Johnnie Walker
The first Christmas present Wilson had ever given House was a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue Label. This was the winter following Wilson’s arrest in New Orleans, when House was still living in Syracuse and Wilson was doing his residency in Boston, keeping in contact with sporadic emails and a few drunken phone calls.
That morning House had made his obligatory phone call home, making polite chat with his mother for a few minutes before being reminded about his father’s upcoming birthday. According to Blythe, John House would be getting together with some of his old war buddies, and wouldn’t it be so nice if his son could be there too?
House recalled his father’s first birthday back from Vietnam.
His father seated at the head of the table, a gaggle of military friends on either side, and poor Blythe House finishing up dinner in the kitchen. Johnnie Walker had already been poured, the bottle sitting just within young House’s reach. The surface, so smooth and inviting, like the shiny pebbles he collected in his pockets. All he’d meant to do was touch it, just run a small finger across it, but instead he was met by the dizzying reprimand of a hand across the back of his head.
“Actually,” House cleared his throat, “I have an engagement at the hospital already, you know how things are with sick people.” This was not so much a lie as a partial truth. The “engagement” was just his regular rounds duty, which he blew off quite often as it was.
Blythe let it go.
A few more minutes of polite conversation and she finally sighed, “Well, Greg, I know you’re busy with work and everything, so I’ll let you go now. Call us back if plans change, alright? We love you, have a good day.”
With that out of the way House was free to do what he normally did on Christmas, sit around in his pajamas and watch as much porn as he could amass. He had all the necessary equipment, a VHS, a stack of rented tapes, M&Ms, the greasiest potato chips he could find, and a six pack. He was just settling himself in the couch cushions, fully prepared not to move for the remainder of the afternoon, when the doorbell rang.
Annoyed already by the call he’d put into his parents, House walked to the door with a fresh scowl, expecting charity solicitors, girl scouts, or even his unpleasant landlady, but certainly not a wet and shivering James Wilson.
Bundled up as he was, Wilson was still covered in snow from the top of his feathered head to the bottom of his Italian leather shoes, evidence of the white-out blizzard surrounding the area.
House raised an eyebrow. “Snow in Massachusetts wasn’t good enough for you?”
“N-not exactly,” Wilson said through chattering teeth as House let him in.
“You can leave your stuff lying wherever,” he gestured to the floor, “beer’s in the fridge and I rented Behind the Green Door and Debbie Does Dallas.”
Wiping his nose, Wilson nodded and began removing his coat and scarf as House threw himself back down on the couch with a beer bottle in hand. Wilson joined him shortly after, still shivering in an armchair.
It was easy to see Wilson had been crying, with his red rimmed eyes and running nose. House debated whether or not to pry as to why Wilson chose to make with the water works at his place, or better yet why with the water works to begin with. A dead patient, maybe? Wilson was an oncologist, after all, he was bound to have a small mountain. Gripping the neck of his beer bottle tightly House sincerely hoped this wasn’t a dying person thing. Dying people had a tendency to ruin things.
The first person in House’s family he could recall dying was his paternal grandmother, the year the family moved to Egypt. They received word the same morning she passed several time zones away. They made reservations for the next red-eye and Blythe set to packing. House was looking for his black dress shoes, the pair just for military ceremony and funerals, when he walked in on a scene he was never meant to see.
His father, sitting on the foot of his bed, fat tears trickling down his face and neck while he nursed a bottle of Johnnie. House tried to back out unnoticed and pretend he’d seen nothing, but unfortunately for him, a squeaking floorboard betrayed him.
And House could still remember the whine of the mattress coils as his father turned and stood up, the scent of alcohol rolling off of him in heavy waves, and the force it took to keep his legs from trembling. House saw his father raise his hand and the back come swinging towards him, making contact with the hinge of his jaw. It was his left hand, his wedding ring hand, his US Marines ring hand. The bruises would take a week to fade.
It was the first and only time his father had ever marked his skin.
House glanced over at Wilson, considering whether or not the satisfaction of his curiosity was worth the having to deal with someone else’s problem. Watching Wilson rub his nose with the corner of his sleeve, however, House decided he didn’t want to deal with oncologist snot on his Aerosmith shirt.
They sat in silence, watching busty, blonde actresses go at each other in bad lighting. For that, House was thankful. It spared them the trouble of having to talk, and talking would inevitably lead to Wilson’s crisis. As far as House was concerned, the farther they stayed away from Wilson’s emotions the better. Emotions, feelings, those sorts of things were as foreign to House as Antarctica.
