The Gentleman Caller, Pt 2
I do so regret not calling this story Regret. . . - atd
Clifford West sat in at a corner table at the Patterson Coffee Shop, looking slightly out of time and place in his tweed jacket, with his wool fedora hanging from a nearby coat rack, reading the New York Times business section, and sipping on a mug of coffee. He shifted in his seat nervously, looked at his watch.
“Are you ready to order?” the waitress said to him, slightly impatiently.
“Not just yet, thank you, I’m waiting on a friend,” he said politely. And then he looked up: “Ahh, here she is now.”
Lisa Cuddy strode to the table-windblown, beautiful, important-looking.
“Sorry I’m late,” she breathed.
“Not at all, dear. I was early.”
He stood when she got to the table-and even took her coat and hung it on the rack next to his hat.
“I’m so glad you agreed to meet with me,” he said.
“I have to admit I was …curious,” Cuddy said, gesturing to the waitress that she wanted a cup of coffee, too.
“How much has Greg told you about me?” Clifford said, cautiously.
“Well, I know that you’re his biological father,” Cuddy said.
“Oh good,” Clifford sighed. “Then we can be honest with each other.”
“Please.”
“I told Greg I’d be in town for 10 days and then I had to get back to Portland. Today is day 9 and he still hasn’t contacted me. I’ve essentially been sitting by the phone, waiting for his call-like a smitten teenage girl waiting on a suitor. And that phone call hasn’t come.”
“I’m . . .sorry.”
“I’m very upset about it. But I don’t know what to do. Intuitively I feel like Greg has to come to me on his own.”
She smiled knowingly.
“Good intuition.”
“So I’m at a bit of a loss.”
“Again, I’m very sorry but I’m not quite sure what you think I can do to help.”
He peered at her, with those same penetrating, impossible-to-look-away-from eyes as his son.
“Talk to him for me. Get him to change his mind.”
Cuddy looked down at the table.
“House is barely talking to me right now,” she said. “He’s very angry with me.”
“I know,” Clifford said. “He told me you dumped his ‘sorry ass’-as he so colorfully put it. He also told me that you were the love of his life.”
“He said that?” Cuddy said, flushing a bit.
“Of course,” Clifford said. “So I have a suspicion you still have some influence over him.”
“I guess it’s possible. . .”
“Then you’ll try to talk to him? Convince him to come see me?”
“I’ll try. I make no promises. Sometimes House just walks away from me, mid-sentence. And those are the days he’s feeling polite.”
“I have no one else to turn to,” Clifford said.
“I’ll do my best,” she said.
“I have one more favor to ask you, although I’ve already asked too much: I would prefer it if you didn’t mention that we met for coffee,” Clifford said. “I’d rather he thought this came from you, not me.”
“Well, to be honest, I do think he should meet with you. Not knowing his real father has a been a great source of frustration and disappointment in his life. So, in a way, it would be coming from me.”
Clifford smiled.
“Wonderful. I’m so pleased.” Then, after hesitating a moment, he said: “Do you mind if I ask you something?”
“Go ahead”
“Is he happy? I mean…I know he’s not happy now. He’s depressed that you left him. But in general: Is he a happy man?”
Cuddy sighed a bit, weighed her words:
“I feel like ‘happy’ is too simple a word to apply to somebody as complicated as House,” she said. “I guess, if I had to categorize him, happy or sad, he’s closer to sad, but there’s a playfulness there, too, a sense of mischief. It’s part of what drew me to him.”
Clifford nodded, deeply interested. “Tell me more,” he said.
“House is the most fully present person I’ve ever met. His intellect is staggering, of course. But it’s not just that. He sees things. His insights, the tiny things he picks up on-it’s extraordinary. And while he might not always be the happiest guy, he has passion in his life-for medicine, for ideas, for solving puzzles.”
Clifford gave a half-smile.
“I believe he has passion in his life for other things as well,” he said, knowingly.
