Fenimore nodded.
“Do you have a record of that diagnosis?”
“I’d have to check,” he hedged. “It was a long time ago.”
“Charlie never went back to your father after that. It would have been too painful.” She bit her lip.
“I still don’t see—”
“Charlie wants to ask you for dinner. I thought when you come”—She assumed there was no question of his not coming—“you could ask him if he’s had Chuck examined. Explain that sometimes this defect can be inherited.”
“This isn’t something I usually discuss over dinner.”
“Make an exception!” Caroline’s eyes flashed.
Fenimore waited for her to calm down.
“Sorry, Andrew.” She brushed a strand of hair from her eyes. “But we’re talking about a matter of life and death.”
“You’re talking about a matter of life and death.”
“But there is a risk. You implied so yourself.”
“The first thing is to have Chuck examined.”
“I have a plan.” She leaned forward. “During dinner you could mention that while cleaning out your office you came across Charlie’s old record and you wondered if Chuck had been examined recently. Mention that sometimes these defects are inherited.”
“This is highly unprofessional—”
“Let me finish. I’m going to invite a lot of Charlie’s most influential friends to this dinner. Windsor’s president, the rowing coach, even Chuck’s biggest rowing competitor—Hank Walsh and his father, Henry. They’re black, you know. A first for the Club.” She let him in on this big news. “And they will all hear what you have to say. If it becomes public knowledge that Chuck should have this exam, Charlie won’t dare refuse. Charlie is determined, but he is also very sensitive to public opinion.”
Fenimore was silent. Finally he said, “Let me think about it.”
“We don’t have much time.”
“How’s that?”
“The big regatta, the one that determines who goes to Henley, takes place at the end of the month. This period is especially hard on the rowers. The training is very rigorous. I want to spare Chuck that, if possible. I’ve noticed that he’s been flagging lately. When he gets home at night he . . . he looks like death warmed over.”
“He still lives at home?”
“Oh yes. So Charlie can keep an eye on him. Make sure he does his exercises and is on time for every practice.”
“That’s quite a commute from Bryn Mawr.”
“Charlie drives him in most mornings.”
Fenimore stroked his chin. “Let me sleep on it,” he said, “and I’ll let you know tomorrow.”
Resigned but not happy, Caroline rose. Before leaving, she turned. “Have you ever read A. E. Housman?” she asked.
Fenimore frowned. “I think I had to memorize one of his poems. Something about cherry trees . . .”
“Well, refresh your memory and try ‘To an Athlete Dying Young.’ ”
As Fenimore ushered Mrs. Ashburn out, Mrs. Doyle observed them from behind her desk. When the doctor returned, she pretended no interest in his last patient, but she didn’t fool Fenimore. Her curiosity crackled through the office like static electricity.
“For your information, Doyle, that was not a patient. Just a friend with a family problem.”
“I see.”
Too late for a row now, he returned to his inner office, deep in thought.
Later, after eating a meager supper of tuna on rye washed down with a Coke, Fenimore trudged up to the attic. When he stepped inside, he was met with the scents of old things stored too long in an airless space. The last of the sun’s rays filtered through the single dirty window, endowing the accumulated clutter with a golden hue and turning the dust motes into flecks of gold. The room was crammed with cartons and suitcases, broken lamps and worn-out pieces of furniture. Why do we hang on to these things? he wondered. Are we too lazy to sort them out and get rid of them? Or does it go deeper than that? If we dispose ofthese things from the past, are we afraid we will diminish ourselves in some way? Enough introspection, Fenimore. He headed for the corner where he thought his old school books were stored. There they are! He spied four cartons labeled in his mother’s precise hand: MEDICAL SCHOOL, COLLEGE, HIGH SCHOOL, CHILDHOOD. He pulled the one labeled HIGH SCHOOL toward him and tore it open. The first thing he saw were his report cards, neatly tied together with string. Good old Ma! She had been proud of me, hadn’t she? He devoted a few moments to her memory. A brave woman, she had left her home in Prague to come to this country and marry a man who spoke not a word of her native language. Raised two sons and made a life for herself in Philadelphia. On the whole, she had seemed content, sinking only occasionally into sad moods, which Fenimore now suspected had been bouts of simple homesickness. He didn’t think much of visiting graves. He felt much closer to his mother here in the attic, where she had lovingly packed up his books and papers than at Laurel Hill Cemetery overlooking the Schuylkill, where she was buried. Immortality was a funny thing; people lived on in the oddest ways. He had a girlfriend long ago who died in a car crash. Sara. She had taught him how to cook spaghetti. “I can never keep it from sticking,” he had told her. “Oh, that’s easy,” she’d said and sprinkled a few drops of olive oil in the water. Now, every time he made spaghetti and added oil to the water, he thought of Sara. That was true immortality.
