Riddle of the World

(Bardvahalla 2005)

(House obsesses over an attractive clinic patient he knows is dying, while dodging details of Wilson's impending divorce.)

The Clinic:

The clock on the wall ticked steadily but far too slowly for Greg's liking. Seven minutes to five. Cuddy stood by the door, ostensibly consulting with a gynecologist about a clinic patient but mostly making certain House finished his shift.

He ground his teeth, took the next folder and flipped it open. Minor infection. Perfect. He could spritze some Bactine, slap a bandage on – he checked the name - Anne Nomely, and be done by five. He limped to the examination room door, shifted the cane to his upper arm and turned the knob.

A quick assessment dashed his hopes. Her foot infection had built up under old scar tissue. A hard poke above the ankle produced pus. It needed to be drained. House sighed and rang Wilson.

"I'll be late - in the clinic. Give me twenty minutes, okay? I'll meet you in the lobby."

House didn't want his friend here. Wilson would be all over this patient, House knew. Just his type. Overly attractive. Stylish without being pretentious. A long-legged nymph needing gobs of handsome doctorly attention for her bad boo-boo.

House grabbed a plastic bowl and a small blade. Anne lounged on the table, waiting to be drained. "Will this hurt?" She fiddled with an MP3 player, then stuck an earbud under her abundant honey-gold hair.

House loved it when patients asked about potential pain whenever he came at them with a knife. "Yes, but not as much as an amputation, which it what you will need if you don't let me drain this and take all the nummy antibiotics I'm going to prescribe for you."

He sat on a stool and positioned her leg on a stirrup. To his surprise she leaned back and completely relaxed. "Wake me when it's over." She put in the other earbud, closed her eyes and cranked the music so loudly House could make out the words.

…I laugh myself to sleep

It's my lullaby

He made the incision. Yellow pus oozed into the bowl. He should have asked how she hurt herself, but frankly he didn't care. She'd likely lie about it anyway. He applied pressure to speed things up. More pus, only now more green than yellow. Strange.

Out in the lobby Wilson waited for him, along with his promise of a steak dinner and plenty of expensive booze. House figured another divorce was immanent. Why Wilson felt compelled to marry was beyond him. It would save Wilson a bundle on lawyers, House figured, if he would just buy a pretty woman a mansion, have sex until he got bored and then leave her for the next one. He kept saying hookers were cheaper than wives, but Wilson never listened. For him it was the romance of it all.

Idiot.

Sometimes I drive so fast

Just to feel the danger…

Funny. Avril could hit things right on the head. He looked so forward to his days off now. Lately, he'd actually prayed for clear weather so he could ride for hours. There was a stretch of road in Vermont, up in the mountains, that a guy at the bike shop told him about. He planned the road trip out on a map. Just a few more days and he'd be in that country bar he kept hearing about, the one with the piano where everyone could jam on Sunday.

Heaven!

Antiseptic. Swipe. Swipe. Swipe.

Is it enough to love? Is it enough to breathe…

Eight minutes past five. He ripped open the pre-threaded sutures. Stitch. Stitch. Stitch. Snip. Somebody rip my heart out and leave me here to bleed-

Antibiotic ointment on the incision. Somebody save my life-

Bandage. Tape.

I wanna be anything but ordinary please

Done.

He wrote out the prescription and tapped her on the shoulder. She pulled out the earbuds and inspected her leg. "Nice work. Didn't hurt at all. Thanks."

House grunted as he rose to his feet. "It hurt me more than it hurt you." He popped a Vicodin and thrust the paper at her. "Here's your prescription. Take them with meals. Take them all or be prepared to lose a foot. Be back next week to get the stitches out. Have a lovely weekend. Goodbye."

Wilson opened the door just as House turned to go, "We can still make our reservation." But his friends' eyes bulged at the sight of Anne. House groaned aloud.

"Hey - Dr. Wilson isn't it?"

"Yes." Wilson - to House's astonishment - turned pale. "Anne, right? Six years ago?"

House simply gave up and sat down again. Another ten minutes would be lost with Wilson chatting up the pus-filled blonde with the fabulous rack and here he was starving for a thick t-bone steak, lovingly grilled over mesquite charcoal for a very brief period over time - so rare they called it 'blue' - smothered in onion and accompanied by a tiny crystal bowl of horseradish and the finest selection of French wines in the state.

Dammit.

"Six or seven years, I guess, and I'm still here." She lightly hopped off the table, grabbed her bag and thrust the prescription into it.

