of course; back then, he was more into dealing drugs than using them. He occasionally shoplifted, broke into a vacationing neighbour's house to steal liquor, or went joy-riding, but he wasn't a real criminal. Real criminals were bad, but Roy was cool. Still Jimmy knew enough not to mention these activities to his parents or to Mike; he knew that if he did, they would never let him hang out with Roy.
It had been late August. It was still summer, still hot and sunny, but there was a coolness in the evenings that presaged autumn. There were already dead brown leaves in the gutters. There had even been a flyer for school supplies in the newspaper, but Jimmy had taken it out and hidden it in the trash before his parents could see it. It wasn't that Jimmy hated school. What Jimmy hated was spending the last few hours of his precious summer buying gym shoes and exercise books.
Roy and his friends thought that school was `totally bogus' and that only nerds cared about grades. They would willingly have spent the whole of their teen years leaning in alleyways smoking or hanging out at the video arcade, if only the world of adults would leave them alone.
"I hope I don't get Mrs. Nicodemus again for English," said Pete. "I can't stand that bitch. She was coming on to me last year, but I blew her off. That's why she gave me a "D"."
"They shouldn't let her teach English anyway," Roy's girlfriend, Paula, said. "She can't even speak it properly. She's from Bermuda or somewhere. They don't even speak proper English like Americans. This is how she talks."
Paula did an impression of Mrs. Nicodemus. Apparently, the teacher sounded a lot like Paula with a bad cold. One of the other girls smiled. Jimmy laughed to be polite. Everybody else ignored her. Paula had to try something else to make the others like her.
"So," she said in a babyish voice, "is little Jimmy looking forward to school?"
Jimmy backed away from her. He didn't like being the centre of attention. It felt dangerous.
"Guess so," he mumbled.
"What grade are you going to be in?"
"Two...three." Jimmy had been in first grade, and had done so well that the school had decided to let him skip a grade.
"Aren't you sure?" Paula asked. "Look at him. He doesn't even know what grade he's going to."
"Going to grade three," Jimmy mumbled again.
Now, Paula had bent her knees and was staring into his face. Jimmy was turning red under her scrutiny.
"Do you know who teaches grade three, Jimmy?"
Jimmy shook his head.
"I'm surprised that they didn't tell you. Usually on the last day of grade two, they have a special meeting with all the grade twos. There's the parents and the principal and all the students. Roy told me that you skipped a grade, so I bet you missed the special meeting, huh? I can still remember it. Do you remember that special meeting when you were in grade two, Pete?"
"I sure can," said her accomplice. "I was scared shitless."
"Sure you were. Even a brave guy like Pete, he was terrified. You would have fainted dead away, `cause I know you scare easily."
"That's for sure," laughed Roy.
"They have to prepare everybody. There was this one kid; he was away with chicken pox, and no one thought to warn him. On the first day of grade three, he saw his new teacher, and he had a heart attack. Just fell over dead. Who even knew nine year olds could have heart attacks?"
"His hair turned white turned, too," one of the girls said.
"Yeah. Anyway, they have this meeting and they warn all the students and parents ahead of time about the third grade teacher. Even the other teachers, even the principal, is afraid of the third grade teacher, but they're too scared to fire him. His name's Mr. Beelsbub. Every year, one of the boys from his class just disappears. Sometimes it's one of the naughty boys who talk in class and don't pay attention, but sometimes they're good boys who do all their homework. You just can't tell who's going to disappear."
"In my year," Pete said, "it was Frank. He sat right behind me and used to throw bits of eraser down the back of my shirt."
"I remember Frank," said Paula. "You remember him; don't you, Roy?"
"Sure, Frank," Jimmy's brother nodded.
Jimmy had been almost certain that Paula was lying, until Roy confirmed her story. Although he still doubted her, she might be telling the truth. She certainly looked truthful. Her face was solemn.
"You know, wasn't Frank the youngest boy in the class?" she asked Pete. "I think it's pretty well always the youngest boy in the class, isn't it? I guess, since you're skipping a grade, that'll be you."
Jimmy nodded. She had to be lying, didn't she? But all of the teenagers looked concerned now.
"No one knows what happens to the boys that disappear but there are rumours. I don't want to tell you the rumours. You're too young; they'd scare you too much. I hate to think of our little Jimmy disappearing like that."
"So sad," said one of the girls, mournfully.
"Unless... I don't know if you want to do this... but you could ask Mr. Beelsbub to pick someone else to disappear. If you asked really nicely; if you kissed his shoes, he might agree. It wouldn't be a very nice thing to do though, letting another boy take your place. Do you think you want to do that? Get someone else to take your place?"
Reluctantly, Jimmy nodded his head.
"I know where Beelsbub lives," Roy said. "He's on Spooner Street, near the park. We'll take you there, okay?"
Jimmy followed his brother and his friends. Spooner Street seemed to be a long way away. He'd missed dinnertime and the sky was darkening. At last, Roy stopped in front of a grey house with peeling paint. The lawn was a patch of dry straggling weeds. There was a big dog tied to a chain in the front yard. He barked and snapped, pulling on his chain, but Jimmy could see that the dog couldn't quite reach the cracked walkway that led to the front door.