John House was never good with feelings either. A fallen comrade, a casualty of some unfortunate accident, John didn’t understand how to grieve. After the funeral he would come home late and sit at the table with Johnnie Walker, drinking and drinking until the bottle was dry. It was these times when House would make himself disappear, hide in his room and do his homework or lay down like he was sleeping. There were a few times, though, when House couldn’t, or wouldn’t, retreat from his father. Usually it would mean a lecture about respect, or honor, which somehow ended in House being told he needed to shape up if he wanted to do something with his life. And once, when House was feeling entirely reckless, he suffered the misfortune of a slip of the tongue. He’d meant it to be offhand, under his breath, but the remark did not escape the ears of the Moral Compass at the head of the table. John House looked his son in the eye, and House knew he would be getting an ice bath that night.
The silence lasted until the credits rolled, when House put the television on mute and Wilson blurted out “I-brought-you-a-present” in one singular, shaky breath. House saw now a mass of festive wrapping paper Wilson had been holding just out of sight. He realized, as Wilson shoved it towards House’s general direction, it was definitely a bottle covered in festive wrapping paper.
House examined the gift. The paper was probably left over from some other present, a nonchalant shade of green covered in red ornaments and cartoon trees, tape was wrapped around it at random intervals and excess paper was torn at either end. Poor craftsmanship, House noted, seemed distinctly un-Wilson like.
“You drove five hours to give me this? Wilson, postage can’t be that expensive.”
Wilson seemed to ignore House for a moment as his eyes wandered back towards a beer commercial on the television. Calmly then, he said, “You can open it, you know.”
House did. And before the paper was even all the way off he realized he should have deferred Wilson at the door because he definitely wasn’t ready to deal with this.
Johnnie Walker Blue Label. Oh.
Wilson didn’t know any better, this was pre-Princeton, pre-infarction, pre-Tritter, pre-wives, pre-Vogler, pre-shooting, pre-Amber, pre-everything. He couldn’t have possibly guessed…
The day House was accepted into Johns Hopkins he’d come home from school unable to keep the smile off his face. Johns Hopkins wanted him. Not only did they want him, they were giving him a scholarship. An unusual feeling of pride swelled inside his chest as he revealed the letter to his father, who was in the kitchen preparing himself an afternoon glass of Johnnie Walker.
And all John House had to say was:“What do you want? A pat on the back?”
“She sent the ring back,” Wilson croaked, eyes welling in the blinking light of the television, “Catherine. She sent it back.”
And House, who’d never been good with emotions anyhow, could only say, “Whiskey’ll take care of that.”
That morning House had made his obligatory phone call home, making polite chat with his mother for a few minutes before being reminded about his father’s upcoming birthday. According to Blythe, John House would be getting together with some of his old war buddies, and wouldn’t it be so nice if his son could be there too?
House recalled his father’s first birthday back from Vietnam.
His father seated at the head of the table, a gaggle of military friends on either side, and poor Blythe House finishing up dinner in the kitchen. Johnnie Walker had already been poured, the bottle sitting just within young House’s reach. The surface, so smooth and inviting, like the shiny pebbles he collected in his pockets. All he’d meant to do was touch it, just run a small finger across it, but instead he was met by the dizzying reprimand of a hand across the back of his head.
“Actually,” House cleared his throat, “I have an engagement at the hospital already, you know how things are with sick people.” This was not so much a lie as a partial truth. The “engagement” was just his regular rounds duty, which he blew off quite often as it was.
Blythe let it go.
A few more minutes of polite conversation and she finally sighed, “Well, Greg, I know you’re busy with work and everything, so I’ll let you go now. Call us back if plans change, alright? We love you, have a good day.”
With that out of the way House was free to do what he normally did on Christmas, sit around in his pajamas and watch as much porn as he could amass. He had all the necessary equipment, a VHS, a stack of rented tapes, M&Ms, the greasiest potato chips he could find, and a six pack. He was just settling himself in the couch cushions, fully prepared not to move for the remainder of the afternoon, when the doorbell rang.
Annoyed already by the call he’d put into his parents, House walked to the door with a fresh scowl, expecting charity solicitors, girl scouts, or even his unpleasant landlady, but certainly not a wet and shivering James Wilson.
Bundled up as he was, Wilson was still covered in snow from the top of his feathered head to the bottom of his Italian leather shoes, evidence of the white-out blizzard surrounding the area.
House raised an eyebrow. “Snow in Massachusetts wasn’t good enough for you?”
“N-not exactly,” Wilson said through chattering teeth as House let him in.
“You can leave your stuff lying wherever,” he gestured to the floor, “beer’s in the fridge and I rented Behind the Green Door and Debbie Does Dallas.”