"So you decided to seek treatment elsewhere?" House thought Wilson sounded hurt.

"Nope. Never did a thing about it."

House leaned back, now fully interested. She was so obviously lying. Her eyes darted away from Wilson as she denied seeking treatment. Body language, House knew, was the best subject a doctor could study.

Wilson flushed, unconvinced. "Well, that's - hey - happy to be proved wrong. Remission does happen on its own."

Remission?

"No remission." Ann tested her foot and then walked gingerly toward the door. "The tumour's still there. It's grown a bit but not much."

Tumour?

"Look," Wilson held his hands up apologetically, "I know you probably don't want to hear this but –"

"No." Anne smiled and shook her head. "No treatment. Thanks anyway. I gotta go guys. Excuse me." She squeezed past the two of them awkwardly and fled the examination room.

Wilson slammed his hand on the counter in rage. "God dammit!"

House blinked. "You've obviously been keeping secrets from me."

Wilson glanced at the door, his brow furrowed. "Long story."

"Great!" House reached for the door handle. "You tell can me all about it over steak."

The Restaurant:

Wilson quaffed his fourth glass of wine. "She should be dead! I told her 6 months tops!"

If anything, House felt grateful because it meant he didn't had to listen to Wilson drone on and on about his failing marriage. At least last time he'd had enough sense to sign a pre-nup for once. Maybe he wouldn't lose everything for once.

"And this was six years ago?"

"Yeah."

House cut a hunk of tender steak, dipped it in that creamy horseradish sauce the chef made fresh every day and stuffed it in his mouth. Oh yes! Yes!

Wilson tried to refill his glass. The carafe reluctantly offered only a few drops. He signaled a waitress for more. "I felt like an idiot when I saw her standing there. I checked the obit columns for months."

"Yes - well, very inconsiderate of her to keep on living like that." House sympathized. "Women these days. So stubborn and defiant! No respect for the medical profession at all." He forked more meat, this time with fried onion. His tongue curled around the succulent flesh.

Oh! - better than sex! House sighed in extreme pleasure and wondered how uncouth it would be if he licked his plate clean in a public restaurant.

"I'm not often wrong." Wilson's mouth twitched with an insincere smile. "Except about marriage – "

Uh-oh. "She lied about not getting treatment." House hoped he'd headed that subject off at the pass.

"What?" Wilson leaned forward. "How do you know? Did she say something?"

YES!

"She avoided your eyes when she said it." House speared a morsel of baked potato that dripped with garlic butter and sour cream. "Now, I beg you - less talking. More eating."

The Road Trip:

The country hotel boasted a somewhat ramshackle exterior, but within it was scrupulously clean and well managed. House parked his motorcycle next to several others, pocketed the key and took his bag up to his reserved room. The décor was pleasantly tacky. The mattress beckoned - soft and inviting. A shiny, wrapped mint lay on the pillow. He ate it and pondered what to do next.

Investigate.

The large lobby contained worn stuffed chairs, a baby grand piano and book shelves laden with yellowed hard covers, ancient Life magazines and a homey, musty, booky scent that spoke of generations of families who summered here year after year and left their spent reading materials behind.

He found an old battered MAD magazine he remembered buying off the rack as a kid. Ah, the 70's. Nixon jokes and women's lib. The golden age of humour.

The bike ride on autumn country roads had been both exhilarating and exhausting. House decided that a vicodin, a light read - courtesy of Alfred E. Newman - a nap, dinner and then live, unrehearsed local music in the lounge would be the ticket.

Dinner was plain but favourful cooking. The guests were many but unobtrusive. The jam musicians were a mix of young and old, male and female. Some were old friends who lived in the area; some had drifted in or - like himself – were guests of the hotel.

One was a young woman with a tumour who defied the odds given to her by one of the best oncologists on the Eastern seaboard.

Anne.

I wanna be anything but ordinary please…

She held a folk guitar confidently. Nails cut short on her left hand, longer on her right to pluck the strings. House hid himself behind an older couple near the back. A portly guy with a scruffy beard tested a microphone. A tipsy, blue haired lady belted out requests.

"Do 'Riddle of the World' Annie!"

The burly old piano player winked at Anne and she nodded back. "Sure thing, Sharry, just lemme warm up first."

Anne sang a tune House recognized from Knofler's On Every Street. Her version was different but true to the spirit. She wasn't bad, House thought as he watched her injured foot tap a beat on the floor.