Cuddy chuckled.
“I suppose,” she admitted. Then, still in a bit of House-related reverie, she said: “It’s intimidating, exhilarating, and, frankly, a little exhausting to be around him.”
“I can imagine,” Clifford said.
Cuddy snapped out of it.
“But yeah, it’s lonely being House, too, you know? The world is constantly disappointing him. And then, of course, there’s the physical pain.”
“From his leg? Does it still hurt? May I ask what happened there?”
“He had an infarction. Amputation would’ve been the safest option. He refused. Some medical decisions were made on his behalf that, well, didn’t turn out as well as we might’ve hoped.”
“And that’s why he takes the pills? I saw him pop two in my presence.”
“Yes, that’s Vicodin.” Cuddy gulped a bit, feeling guilty and sad, as she always did when House’s addiction was discussed. “He had been sober for over two years. But recently…”
“Since the breakup,” Clifford offered.
“Yeah. I had a health scare that, well. . .” she blinked back a tear. “I’d rather not talk about it.”
“I’m sorry,” Clifford said, aghast. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
She smiled-but her eyes were still wet.
“It’s okay. It’s not your fault. House isn’t the only one who’s sad about our breakup.”
“It’s obvious that you still love him.”
“I do…”
“So why. . .?” He caught himself. “I’m sorry. I’m meddling. It’s none of my business.”
“No, it’s okay. He’s your son, right? So it’s at least partly your business. . . The thing is, I have a three-year-old daughter and this insanely demanding job-I need a boyfriend who requires a little less maintenance. House can never be counted on to do the right thing, to be there for me when I need him the most.”
“But he’s worth it, isn’t he?”
Cuddy laughed.
“You’re as persistent as he is.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Most of the time. Most of the time he’s worth it,” she admitted. “But when House fails, he fails spectacularly.”
“I know I’m stepping way out of line here. But I wish you could find some way back to each other,” Clifford said. “I so want him to be happy.”
“Sometimes I wish that, too,” Cuddy admitted.
Then she glanced at her watch. “Oh, shit. I need to go. I have a meeting with some donors in 20 minutes.”
She reached into her wallet to pull out some bills.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Needless to say, this is on me,” he said. “I truly appreciate you taking the time to meet me.”
“I only wish we had more time.”
“But you’ll do that thing? The thing we discussed?”
“Of course,” she said. “But don’t get your hopes up. He really doesn’t listen to me anymore.”
“I think he listens to you more than you know,” Clifford said.
“Well good luck to both of us then,” she said.
#####
Later that day, she found House leaning over the balcony that overlooked the hospital.
“Do you really think it’s wise to stand next to me on balconies right now?” he cracked.
“What, you’re going to throw me over?” she said.
“I promise to make it look like an accident.”
Unconsciously, she took a step back.
He side-eyed her. “Don’t worry you’re safe. I wouldn’t want to leave Rachel an orphan.”
She stepped back toward him.
“Speaking of parenting. . .”
“Were we?”
She shrugged, gave a guilty smile.
“I saw an opening. . .”
“What’s on your mind, Cuddy? As if I can’t guess.”
“Have you seen Clifford West yet?” (Pretending she didn’t know the truth gave Clifford better deniability).
“We had dinner last night, as a matter of fact,” House said.
She gaped at him.
“You’re lying!”
He furrowed his brow: “How do you know?”
“I just. . . I can tell!”
“You weren’t this good at sussing out my lies when we were dating,” he said.
“So you think,” she said, happy to leave him second guessing.
He smiled at her, in a touché kind of way.
“I’m not going to indulge the old man,” he said. “I have no interest in him. We have nothing in common.”
“Oh right. Nothing in common. Except that he’s your father.”
“Keep your voice down. I’m not sure all the patients in the clinic heard you.”
“House, he’s leaving tomorrow, right?” Then she remembered that she wasn’t supposed to know that. “Uh, at least that’s what Wilson told me. If you don’t go see him, you’ll have regret. And regret is the worst feeling in the world.”
