Characters In Part Sixteen
Gregory House = Gregory V. "Hutch" Hutchinson, age 25
Chris Taub = Christian Thibeau

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Ann Arbor, 1890

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The watch stopped.

The fact only became clear when Hutch's stomach grumbled, reminding him that lunchtime was near. Checking his pocket watch for confirmation, the fancy dial lied and declared that it was only nine in the morning. He shook the case and stared at it in annoyance, but the second hand defied him and never budged.

He tried to forget about the timepiece as he finished with his last patient, but it was a useless hunk of metal and glass taking up space in his pocket. Not that he relied upon it so he could be on time, but rather to arrive late without raising eyebrows. His game required patience. He had extended his tardiness by one-minute increments until a full quarter hour of tedium had been shaved off three hospital meetings.

And the watch blighted what had begun as such a wonderful morning. The letter from Johns Hopkins was on his desk when he unlocked his office door, offering him a post to work with Dr. Osler in infectious diseases. He was to report in a fortnight.

Now he had a sick watch on his hands, but a repair shop was only a streetcar ride away. He dropped it back in his pocket, grabbed his cane, and headed out the door, forgetting about his hunger.

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Hutch glanced at the gold lettering on the storefront window proclaiming Floyd Gleason a jeweler, watchmaker and proprietor. The window framed a shaggy-haired old man sitting at a bench tapping on an ant-sized object with a chunky hammer. Hutch eased through the doorway, studiously ignoring the children who were obstructing the entrance.

As he laid his watch on the counter and said, "Fix it, Floyd," a shriek of high-pitched childish laughter mauled his demand.

"Ey? What's that?" The white-haired man raised his head from his tool-laden bench, and peered over his glasses.

Hutch held the timepiece up to his face, and mouthed the words in an exaggerated manner.

"Yes, yes, of course." The watchmaker plucked the watch from Hutch's hand. "You're Dr. Hutchinson, right? You treated my daughter for," Floyd lowered his voice to a whisper, "an intestinal ailment. I'm watching my granddaughters and grandson for her. Sorry about the clamor." He turned toward the youngsters. "Kids, you want some candy?" He winked at Hutch. "That should quiet them down for a minute."

The children raced across the floor to their grandfather who doled out a hard candy into each pair of waiting hands.

"Let's go for a record and make it two minutes." Hutch reached into his jacket, and swept up his stolen stash of hospital cough drops, handing them to the boy. "Share with your sisters." The little screamers did look familiar. He smiled when he remembered their mother. The woman with blue bowel movements.

When Hutch turned his attention to the watchmaker, the man had pried open the case and was inspecting the mechanism. "This is a beautiful watch your father gave you."

"Do I look over forty?" Hutch had misgivings about leaving the watch with the old guy. Not only did he have trouble hearing, but seeing. With not a little pride, he explained, "The inscription on the watch was to my uncle, Hutchinson Wilcox, on his 21st birthday. A gift from his father."

"I'm not talking about that. There are service marks inside the case. Old Lloyd worked on it. Quite a character, he was. Fixed watches until he was 84. Liked to record the most mundane information along with his repair notes. I once discovered a barometer reading behind the dial. Says here, the watch was brought in for water damage in August of 1880."

The steamboat disaster. The watch got wet when Wilcox rescued him.

"Rock, paper, scissors!"

"Mine! I'll take the red one!"

"Let's go again."

"Rock, paper, scissors!"

Hutch glanced behind. The kids were divvying up the odd bits of candy. He should have counted it and given them only one color. He turned back to Floyd. "You said, son?"

"Yes. Next to Lloyd's initials and date, he wrote, 'For son. Rush. LC08171880.'"

Hutch tried to swallow, but his mouth had gone dry. "Let me see it."

Floyd cupped his hand around the watchcase and tilted it so the chicken-scratches caught the light. Hutch grabbed the wrist when the hieroglyphics became distinctive. He blinked, but the word was still there, son. He imagined Wilcox feeling safe in a hole-in-the-wall shop with the other "Oyd," confiding his secret, I'm leaving town and want to give the watch to my son. Like the ring had confirmed his paternity to Wilcox, Hutch now understood Wilcox's twisted message. He didn't give him the watch as a keepsake to remember their friendship or mark their clouded relationship. The importance of the memento resided in the engraved watch cover. To My Son, Hutch…

"Doc, can I have my hand back?"

Hutch released Floyd's wrist. "What's wrong with my watch?"

The tip of Floyd's nose was almost resting on the gears as he examined the intricate interior. "All the wheels are worn…"

No longer just a useful tool to prick the hot air out of bureaucratic bores' thin skins, the watch had gone up in value. Hutch wanted it in his possession immediately. "When can I pick it up?"

Floyd looked up at Hutch. "Impatient, just like your father. Normally a repair like this takes a month, but if you're willing to pay extra for a rush delivery, I can get it done in fourteen days."

That was when he was due in Baltimore. Hutch leaned on the counter. "Make it seven and I'll throw in a box of cough drops for your grandkids."