He laid the report cards aside. He knew what they contained. Straight As. Except for that one semester when he had been in love and slipped to a B+ in geometry. He still shuddered at the cause of this black mark on his record. Franny had turned out to be not only fickle but stupid! Maybe that’s why we become pack rats, he thought. We hate to sort through our stuff and be reminded of our past foibles. He lifted the next item. A notebook labeled, in Fenimore’s own boyish hand, AMERICAN HISTORY—McDOUGAL. He remembered McDougal fondly. A superb teacher who sprinkled his lectures with humorous anecdotes to help weld knowledge to the minds of the most lackluster students. He moved on. “Ah!” He came upon the volume he was looking for, Snyder and Martin, the well-worn collection of English literature he had treasured. Chaucer, Donne, Shakespeare—on to Keats, Coleridge, Browning. Seated on the carton labeled COLLEGE, Fenimore browsed in the fading light. He had read most of The Ancient Mariner when he gave a start, remembering why he was there. He quickly searched out Housman, and in the gathering dusk, read the poem Caroline had recommended. One verse struck him as particularly poignant.
Smart lad, to slip betimes away
From fields where glory does not stay.
And early though the laurel grows
It withers quicker than the rose.
Fenimore tried to remember being Chuck’s age. His dreams and aspirations. They had been very different. To be a doctor had been his all-consuming desire. A somewhat more substantial dream than winning a race. One that would last a lifetime, not disappear in a flash of oars. He remembered those athletes who bloomed so young; everything that came after seemed an anticlimax. Paul Newman had portrayed such a fellow to perfection in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. The agony and futility of jumping hurdles when his body could no longer respond to his call. Even Elizabeth Taylor, with all her charms, could not interest this former football star.
Surely Chuck could replace his insubstantial dream with another, longer-lasting one, Fenimore told himself.
By the time he left the attic, it was so dark he had to feel his way to the door like a blind man.
CHAPTER 7
Two days later Charlie invited Fenimore to dinner. And Fenimore accepted.
“Bring your girlfriend,” Charlie urged. “Caroline’s asking a big crowd. Why, on such short notice, I don’t know. But once a woman gets an idea in her head . . .” He made a circular motion with his finger next to his temple. When he was with Charlie, Fenimore wasn’t sure there had ever been a feminist revolution.
“Thanks, I will,” Fenimore said, referring to Jennifer, and wonder
ed what her reaction to the invitation would be. He found out that evening.
“Oh lord. Do I have to wear a dress?”
“Well, I imagine—”
“All those overstuffed matrons will be decked out in their Talbots suits and Banana Republic sundresses.”
Fenimore had never thought about where Jennifer bought her clothes. He himself leaned toward thrift shops and the Salvation Army stores. “If you’d rather not . . .”he began.
“Oh no. I’ll go. After all you’ve told me about the Ashburn family, I’m dying of curiosity. I’ll dig up something to wear.”
Fenimore drew up to the curb on Walnut Street, in front of Nicholson’s Bookstore. Jennifer and her father owned and lived above the store and because of the parking problem, she often waited for him on the sidewalk. He almost didn’t recognize her. Instead of her usual jeans and T-shirt, she was dressed in a white linen top, a long lavender print skirt, and white sandals. She looked stunning. Two men who were passing by bestowed admiring glances on her as she stepped into the car. Fenimore wondered fleetingly why she didn’t dress up more often, but quickly banished the thought as being politically incorrect or worse—disloyal.
“You look smashing,” he said.
“And you sound like Bertie Wooster.” Jennifer made a face.
“I’ve always fancied myself as Jeeves,” Fenimore said.
“Dream on.”
“You’re in a fine mood.”
“Sorry. I guess it’s the thought of mingling with all those matrons.”
“Some matroons will be there too.”
“Matroons?”
“Mates of the matrons.”
“You made that up.”
It was rush hour, so the drive to Bryn Mawr via the Schuylkill Expressway was slow. As they crawled along, parallel to the river, Fenimore pointed out Boathouse Row. “Look, the lights just came on!”
He referred to the beads of lights that outlined the boathouse walls, peaked roofs, windows, and doors, transforming the Victorian dowagers into a row of homes from Loony Tunes. He half expected Elmer Fudd to step out on one of the docks, bearing a shell on his head.
“They are fabulous, aren’t they?” Jennifer agreed. “Have you been rowing yet?”
He nodded. “Twice. But I’m still afraid to go at dawn. I thought I’d better go when other rowers are around in the beginning—in case I have an accident and someone has to rescue me.”
“But it’s not as if you’re a novice,” she said. “Doesn’t the skill come right back—like ice-skating or bicycling?”
“Up to a point. But you still have to be careful. Once, someone tipped over and went right over the falls.”
“Good grief. What happened to him?”
“He was battered to a bloody pulp on the jagged rocks below.”
“Do you have to be so graphic?”
“Sorry.” He slid a disc into the CD player and they listened to Mozart the rest of the way.