“Why is everyone so down on regret?” House said. “As feelings go, I’d say boiling pustules on your face probably feel worse.”
“House, you can’t push away everyone who loves you.”
“Not if they push me away first,” he said, looking at her.
“House. . .” She put her hand on his arm.
“I gotta go,” he said, shaking her off. “I’m done with this conversation.”
“Just go visit him,” she called after him. “Just one visit. For me.”
He snickered.
“And maybe you can go fuck yourself.” Then he added sweetly: “For me.”
She inhaled, rolled her eyes, and watched him limp away.
#####
But of course he did listen to her, because he almost always did, agreeing to meet Clifford in the hotel bar that night for drinks.
And Clifford was thrilled beyond all measure, but he intuitively played it cool, shaking his son’s hand and saying, “I’m so glad you found the time.”
They ordered drinks-scotch, neat, for both of them-and talked. And talked. And talked some more.
They discussed Clifford’s books and he was amazed, touched, and stunned that House had read and comprehended them so thoroughly.
“You have a better understanding of these subjects than my third-year graduate students,” Clifford said. “And this is their life’s vocation.”
House shrugged. “It’s not that complicated,” he said.
They discussed Clifford’s two PhDs.
“Why don’t you call yourself Dr. West?” House asked.
“Go to any university and find me the professors who call themselves ‘Dr.’-and trust me, those are the assholes to be avoided at all costs,” Clifford said. “You’re the only real doctor at this table.”
They discussed House’s patients and his strategies for solving a case. Unlike other people who paid mere lip service to being interested in House’s methods, Clifford was genuinely fascinated. He asked the right questions, listened intently, and even got House to describe the cases he’d solved with something resembling enthusiasm.
They discussed their mutual love of jazz, Elmore Leonard novels, and Monty Python, their mutual disdain for religion and small talk and people who smiled too much.
“I love those people where you can actually read the ‘fuck you’ in their smile,” Clifford said.
“They always seem to have bigger teeth,” House noted.
And they both laughed.
Finally, cautiously, House said: “Do you have any other, uh, illegitimate children?”
“No,” Clifford said. “Of course not. I only cheated on Joan once, with your mother.”
House studied him.
“But there must’ve been temptation: Comely co-eds batting their eyelashes-and other things-at you.”
“Of course,” Clifford laughed. “Every year it seems the skirts get shorter and the blouses get lower cut. But. . .I’m loyal. To a fault sometimes. Your mother was the only woman I ever cheated with. In that case, I succumbed to temptation because the temptation was simply too strong.”
House nodded, believing him.
“Your mother changed didn’t she?” Clifford said. “She lost some of her exuberance for life?”
“My father had a way of sucking the exuberance out of most things. He thought being called a conformist was a compliment.”
“He didn’t get to you,” Clifford said, admiringly. “You’re anything but a conformist.”
House gave a half-shrug.
“I raged against him. I spent my entire adult life raging against him.”
“And probably, if I had raised you, you’d have raged against me too.”
“I’d be like Brian. A corporate CEO and a Republican.”
“And gay, too, as far as I can tell. Not that he’s told me-or his wife.”
They laughed again, but there was a twinge of sorrow in their merriment. It was obvious that House and Clifford were kindred spirits-there would have been nothing for House to rage against.
They ordered more drinks and talked some more-about dark matter, about video games (“please explain the fascination,” Clifford said), about the perfection of a Montecristo Habana cigar.
Clifford didn’t pry too much about Cuddy but he did ask if there was any chance of a reconciliation.
“Highly doubtful,” House said. “She’s pretty resolute with her decisions. And besides, I’ve been such an asshole to her since the breakup, she probably wants nothing to do with me.”
“Here’s a novel thought: Don’t be an asshole.”
“I can’t,” House admitted. “It hurts too much.”