Wiping his nose, Wilson nodded and began removing his coat and scarf as House threw himself back down on the couch with a beer bottle in hand. Wilson joined him shortly after, still shivering in an armchair.
It was easy to see Wilson had been crying, with his red rimmed eyes and running nose. House debated whether or not to pry as to why Wilson chose to make with the water works at his place, or better yet why with the water works to begin with. A dead patient, maybe? Wilson was an oncologist, after all, he was bound to have a small mountain. Gripping the neck of his beer bottle tightly House sincerely hoped this wasn’t a dying person thing. Dying people had a tendency to ruin things.
The first person in House’s family he could recall dying was his paternal grandmother, the year the family moved to Egypt. They received word the same morning she passed several time zones away. They made reservations for the next red-eye and Blythe set to packing. House was looking for his black dress shoes, the pair just for military ceremony and funerals, when he walked in on a scene he was never meant to see.
His father, sitting on the foot of his bed, fat tears trickling down his face and neck while he nursed a bottle of Johnnie. House tried to back out unnoticed and pretend he’d seen nothing, but unfortunately for him, a squeaking floorboard betrayed him.
And House could still remember the whine of the mattress coils as his father turned and stood up, the scent of alcohol rolling off of him in heavy waves, and the force it took to keep his legs from trembling. House saw his father raise his hand and the back come swinging towards him, making contact with the hinge of his jaw. It was his left hand, his wedding ring hand, his US Marines ring hand. The bruises would take a week to fade.
It was the first and only time his father had ever marked his skin.
House glanced over at Wilson, considering whether or not the satisfaction of his curiosity was worth the having to deal with someone else’s problem. Watching Wilson rub his nose with the corner of his sleeve, however, House decided he didn’t want to deal with oncologist snot on his Aerosmith shirt.
They sat in silence, watching busty, blonde actresses go at each other in bad lighting. For that, House was thankful. It spared them the trouble of having to talk, and talking would inevitably lead to Wilson’s crisis. As far as House was concerned, the farther they stayed away from Wilson’s emotions the better. Emotions, feelings, those sorts of things were as foreign to House as Antarctica.
John House was never good with feelings either. A fallen comrade, a casualty of some unfortunate accident, John didn’t understand how to grieve. After the funeral he would come home late and sit at the table with Johnnie Walker, drinking and drinking until the bottle was dry. It was these times when House would make himself disappear, hide in his room and do his homework or lay down like he was sleeping. There were a few times, though, when House couldn’t, or wouldn’t, retreat from his father. Usually it would mean a lecture about respect, or honor, which somehow ended in House being told he needed to shape up if he wanted to do something with his life. And once, when House was feeling entirely reckless, he suffered the misfortune of a slip of the tongue. He’d meant it to be offhand, under his breath, but the remark did not escape the ears of the Moral Compass at the head of the table. John House looked his son in the eye, and House knew he would be getting an ice bath that night.
The silence lasted until the credits rolled, when House put the television on mute and Wilson blurted out “I-brought-you-a-present” in one singular, shaky breath. House saw now a mass of festive wrapping paper Wilson had been holding just out of sight. He realized, as Wilson shoved it towards House’s general direction, it was definitely a bottle covered in festive wrapping paper.
House examined the gift. The paper was probably left over from some other present, a nonchalant shade of green covered in red ornaments and cartoon trees, tape was wrapped around it at random intervals and excess paper was torn at either end. Poor craftsmanship, House noted, seemed distinctly un-Wilson like.
“You drove five hours to give me this? Wilson, postage can’t be that expensive.”
Wilson seemed to ignore House for a moment as his eyes wandered back towards a beer commercial on the television. Calmly then, he said, “You can open it, you know.”
House did. And before the paper was even all the way off he realized he should have deferred Wilson at the door because he definitely wasn’t ready to deal with this.
Johnnie Walker Blue Label. Oh.
Wilson didn’t know any better, this was pre-Princeton, pre-infarction, pre-Tritter, pre-wives, pre-Vogler, pre-shooting, pre-Amber, pre-everything. He couldn’t have possibly guessed…
The day House was accepted into Johns Hopkins he’d come home from school unable to keep the smile off his face. Johns Hopkins wanted him. Not only did they want him, they were giving him a scholarship. An unusual feeling of pride swelled inside his chest as he revealed the letter to his father, who was in the kitchen preparing himself an afternoon glass of Johnnie Walker.
And all John House had to say was:“What do you want? A pat on the back?”
“She sent the ring back,” Wilson croaked, eyes welling in the blinking light of the television, “Catherine. She sent it back.”
And House, who’d never been good with emotions anyhow, could only say, “Whiskey’ll take care of that.”