"That's Mr. Beelsbub's dog," Paula said. "His name's Sir Bus."
Jimmy thought Sir Bus was a very strange name for a dog.
"Come on," Roy said, shoving him toward the door. "Don't be a coward, for God's sake. You're my brother; act like you've got some guts."
Jimmy took a couple of steps towards the front door. This act of trespass seemed to make Sir Bus crazy. He pulled against his chain which thankfully, mercifully held. Inside the house, Jimmy heard another dog bark. It sounded, if anything, even bigger and meaner than Sir Bus. Jimmy turned to look for his brother, but Roy and his friends had left. Perhaps Sir Bus had scared them away. Jimmy took another few tentative steps towards Mr. Beelsbub's house. He didn't see a doorbell, so he knocked on the screen door, sending Sir Bus and the other dog into a fury.
The door sprang open and Mr. Beelsbub appeared before him. Mr. Beelsbub was enormous. He was well over six feet tall and weighed at least three hundred and fifty pounds. His hair was red and his skin was pale and spotted. He waved something at Jimmy's face. Jimmy thought it was a knife or a gun, but actually it was the remote control to a t.v.
"How many times do I have to tell you damned kids not to tease the damned dog!" he roared.
Backing away, Jimmy tripped on the uneven pavement. He cracked his head on the cement of the walkway and almost passed out. Then he scrambled to his feet and fled. The nightmare called after him, but Jimmy was too frightened to make sense of what he said. In any case, it was drowned out by the furious barking of Mr. Beelsbub's dogs.
"Hey, kid. You all right? You look like you hit your head pretty hard."
When Jimmy didn't reply, the door slammed and Mr. Beelsbub went back inside. Jimmy was still shaking. He felt dizzy and he'd wet his pants. Worse yet, he had been too cowardly to even speak to Mr. Beelsbub. His brother would be so ashamed of him that he would not even care when Jimmy disappeared.
Jimmy was throwing up in the gutter when his brother and his friends came back.
"So did you kiss Mr. Beelsbub's shoes?" Paula asked cheerfully. Then she looked more closely at the boy. "Oh God, what happened to you?"
"Hit my head."
"Lord," Paula said. "He could have concussion. I took it in First Aid. We should take him to the hospital." She peered into Jimmy's eyes.
"He's fine," Roy said. "Aren't you Jimmy?"
Throwing up had made Jimmy feel dizzier, so he sat down on the curb.
"I think Paula's right," Pete said. "He doesn't look well."
"He's not going to the hospital. My dad'll raise hell if he finds out. He's not sick anyway. He's acting up for Paula. He's got a crush on her. Come on, Jimmy get up."
When Jimmy did not get up, Roy picked him up. He thought carrying a child was beneath his masculine dignity. He was not happy.
"Gonna tell Dad about Mr. Beelsbub. Tell him to let me go to grade two instead," Jimmy sounded half asleep. Paula became more concerned.
"Come on, Roy. He's got to see a doctor."
"You are not going to mention Mr. Beelsbub to Dad or Mom or Mike or anyone. Not ever."
"Yes, I will," Jimmy said. "I'm not going into Mr. Beelsbub's class. I'm gonna tell Dad and he'll get me out."
"Shut up about it, or I'll turn round and take you back to Mr. Beelsbub right now."
That was when Jimmy began to cry. And that was when Roy lost his temper.
After that, they had to take Jimmy to the hospital. Even Roy had to agree. The doctor who set his broken arm and admitted him overnight for observation did not believe Roy's story about a playground accident. He said as much to Jimmy's parents when he telephoned them. They promised to speak to Roy and find out what had really happened.
The Wilsons were scared of Roy. Although the boy hadn't yet finished high school, he already outweighed his father by fifty pounds. When he lost his temper, he could not control himself. Rather than confront him directly, they simply decided to keep Jimmy away from his older brother as much as possible. They never talked about the incident to Jimmy at all. When school started up - no Mr. Beelsbub, thank God - Jimmy told his classmates he'd broken his arm falling off the swings, which was what his brother told him to say.
Paula was disgusted with herself. She had behaved horribly towards Jimmy Wilson, who was a nice, polite, little boy who had never done her any harm, just to impress Roy and his loser friends. She didn't like to think of what Roy had become when he'd lost his temper. She'd grown up in a safe loving home, and she no real experience with violence, so she hadn't known how to respond. She'd let Roy give his little brother a black eye and watched him break his arm. She just hadn't known what to do to stop him. She never wanted to see Roy again.
In 2007, James Wilson knows that he broke his arm as a child, but the exact circumstances are a bit cloudy. He remembers a big dog because he was scared of dogs for years afterward. He remembers the brown leaves in the gutter. He remembers fear and pain. He knows that it is better, safer, not to think about the rest.
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of NBC/Universal, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.
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