Just then, the lights flickered on and the bartender said: “Sorry fellas. We’re closing up.”
It was 2 a.m.
So the father and son blinked at each other and stepped out of the bar, into the hotel lobby.
“I guess this is it,” Clifford said.
“I guess so,” House said.
“I’ve enjoyed tonight more than I can say,” Clifford said.
“Me too,” House said. Then, quickly: “Do you need a ride to the airport tomorrow?”
“I rented a car, so I guess that’s not necessary.”
House nodded.
“Oh yeah. Of course. Right.”
“I don’t know how well I’ll be able to stay in touch,” Clifford admitted. “I never wanted to sneak around behind my family’s back. I wanted to come to Princeton, see you as much as I possibly could in these 10 days and then walk away with no regrets.”
House’s mouth formed a tiny o.
“I should’ve come to see you sooner. I’m an idiot.”
“I’m glad you came to see me at all.”
House shuffled his feet.
“It’s late. You have a long day tomorrow. You should probably get some sleep.”
He went to shake Clifford’s hand, but the old man caught him in an embrace and House let him.
When they parted, Clifford said: “I know this is meaningless coming from me, and maybe even presumptuous: But I’m proud of the man you’ve become, Greg. Very proud indeed.”
House swallowed hard.
“Thanks,” he said. As Clifford began to walk away, he shouted after him: “Wait! Your medical records. Can you have the hospital send them to me, including all your treatment and all your scans?”
“I don’t see any point, Greg. The diagnosis is terminal.”
“I’d like to see them all the same, if you don’t mind.”
Clifford smiled at him, gratefully: “Of course.”
######
Several days later, House asked Wilson to join his team for a DDx.
“What do you see?” he said to the room.
“Advanced stage pancreatic cancer,” Wilson said.
“What else?” House said, impatiently.
“What else?” Foreman said. “What else is there?”
“I mean, what else could it possibly be?”
“Do you know the answer to this and it’s some sort of test?” Chase said, squinting at the scan.
“No, I’m asking you to think beyond the obvious.”
“I suppose it could be some other kind of cancer-lymphoma,”
Foreman said.
“No, not that,” House said, as Wilson gave him a look. (Lymphoma was as fatal as pancreatic cancer.)
“I once saw a very bad case of auto immune pancreatitis that resembled that,” Chase said.
House nodded, vigorously, wrote that down on the board.
“Good! Finally we’re getting someplace. What else?”
“An allergic reaction?” Thirteen said. “To antibiotics, like what Dr. Cuddy had.”
“Right. Possible,” House said, writing it down, too.
“No, it’s not possible,” Wilson said, scowling at him. “Whose scan is that?”
“Just a patient,” House said, all worked up. He clapped his hands. “What else!”
“I need a moment with Dr. House alone,” Wilson said to the team.
They all looked at Wilson, then looked back at House.
“Just ignore him,” House said. “What about panniculitis?”
“House, it’s not panniculitis,” Wilson said. Then a bit more forcefully to the room: “Leave us.”
“I have a thing I need to do…” Chase mumbled, getting up.
“Yeah, I need to help him with that thing,” Foreman said.
“I have my period,” Thirteen said.
And they all scrambled out.
Wilson folded his arms, stared at House.
“Whose scan is that?”
“I told you. Just a patient.”
But Wilson was walking toward the lightboard where the scan was mounted.
“Clifford Bartholomew West, born August 14,1929,” he read. Then he turned to House. “Oh, House, I’m so sorry.”
House shoved his hands in his pockets.
“There’s a chance that. . .”
“There’s no chance,” Wilson said.
House had slumped into a chair and Wilson sat down next to him. “When was this scan taken?” he asked.
“About a month ago,” House said.
“So he doesn’t have. . .much time.”
“No,” House admitted, bowing his head.
Wilson put a comforting hand on House’s shoulder, but he stiffened.
“I’m fine,” he said.
Wilson nodded.
“Okay,” he said gently. “You’re fine.”