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Two weeks later Hutch stood on the New Orleans Union Station platform, checking his watch against the moon-sized clock on the wall. The train's arrival and his watch were on time, but no one was there to meet him. Braced for an overly enthusiastic welcome, he was somewhat disappointed, but not for long. Arms ensnared him from behind, and when he managed to turn around, he was engulfed in a full-blown hug.

"Hutch! It has been too long, mon ami." Thibeau spoke into Hutch's chest. "Mon Dieu! You're taller than I remembered."

Uncomfortable with the gesture, Hutch did his best to reciprocate with an anemic squeeze. Thibeau must have sensed something off and shyly backed away. "Welcome home, Doctor Hutchinson."

"Are you ill?"

"No."

"Then call me Hutch. Not even my patients call me doctor by the time I torture them into a cure."

Thibeau shook his head incredulously. "I can't believe you're here. Wait until you see my restaurant and meet the family. Everyone is dying to meet you."

Hutch smiled. "What lies did you make up about me?"

Thibeau returned the grin, picked up Hutch's valise, and led the way out of the station. "None. The icehouse and fleeing Hull are the children's favorite bedtime stories. Life's been dull without you, Hutch. To think, you survived all these years without getting hung."

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Ever solicitous, Thibeau drove his fancy carriage through the streets of New Orleans on the pretense of giving Hutch a tour of the city and how it had grown while he was away. His route took them past the cemetery where Hutch's mother was buried. Without saying a word, Thibeau reined in the horses at the front gates. Hutch maneuvered out of his seat, and headed to Alice's plot by himself. Everything looked the same since the last time he visited, except the trees cast bigger shadows, and there were more occupants enduring their shady hospitality.

At his mother's grave, he yanked gently on his new pocket watch chain. He had Floyd solder his mother's ring onto the last link where it clinked softly against the watchcase. Wilcox's simple explanation about tangible evidence still haunted him.

There was no good reason for visiting the grave, but this was the real purpose for his trip to New Orleans. After seeing the hidden message he had contacted Johns Hopkins about changing his start date, claiming a family emergency. It was time to bury his grief and bitterness, and this was the first step on a self-prescribed pilgrimage.

Despite no longer being a child who talked to headstones, his heart whispered, "I love you," before he walked back to Thibeau's carriage.

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The music was zesty and as hot as the food. The only thing cold was the beer. Hutch had never heard so much laughter or seen so much joyful humanity packed into one room. The crystal chandeliers swayed and jangled from the couples bouncing on the dance floor. Ruby, emerald, and amethyst skirts whirled above the women's knees, showing a froth of petticoats. The men clapped and whooped in appreciation, and children of every size, shape, and sex, scampered around legs and giggled in delight. They made Mardi Gras revelers look like church deacons.

When Hutch arrived at the restaurant, family and friends had already gathered. A sign on the front door boasted that the business was closed for a private party. Hutch hardly had a chance to take in the large, airy dining room and the open kitchen as Thibeau introduced him to the crowd. By the third person, he gave up on names and relationships, and called everyone "cousin," which earned him many kisses on his cheeks and thumps on his back. Short of savagely killing a family member in the middle of the assembly, he could do no wrong. Instead of questioning their sanity, he rocked his chair back against the wall and allowed the chaos to envelope him.

He could have sat until dawn watching, but Thibeau flashed a bottle of brandy, and motioned toward the back door. Hutch joined him on the steps and accepted a glass.

"What exactly did you tell people about our adventures, or did you drug their food?" Hutch asked.

"That's Houma hospitality. My friends are your friends."

"But you're not in Houma anymore. Do you miss it?"

"A little." Thibeau shrugged. "But my family is here. We're no longer separated."

"Which means you can keep an eye on Rachelle."

"She's something to behold, n'est-ce pas?"

Indeed, La Rachelle was a comely woman who was not above flirting with any of her husband's friends, including him. Hutch had avoided her advances, not wanting to take the chance of leaving behind a baby-sized souvenir of his visit. "She's a handful."

"She's a good businesswoman too. Without her the business would have gone under in the first year," Thibeau said, the corners of his mouth twitching with mirth.

"What did she do?"

"Persuaded the butcher and fishmonger to extend credit."

"And now you're on the hook raising that little blond-haired blue-eyed hellion I spied crawling under the tables?"

"I prefer to call him Étienne. Hutch, I told you, it doesn't matter. They are all mine. I'd sooner chop off a finger than choose among them."

"Not a difficult decision. Start with the pinky and save the thumb for last."

Thibeau splashed more brandy in their glasses. "You've changed, Hutch."

The statement startled him. "People don't change, or by change do you mean adding a mangled thigh to go with my twisted foot?"

"No. You were innocent and impulsive when I first met you. Now you're sad."

"Don't cry about it." Hutch mocked and pulled a long face. He displayed his right hand. "I'm tougher, much like my calloused palm."