Sometimes you're the window shield, sometimes you're the bug-

Why did she lie to Wilson? What treatment had she found that could beat a cancerous tumour for years that would normally kill in months? He sipped at his rum and coke. Well, he had all weekend to find out.

The regulars played an eclectic mix of music for a couple of hours then invited others to join in. Anne left the room to hit the bar. House ambled over to the piano.

Something lively and absurdly difficult to show off his skill. The baby grand thundered out a party of sound as he pounded the Maple Leaf Rag for a delighted audience. He finished with a flourish worthy of Chico Marx – whom he'd copied shamelessly – and screams of appreciation from young and old echoed in the lounge.

Anne leaned in the bar doorway, a fresh beer dangling from her hand as House took a bow, refused an encore and carefully descended from the stage. A youth with a guitar took his place and began to badly cover a James Taylor song.

Anne limped over to House. "Nicely done. Can I get you a drink?"

"Sure." As they both limped towards the bar House teased, "I'll race ya."

"No way." Anne laughed. "I'll bust my stitches."

"Then I'll fix 'em."

"Ounce of prevention." She waved the bartender over. "What's your pleasure?"

"Rum and coke." House sat on a padded stool and leaned against the solid oak bar. The wood, now worn smooth along the bar's edge, revealed the darkly wise thread of the wood's grain.

"Will you play again?" Anne asked.

House considered. "If you answer me something."

"Sure."

"Why did you lie to Wilson when you told him you hadn't sought treatment for your cancer?"

Anne hesitated, took a long pull of her beer and then stared at House. "And here I thought you were going to ask me my damn Star sign or something."

"Are you avoiding the question?"

"Yes." She turned away and kept drinking. Soon her bottle was empty. The bartender meandered over and she shoved it at him. "Rum and coke and one more Rickard's, please." She pulled a twenty-dollar bill from her ample cleavage. House wondered if she put coins down there too.

"Why did you lie?" House persisted.

"Because Dr. Wilson creeped me out. 'You're got less than a year to live. I can ease your suffering. No? Fine. Are you seeing anyone right now? I know this great steak house…' What the hell was that? Does he always try to date his terminal patients?"

House twitched. Had Wilson truly been that much of an idiot? "He actually told you that you were dying and then asked you out?"

"Seriously? Yes." She took the change from the bartender, handed House his drink and shoved the coins into a tip jar. He'd found the answer to one question, at least.

House took a large swallow of his drink. "So, you didn't seek treatment because Wilson hit on you?"

She shrugged. "No. I got a second opinion. Same diagnosis - not that it made any difference. I still didn't opt for chemo."

"Why not?"

"Lots of reasons." Anne shrugged. "No family to help me. No insurance. No husband or kids to live for. And the odds of beating the tumor even with treatment were fairly small, so I figured I'd live as long as I could, as well as I could, and to hell with spending months lying in a bed with tubes for company." She sipped from the bottle. "Best decision I ever made."

"Wilson is interested in how you managed it."

"Dr. Wilson just wants to play doctor. Let him poke someone else."

House covered a smile with his tumbler. "Yes, well… there are other doctors."

She arched an eyebrow at him. "Yourself, for example?"

"I have to admit I'm curious too. You must have done something to keep the cancer at bay." His glass was empty. He pouted. "Throw me a bone here."

She gestured for the bartender. "I prescribed myself lots of fun and music. That's pretty much it."

House pushed his empty glass across the bar for a refill. "No drugs? No chemo? Nothing?"

"Just lots of fresh garlic and a good attitude," she shrugged. "Oh, I know the tumour will take me down one day, just not yet. Now – you owe me a song."

"Name it."

The Office:

Wilson angrily tapped the envelope on his knee. Legal size, House noticed dryly, which mean the divorce negotiations had begun and Wilson would begin to assess every pretty female in a two hundred mile radius as Next Potential Wife.

House wondered if he ought to warn Cameron, but then decided if Wilson took her off his hands, that would be a good thing. God knows Wilson needed fixing, although Cam didn't seem the sort able to cope with a husband's countless affairs, serial infidelity and a partner's chronic desire to pursue those who should not be pursued.

Had Wilson really hit on Anne after diagnosing her with terminal cancer? House dodged the inevitable divorce details by asking Wilson and then immediately accusing him. One of his favorite tactics.

"You did, didn't you?" House pointed his cane at him before Wilson could deny it. "That's idiotic, even for you!"

Wilson caved immediately. "I –I wasn't thinking straight. I was getting divorced at the time."