######
Here's the finale.
Clifford West sat in at a corner table at the Patterson Coffee Shop, looking slightly out of time and place in his tweed jacket, with his wool fedora hanging from a nearby coat rack, reading the New York Times business section, and sipping on a mug of coffee. He shifted in his seat nervously, looked at his watch.
“Are you ready to order?” the waitress said to him, slightly impatiently.
“Not just yet, thank you, I’m waiting on a friend,” he said politely. And then he looked up: “Ahh, here she is now.”
Lisa Cuddy strode to the table-windblown, beautiful, important-looking.
“Sorry I’m late,” she breathed.
“Not at all, dear. I was early.”
He stood when she got to the table-and even took her coat and hung it on the rack next to his hat.
“I’m so glad you agreed to meet with me,” he said.
“I have to admit I was …curious,” Cuddy said, gesturing to the waitress that she wanted a cup of coffee, too.
“How much has Greg told you about me?” Clifford said, cautiously.
“Well, I know that you’re his biological father,” Cuddy said.
“Oh good,” Clifford sighed. “Then we can be honest with each other.”
“Please.”
“I told Greg I’d be in town for 10 days and then I had to get back to Portland. Today is day 9 and he still hasn’t contacted me. I’ve essentially been sitting by the phone, waiting for his call-like a smitten teenage girl waiting on a suitor. And that phone call hasn’t come.”
“I’m . . .sorry.”
“I’m very upset about it. But I don’t know what to do. Intuitively I feel like Greg has to come to me on his own.”
She smiled knowingly.
“Good intuition.”
“So I’m at a bit of a loss.”
“Again, I’m very sorry but I’m not quite sure what you think I can do to help.”
He peered at her, with those same penetrating, impossible-to-look-away-from eyes as his son.
“Talk to him for me. Get him to change his mind.”
Cuddy looked down at the table.
“House is barely talking to me right now,” she said. “He’s very angry with me.”
“I know,” Clifford said. “He told me you dumped his ‘sorry ass’-as he so colorfully put it. He also told me that you were the love of his life.”
“He said that?” Cuddy said, flushing a bit.
“Of course,” Clifford said. “So I have a suspicion you still have some influence over him.”
“I guess it’s possible. . .”
“Then you’ll try to talk to him? Convince him to come see me?”
“I’ll try. I make no promises. Sometimes House just walks away from me, mid-sentence. And those are the days he’s feeling polite.”
“I have no one else to turn to,” Clifford said.
“I’ll do my best,” she said.
“I have one more favor to ask you, although I’ve already asked too much: I would prefer it if you didn’t mention that we met for coffee,” Clifford said. “I’d rather he thought this came from you, not me.”
“Well, to be honest, I do think he should meet with you. Not knowing his real father has a been a great source of frustration and disappointment in his life. So, in a way, it would be coming from me.”
Clifford smiled.
“Wonderful. I’m so pleased.” Then, after hesitating a moment, he said: “Do you mind if I ask you something?”
“Go ahead”
“Is he happy? I mean…I know he’s not happy now. He’s depressed that you left him. But in general: Is he a happy man?”
Cuddy sighed a bit, weighed her words:
“I feel like ‘happy’ is too simple a word to apply to somebody as complicated as House,” she said. “I guess, if I had to categorize him, happy or sad, he’s closer to sad, but there’s a playfulness there, too, a sense of mischief. It’s part of what drew me to him.”
Clifford nodded, deeply interested. “Tell me more,” he said.
“House is the most fully present person I’ve ever met. His intellect is staggering, of course. But it’s not just that. He sees things. His insights, the tiny things he picks up on-it’s extraordinary. And while he might not always be the happiest guy, he has passion in his life-for medicine, for ideas, for solving puzzles.”
Clifford gave a half-smile.
“I believe he has passion in his life for other things as well,” he said, knowingly.
Cuddy chuckled.