Thibeau squeezed his arm reassuringly. "Sad like your beard. What's that mange on your face?"

Hutch rubbed his hand over his cheek. There were definite bristles. "Moving trains and straight razors don't mix, but I'm getting used to the promising new beard look."

"That's a promise you ought to break," Thibeau answered dryly, and changed the subject. "How long are you staying in New Orleans?"

"Three days. I'm continuing west…" Hutch swirled the brandy in his glass and sipped, considering how much to explain. " …to San Francisco. I want to visit a friend of mine who settled there. I told you about Forrest."

Thibeau nodded. "Your cousin's business partner. How is Wilcox?"

Hutch rolled the glass between his hands. He had begun his correspondence with Thibeau while he was recuperating from his leg wound. Still hurt by the way Wilcox had left, Hutch had literally written him out of life, glossing over the chance meeting on the riverboat and the events that followed. Besides visiting his mother's grave, New Orleans offered an opportunity for a fresh start, for retracing his steps where he first met Wilcox. "Do you have time for a long story?"

Thibeau capped the bottle and shoved it aside. "All the time in the world."

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Hutch gazed from the train window as the locomotive huffed to a halt. There was little to distinguish the small depot from any of the others along the route. The building might be a little taller than the last twenty. Built with a straight-sided tower instead of a curved one. They all had the same standard-issue red roof. What made the station and town distinctive was the soaring wall of snow-capped mountains.

From the desolate platform, he immediately spotted his transportation. A man in a black suit sat in a carriage and stared back at him as still as a crow perched on a tree branch. When Hutch was within two paces of the conveyance the man acknowledged him by tipping his bowler.

"It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Doctor Hutchinson. I'm Adam Blackthorne. Everything is prepared, sir."

"I have to be back at the station in an hour or I miss my train."

"Nothing should prevent that from happening. The cemetery isn't far away."

Within five minutes Hutch stood in front of a sparsely decorated grave. Forrest had been right. The older part of the cemetery was suffering from neglect. Stones outlined dirt plots, and most of the wooden markers were illegible and rotting from the effects of the severe Colorado winters.

Blackthorne waited patiently for Hutch to nod before setting the laborers to work.

"A minister is on the grounds, if you want a eulogy…?"

"Nope." Speaking to Thibeau had been enough. Hutch had gone into more detail than he expected, explaining about his pilgrimage. First New Orleans and then onto Colorado Springs. He could turn around and head back East at this point, but San Francisco was a few days away. He had come this far, why not witness the sun sinking into the Pacific. Besides, he wanted the pleasure of snapping his own watch in counter rhythm to Forrest's, and seeing his expression when he beat him at poker. He anticipated that his winnings would more than pay for the extra leg of his journey.

The workmen finished their task and stepped away. Hutch stared at the new granite monument. It was exactly as he had specified.

"A fine headstone, sir." Blackthorne said. Apparently encouraged by Hutch's silence, he cleared his throat and read the epitaph, "'James Ernest Wilcox. 1843 to 1880. Father.'"

"Says it all." Hutch answered.

Blackthorne nodded. "Very… dignified. Simple."

While the train whistle moaned in the distance. Hutch looked at the time, and permitted a touch of sentiment to get in the way of reason. He held the pocket watch up in a salute, and as he did, the sun struck the gold surface and dazzled his eyes, filling them with tears. He quickly wiped the moisture away.

"Not simple… complicated," Hutch answered, and walked back to the carriage.

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Epilogue

House woke up on the sofa with the black eye of the widescreen staring back at him. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he was surprised to discover a wet trail of tears on his face. He had been crying in his sleep, but the cause had vanished as soon as he awoke. Pushing down the footrest and disengaging from the couch, House listed toward his bedroom. The kitchen clock glowed 2:21 in the morning, and a slightly damp but neatly folded dishtowel on the counter confirmed Wilson had come home after spending a late night at the hospital. As he passed Wilson's door, a pang of anxiety surged in his chest, and an irrational compulsion urged him to twist the knob and peek inside the room.

The sound of soft snoring was suddenly aborted, and Wilson raised his head from the pillow, his face a mix of confusion and concern. "House, what's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"You're sure?"

"Yeah, everything's good."

Wilson rubbed his face, and dropped his head on the pillow. "Then go to bed. G'night, House."

"Night, Wilson."

House closed the door and continued down the hall. Rejuvenated after his nap on the Muppet couch, he went to his computer, idly surfing his favorite sites. Nothing held his interest until a wild card idea flashed into his head, and he searched on a name. A book, an order form, and photo of a man who looked like a devilish secret agent shined out from the screen like a lighthouse beacon. House felt an inexplicable need to find out if he had anything in common with the Reverend Sean Connery. Drumming his fingers on the laptop's surface he stared at the screen.

With a few clicks he typed Wilson's name and credit card number into the appropriate boxes. When he was through, he closed the laptop, and sank back into the bed, feeling unexpectedly tired.

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My thanks to everyone who joined me on this journey.