"You're always getting divorced." House slumped in dismay. "Why is it - if you're the one who's ALWAYS getting divorced - that I'm the one everyone thinks has romantic problems?"

Wilson tossed the envelope on the desk. "I only hit on her after she made it clear she wasn't going to seek treatment. I would never sleep with a patient."

"You're still an idiot!" House propped his leg up on the envelope. It was thick. Wilson's wife was protesting the Pre-nup, probably. The guy obviously needed someone to talk to but House didn't want to be it. "Look, Cuddy will pay for therapy. Just use my name on the shrink's invoices. You know me, always willing to lie for a friend."

"So Ann didn't see another doctor?"

House hesitated. "For sex or for treatment?"

"For treatment, of course!" Wilson shouted, and then goggled at House. "You didn't… Did you?"

"Er…" House toyed his cane. "What was the question?"

"You slept with her!"

House fidgeted. Don't admit it. Lie. Lie like a rug. He doesn't need to know.

"Just a little bit."

"You son of a bitch!" Wilson seethed. "And you dare to question me? "

Should've lied. "I'll let you take out her stitches if you want," House offered.

Wilson stood and snatched the legal papers out from under House's leg.

"OW!"

"Oh sorry. Did that hurt?" Wilson immediately asked.

Say 'no'. Never admit weakness. Lie.

"Yes!"

"GOOD!" Wilson stomped out the door.

Told ya. Next time lie!

House rubbed his leg and shook out a couple of Vicodin. Cameron only just dodged Wilson, a small stack of files in her hands. She entered House's office and dumped the files on his desk. "There's a patient in the clinic asking for you." Cameron handed him a cup of cold water. "I can take it if you like. It's only some stitches."

House fairly jumped to his feet. "No problem, I'll handle it."

"And the fact she has giant garbonzos?" Cameron added snidely.

"Perks of the job." House called back.

Her infection was healing well. She did not flinch when he pulled out the stitches. He did not tell he he'd pulled old hospital records and studied her cancer scans from years ago. She should be dead, he knew, and the riddle of her survival pulled him at him like puppet strings.

"How much garlic?" he asked after swabbing her foot.

"What?" Anne shifted her shapely leg and inspected her wound. "Garlic?"

"You told me you just used garlic after you'd been diagnosed with the tumour. Were you serious?"

"Yes. I cook with it, or if I'm on the road I take gel capsules. If I feel a cold coming I chop up a clove raw and eat it raw. Haven't had flu for years."

Garlic thinned blood. Loads of Vitamin C. There was more to her story, he was certain of it. "Let me run some tests." He tore open a package of sterile gauze.

"I can't afford it," she protested.

"No problem." He laid a fresh bandage on the wound. "I'll pay."

Anne laughed. "That's unethical and unprofessional and the answer would still be 'no' even it wasn't."

"I need to understand how you're beating it." House gently pressed the sticky edges of the bandage on creamy, smooth skin. "C'mon! I'll give you all the credit if I find a cure for cancer.

"Go ask Pope."

"I'm not religious." House leaned over and kissed her leg just above the bandage. "There all better. Aren't antibiotics great? Hey! MRI's are good too."

"Not THE Pope. The poet - Alexander Pope, you tool. Specifically his poem, Riddle of the World." Anne slipped off the table and collected her bag. "I'll see you again socially if you like, but you aren't testing me for anything - ever. Got it?"

House made a show of hesitating. "Hmmm – continuing to have wild sex or possibly find a cure for cancer. Okay, I'll go with the sex, but only because you won't let me do both."

Anne smirked at him. "I'll donate my body for medical research, sound fair?"

"Fine." House closed his eyes in resignation. "I suppose all those pervy necrophiliacs should be able to have some fun with you too."

"That's just gross, Greg."

The Poem

She made him hunt for it. Thank God for the Internet. It was a poem that somehow escaped his notice despite a lifetime of reading everything he could get his hands on.

Know then thyself, presume not God to scan,

The proper study of Mankind is Man

He saw so much of himself, and of Wilson, in those few words. He made a copy for his friend, intending to take him out someplace and really listen for once.

Created half to rise, and half to fall;

Great Lord of all things, yet a prey to all;

Sole judge of truth, in endless error hurl'd;

The Glory, jest, and riddle of the world.

As for Anne, he would have to be subtle. Make love to her in daylight so he could examine her body. Note her diet, her daily routine, anything that might provide a clue. Given a bit of time, he might even change her mind about the tests.

Time.

That was the problem with both riddles and romance.

You needed time.

FIN