“I suppose,” she admitted. Then, still in a bit of House-related reverie, she said: “It’s intimidating, exhilarating, and, frankly, a little exhausting to be around him.”
“I can imagine,” Clifford said.
Cuddy snapped out of it.
“But yeah, it’s lonely being House, too, you know? The world is constantly disappointing him. And then, of course, there’s the physical pain.”
“From his leg? Does it still hurt? May I ask what happened there?”
“He had an infarction. Amputation would’ve been the safest option. He refused. Some medical decisions were made on his behalf that, well, didn’t turn out as well as we might’ve hoped.”
“And that’s why he takes the pills? I saw him pop two in my presence.”
“Yes, that’s Vicodin.” Cuddy gulped a bit, feeling guilty and sad, as she always did when House’s addiction was discussed. “He had been sober for over two years. But recently…”
“Since the breakup,” Clifford offered.
“Yeah. I had a health scare that, well. . .” she blinked back a tear. “I’d rather not talk about it.”
“I’m sorry,” Clifford said, aghast. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
She smiled-but her eyes were still wet.
“It’s okay. It’s not your fault. House isn’t the only one who’s sad about our breakup.”
“It’s obvious that you still love him.”
“I do…”
“So why. . .?” He caught himself. “I’m sorry. I’m meddling. It’s none of my business.”
“No, it’s okay. He’s your son, right? So it’s at least partly your business. . . The thing is, I have a three-year-old daughter and this insanely demanding job-I need a boyfriend who requires a little less maintenance. House can never be counted on to do the right thing, to be there for me when I need him the most.”
“But he’s worth it, isn’t he?”
Cuddy laughed.
“You’re as persistent as he is.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Most of the time. Most of the time he’s worth it,” she admitted. “But when House fails, he fails spectacularly.”
“I know I’m stepping way out of line here. But I wish you could find some way back to each other,” Clifford said. “I so want him to be happy.”
“Sometimes I wish that, too,” Cuddy admitted.
Then she glanced at her watch. “Oh, shit. I need to go. I have a meeting with some donors in 20 minutes.”
She reached into her wallet to pull out some bills.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Needless to say, this is on me,” he said. “I truly appreciate you taking the time to meet me.”
“I only wish we had more time.”
“But you’ll do that thing? The thing we discussed?”
“Of course,” she said. “But don’t get your hopes up. He really doesn’t listen to me anymore.”
“I think he listens to you more than you know,” Clifford said.
“Well good luck to both of us then,” she said.
#####
Later that day, she found House leaning over the balcony that overlooked the hospital.
“Do you really think it’s wise to stand next to me on balconies right now?” he cracked.
“What, you’re going to throw me over?” she said.
“I promise to make it look like an accident.”
Unconsciously, she took a step back.
He side-eyed her. “Don’t worry you’re safe. I wouldn’t want to leave Rachel an orphan.”
She stepped back toward him.
“Speaking of parenting. . .”
“Were we?”
She shrugged, gave a guilty smile.
“I saw an opening. . .”
“What’s on your mind, Cuddy? As if I can’t guess.”
“Have you seen Clifford West yet?” (Pretending she didn’t know the truth gave Clifford better deniability).
“We had dinner last night, as a matter of fact,” House said.
She gaped at him.
“You’re lying!”
He furrowed his brow: “How do you know?”
“I just. . . I can tell!”
“You weren’t this good at sussing out my lies when we were dating,” he said.
“So you think,” she said, happy to leave him second guessing.
He smiled at her, in a touché kind of way.
“I’m not going to indulge the old man,” he said. “I have no interest in him. We have nothing in common.”
“Oh right. Nothing in common. Except that he’s your father.”
“Keep your voice down. I’m not sure all the patients in the clinic heard you.”
“House, he’s leaving tomorrow, right?” Then she remembered that she wasn’t supposed to know that. “Uh, at least that’s what Wilson told me. If you don’t go see him, you’ll have regret. And regret is the worst feeling in the world.”
