The Piano, chapter 5
Wilson had looked him straight in the eye and told the
truth, House feels certain. And the
truth had surprised him. It simply
hadn’t occurred to him that Wilson wasn’t sleeping with the hematologist. He feels vaguely troubled by the discovery,
but can’t put his finger on why.
He turns back to the window, staring out at the lighted cityscape without really seeing it. His fingers patter lightly over the polished surface of his cane.
Is it just that he is surprised to be wrong? Or that he is now unsure how to diagnose Wilson’s obviously ailing marriage? Of course, the fact that Wilson isn’t cheating with Morgen doesn’t mean he hasn’t been cheating with someone else, like that pretty girl in accounting. That doesn’t feel like the right answer, somehow, or at least not all of the right answer. Something about Wilson’s sudden closeness with Morgen still bothers him.
A fragment of melody finds him, right hand absently tapping out the treble line of Ain’t Misbehavin’. A rare copy of Fats Waller’s 1939 recording had been a present from Stacy, years ago.
He remembers the advice his calculus teacher gave him, freshman year: When you don’t know what to do, do something. The prof had been talking about mathematical proofs, but House has found it to be good counsel for almost any situation. When he can’t see his way to the answer, he shuffles things around until a pattern starts to emerge.
Very well, then. Wilson’s relationship with Morgen is a two variable problem - Wilson, about whom he knows almost everything, and Morgen, about whom he knows almost nothing. Solve for M. He’ll start with that.
----------------------------------------
Wilson lies awake in the dark, feeling the weight of it press down on him. The sound of Julie’s soft breathing measures the passage of time. It tells him that he isn’t alone, but he isn’t sure he believes that. He wants to stretch out a hand and touch her, to feel the warm aliveness of her skin against his, but there might as well be a sword laid down in the space between them. She is too far away.
Dinner did not go well. Julie had cooked, and he is pretty sure the food had been good. Oddly, he really can’t remember. They had both been trying, but the conversation was stilted. When the polite civilities were done, neither of them knew what else to say.
He’d helped her clean up, rinsing the dishes and loading the dishwasher while she wrapped the leftovers. There had been too many of those; neither of them had eaten much.
Chores done, he had caught her hand as she turned to leave the kitchen, had drawn her close, had bent to kiss her; hoping, perhaps, to recapture some of the closeness they had shared one night last week. She had allowed the kiss, but only allowed it: not enjoyed it, not returned it, merely permitted it.
In the den, they had laid a fire in the fireplace, a date-night tradition. He’d settled on the couch, sitting at one end so she could sit the long way and tuck her feet under his thighs. But she took her novel to the armchair, not the sofa.
When she went to bed early, blaming the wine from dinner, he’d let her go without protest.
He turns on his side to watch her. Julie is the only person he’s ever seen actually sleep the way people mime sleep, her palms pressed together and tucked endearingly beneath her cheek. He matches the slow rhythm of her breaths until he starts to feel the darkness sinking into him, pulling him down to join her in slumber. It is, he thinks vaguely, the first time they’ve been together all day.
Wilson spends the next night at the hospital. Julie is courteous when he calls to explain - a touch-and-go patient, an early morning procedure, I might as well stay here - and he hears both the relief in her voice and her attempt to conceal it. They can’t talk about what matters, and they can’t talk about anything else. It is easier not to talk at all, though he knows that won’t solve anything. So he plays the dedicated doctor and stops by to chat with each of his patients. He spends another hour at his desk, catching up on charting.
At last, when the corridor is empty and hushed, and there is no one left to wonder why he is still there, he stretches out on his couch with the latest issue of The Lancet Oncology and reads until sleep claims him.
Chapter 6
He turns back to the window, staring out at the lighted cityscape without really seeing it. His fingers patter lightly over the polished surface of his cane.
Is it just that he is surprised to be wrong? Or that he is now unsure how to diagnose Wilson’s obviously ailing marriage? Of course, the fact that Wilson isn’t cheating with Morgen doesn’t mean he hasn’t been cheating with someone else, like that pretty girl in accounting. That doesn’t feel like the right answer, somehow, or at least not all of the right answer. Something about Wilson’s sudden closeness with Morgen still bothers him.
A fragment of melody finds him, right hand absently tapping out the treble line of Ain’t Misbehavin’. A rare copy of Fats Waller’s 1939 recording had been a present from Stacy, years ago.
He remembers the advice his calculus teacher gave him, freshman year: When you don’t know what to do, do something. The prof had been talking about mathematical proofs, but House has found it to be good counsel for almost any situation. When he can’t see his way to the answer, he shuffles things around until a pattern starts to emerge.
Very well, then. Wilson’s relationship with Morgen is a two variable problem - Wilson, about whom he knows almost everything, and Morgen, about whom he knows almost nothing. Solve for M. He’ll start with that.
----------------------------------------
Wilson lies awake in the dark, feeling the weight of it press down on him. The sound of Julie’s soft breathing measures the passage of time. It tells him that he isn’t alone, but he isn’t sure he believes that. He wants to stretch out a hand and touch her, to feel the warm aliveness of her skin against his, but there might as well be a sword laid down in the space between them. She is too far away.
Dinner did not go well. Julie had cooked, and he is pretty sure the food had been good. Oddly, he really can’t remember. They had both been trying, but the conversation was stilted. When the polite civilities were done, neither of them knew what else to say.
He’d helped her clean up, rinsing the dishes and loading the dishwasher while she wrapped the leftovers. There had been too many of those; neither of them had eaten much.
Chores done, he had caught her hand as she turned to leave the kitchen, had drawn her close, had bent to kiss her; hoping, perhaps, to recapture some of the closeness they had shared one night last week. She had allowed the kiss, but only allowed it: not enjoyed it, not returned it, merely permitted it.
In the den, they had laid a fire in the fireplace, a date-night tradition. He’d settled on the couch, sitting at one end so she could sit the long way and tuck her feet under his thighs. But she took her novel to the armchair, not the sofa.
When she went to bed early, blaming the wine from dinner, he’d let her go without protest.
He turns on his side to watch her. Julie is the only person he’s ever seen actually sleep the way people mime sleep, her palms pressed together and tucked endearingly beneath her cheek. He matches the slow rhythm of her breaths until he starts to feel the darkness sinking into him, pulling him down to join her in slumber. It is, he thinks vaguely, the first time they’ve been together all day.
Wilson spends the next night at the hospital. Julie is courteous when he calls to explain - a touch-and-go patient, an early morning procedure, I might as well stay here - and he hears both the relief in her voice and her attempt to conceal it. They can’t talk about what matters, and they can’t talk about anything else. It is easier not to talk at all, though he knows that won’t solve anything. So he plays the dedicated doctor and stops by to chat with each of his patients. He spends another hour at his desk, catching up on charting.
At last, when the corridor is empty and hushed, and there is no one left to wonder why he is still there, he stretches out on his couch with the latest issue of The Lancet Oncology and reads until sleep claims him.
Chapter 6