“Why is everyone so down on regret?” House said. “As feelings go, I’d say boiling pustules on your face probably feel worse.”
“House, you can’t push away everyone who loves you.”
“Not if they push me away first,” he said, looking at her.
“House. . .” She put her hand on his arm.
“I gotta go,” he said, shaking her off. “I’m done with this conversation.”
“Just go visit him,” she called after him. “Just one visit. For me.”
He snickered.
“And maybe you can go fuck yourself.” Then he added sweetly: “For me.”
She inhaled, rolled her eyes, and watched him limp away.
#####
But of course he did listen to her, because he almost always did, agreeing to meet Clifford in the hotel bar that night for drinks.
And Clifford was thrilled beyond all measure, but he intuitively played it cool, shaking his son’s hand and saying, “I’m so glad you found the time.”
They ordered drinks-scotch, neat, for both of them-and talked. And talked. And talked some more.
They discussed Clifford’s books and he was amazed, touched, and stunned that House had read and comprehended them so thoroughly.
“You have a better understanding of these subjects than my third-year graduate students,” Clifford said. “And this is their life’s vocation.”
House shrugged. “It’s not that complicated,” he said.
They discussed Clifford’s two PhDs.
“Why don’t you call yourself Dr. West?” House asked.
“Go to any university and find me the professors who call themselves ‘Dr.’-and trust me, those are the assholes to be avoided at all costs,” Clifford said. “You’re the only real doctor at this table.”
They discussed House’s patients and his strategies for solving a case. Unlike other people who paid mere lip service to being interested in House’s methods, Clifford was genuinely fascinated. He asked the right questions, listened intently, and even got House to describe the cases he’d solved with something resembling enthusiasm.
They discussed their mutual love of jazz, Elmore Leonard novels, and Monty Python, their mutual disdain for religion and small talk and people who smiled too much.
“I love those people where you can actually read the ‘fuck you’ in their smile,” Clifford said.
“They always seem to have bigger teeth,” House noted.
And they both laughed.
Finally, cautiously, House said: “Do you have any other, uh, illegitimate children?”
“No,” Clifford said. “Of course not. I only cheated on Joan once, with your mother.”
House studied him.
“But there must’ve been temptation: Comely co-eds batting their eyelashes-and other things-at you.”
“Of course,” Clifford laughed. “Every year it seems the skirts get shorter and the blouses get lower cut. But. . .I’m loyal. To a fault sometimes. Your mother was the only woman I ever cheated with. In that case, I succumbed to temptation because the temptation was simply too strong.”
House nodded, believing him.
“Your mother changed didn’t she?” Clifford said. “She lost some of her exuberance for life?”
“My father had a way of sucking the exuberance out of most things. He thought being called a conformist was a compliment.”
“He didn’t get to you,” Clifford said, admiringly. “You’re anything but a conformist.”
House gave a half-shrug.
“I raged against him. I spent my entire adult life raging against him.”
“And probably, if I had raised you, you’d have raged against me too.”
“I’d be like Brian. A corporate CEO and a Republican.”
“And gay, too, as far as I can tell. Not that he’s told me-or his wife.”
They laughed again, but there was a twinge of sorrow in their merriment. It was obvious that House and Clifford were kindred spirits-there would have been nothing for House to rage against.
They ordered more drinks and talked some more-about dark matter, about video games (“please explain the fascination,” Clifford said), about the perfection of a Montecristo Habana cigar.
Clifford didn’t pry too much about Cuddy but he did ask if there was any chance of a reconciliation.
“Highly doubtful,” House said. “She’s pretty resolute with her decisions. And besides, I’ve been such an asshole to her since the breakup, she probably wants nothing to do with me.”
“Here’s a novel thought: Don’t be an asshole.”
“I can’t,” House admitted. “It hurts too much.”
Just then, the lights flickered on and the bartender said: “Sorry fellas. We’re closing up.”
It was 2 a.m.
So the father and son blinked at each other and stepped out of the bar, into the hotel lobby.
“I guess this is it,” Clifford said.
“I guess so,” House said.
“I’ve enjoyed tonight more than I can say,” Clifford said.
“Me too,” House said. Then, quickly: “Do you need a ride to the airport tomorrow?”
“I rented a car, so I guess that’s not necessary.”
House nodded.
“Oh yeah. Of course. Right.”
“I don’t know how well I’ll be able to stay in touch,” Clifford admitted. “I never wanted to sneak around behind my family’s back. I wanted to come to Princeton, see you as much as I possibly could in these 10 days and then walk away with no regrets.”
House’s mouth formed a tiny o.
“I should’ve come to see you sooner. I’m an idiot.”
“I’m glad you came to see me at all.”
House shuffled his feet.
“It’s late. You have a long day tomorrow. You should probably get some sleep.”
He went to shake Clifford’s hand, but the old man caught him in an embrace and House let him.
When they parted, Clifford said: “I know this is meaningless coming from me, and maybe even presumptuous: But I’m proud of the man you’ve become, Greg. Very proud indeed.”
House swallowed hard.
“Thanks,” he said. As Clifford began to walk away, he shouted after him: “Wait! Your medical records. Can you have the hospital send them to me, including all your treatment and all your scans?”
“I don’t see any point, Greg. The diagnosis is terminal.”
“I’d like to see them all the same, if you don’t mind.”
Clifford smiled at him, gratefully: “Of course.”
######
Several days later, House asked Wilson to join his team for a DDx.
“What do you see?” he said to the room.
“Advanced stage pancreatic cancer,” Wilson said.
“What else?” House said, impatiently.
“What else?” Foreman said. “What else is there?”
“I mean, what else could it possibly be?”
“Do you know the answer to this and it’s some sort of test?” Chase said, squinting at the scan.
“No, I’m asking you to think beyond the obvious.”
“I suppose it could be some other kind of cancer-lymphoma,”
Foreman said.
“No, not that,” House said, as Wilson gave him a look. (Lymphoma was as fatal as pancreatic cancer.)
“I once saw a very bad case of auto immune pancreatitis that resembled that,” Chase said.
House nodded, vigorously, wrote that down on the board.
“Good! Finally we’re getting someplace. What else?”
“An allergic reaction?” Thirteen said. “To antibiotics, like what Dr. Cuddy had.”
“Right. Possible,” House said, writing it down, too.
“No, it’s not possible,” Wilson said, scowling at him. “Whose scan is that?”
“Just a patient,” House said, all worked up. He clapped his hands. “What else!”
“I need a moment with Dr. House alone,” Wilson said to the team.
They all looked at Wilson, then looked back at House.
“Just ignore him,” House said. “What about panniculitis?”
“House, it’s not panniculitis,” Wilson said. Then a bit more forcefully to the room: “Leave us.”
“I have a thing I need to do…” Chase mumbled, getting up.
“Yeah, I need to help him with that thing,” Foreman said.
“I have my period,” Thirteen said.
And they all scrambled out.
Wilson folded his arms, stared at House.
“Whose scan is that?”
“I told you. Just a patient.”
But Wilson was walking toward the lightboard where the scan was mounted.
“Clifford Bartholomew West, born August 14,1929,” he read. Then he turned to House. “Oh, House, I’m so sorry.”
House shoved his hands in his pockets.
“There’s a chance that. . .”
“There’s no chance,” Wilson said.
House had slumped into a chair and Wilson sat down next to him. “When was this scan taken?” he asked.
“About a month ago,” House said.
“So he doesn’t have. . .much time.”
“No,” House admitted, bowing his head.
Wilson put a comforting hand on House’s shoulder, but he stiffened.
“I’m fine,” he said.
Wilson nodded.
“Okay,” he said gently. “You’re fine.”
######
Here's the finale.