Charlie Ashburn made a good income as chief of orthopedics at HUP, and Caroline was heir to one of Philadelphia’s foremost pharmaceutical firms. After entering their drive, flanked by two concrete lions, it took some time before they caught sight of the mansion. The parking area to one side of the grandiose granite pile already held a Porsche, a BMW, various Cadillacs, and a Lexus SUV. Fenimore parked his 1997 Chevy next to the Porsche. He could afford a better car but had no desire for one. “If it runs, that’s all that matters” was his philosophy. Once, after a trip to a similar affluent neighborhood, a township police car had followed his shabby vehicle to the county line, and Fenimore was convinced the cop had suspected him of casing the neighborhood for future heists.
“Andrew! How nice.” Caroline greeted him with a peck on the cheek. “And this is . . . ?”
“Jennifer.”
Jennifer forced a smile.
“Jennifer . . . ?” She paused, waiting for a last name. In Ashburn circles, people still supplied their surnames, to make it easier to determine the person’s social origins, Fenimore surmised.
“Nicholson.” Jennifer supplied hers, grudgingly.
“Come in and join the party!” Charlie appeared behind his wife. “You’re the last, I think.” Casting an appraising glance at Jennifer, he asked, “What would you like to drink?”
He seemed put out by their orders for two white wines. He was a martini and bourbon man himself, he said. “Acquired the taste in college, and never gave it up.” He laughed.
Fenimore scanned the room. True to her word, Caroline had assembled an august group. He recognized Ted Oldfield, president of the Windsor Club. A dapper, friendly fellow, he sported a small moustache. And the Windsor coach, Frank O’Brien, was holding court, surrounded by a circle of admiring young men and women—primarily rowers. Today, there were as many women rowers as men. Short and muscular, O’Brien had been first stroke for Windsor at one time and his reputation in the world of rowing was legendary.
When Charlie returned with their drinks, he had his son, Chuck, in tow. The slender, taciturn youth stayed only long enough to be introduced, then rejoined the group gathered around his coach.
On the other side of the room, Fenimore was surprised to see Cornelius Wormwood, head of the Philadelphia Planning Commission. Charlie explained that they hoped to persuade him to vote against the horrid marina when the proposal came up next week. He pointed out two other key figures in the marina saga—Jack Newborn, the developer, and William Ott, the chief architect. They were engaged in a conspiratorial conversation in a corner of the living room. Newborn’s squat figure radiated a fierce energy, while Ott’s spaghetti-like form oozed lassitude as he lounged against the mantelpiece. The Ashburns, it seemed, had no objection to mixing with the enemy.
Two dark, lean men hovered on the sidelines, talking to each other. One in his fifties, the other about twenty. The Walshes, father and son, Fenimore decided. The son looked ill at ease, but the father seemed relaxed. O’Brien had been instrumental in getting the younger Walsh into the club, overcoming some initial resistance, Caroline told Fenimore. But Hank had proved an excellent choice. He was the only rower who could compete with her son, Chuck.
“Henry Walsh, Hank’s father, is a lawyer at Williams, Benner, and Dunn—a very prestigious firm,” Charlie informed them in a low voice as he brought their drinks. “Hank is Chuck’s only serious competitor. We have to keep our eye on him.”
“I’d like to meet them,” Fenimore said.
Charlie led Fenimore and Jennifer over to the two men.
“Want to lay odds on tomorrow’s race, Charlie?” Henry Walsh spoke in a joshing tone.
“You know it’s illegal to bet on amateurs,” Charlie said stiffly. “This is Andrew Fenimore—a cardiologist—and Jennifer . . . ?”
“Hi.” Jennifer stuck out her hand, and they shook all around.
Jennifer asked young Hank how he had become interested in rowing, and Fenimore listened to Henry Walsh and Charlie banter about their sons’ prowess. Charlie’s jibes had more of an edge than Henry’s, Fenimore thought. A tall, distinguished stranger with a British accent joined their group and injected an occasional snide remark.
Fenimore and Jennifer had barely finished their wine when the party was summoned to dinner. Caroline wasn’t wasting any time getting to the purpose of the gathering, Fenimore noticed. It was quite a trek from the living room to the dining room. In size, the rooms equaled those of the art museum on the Parkway, and the furnishings were probably worth about the same.
The party consisted of twelve. (Fenimore counted.) He had been seated on the left side—in the center—so everyone could easily hear him when it came time for him to play his part. Caroline and Fenimore had decided that the lull between the entrée and dessert would be the best time for his performance. Mellowed by food and drink, the guests would be receptive, and, having worn out earlier topics of conversation, eager for new material.
The Brit was seated on Fenimore’s right. He introduced himself as Geoffrey Hun
ter-Powell, from Oxford. “I’m in the States for one reason,” he said with a deprecating smile. “To scout out your rowers.”
Fenimore looked at him with new interest. “What do you think of them?”
“Oh, top-hole,” he said jovially. “But they’ll lose, of course.”
“We did win a few when Kelly was around,” Fenimore reminded him.
“True,” the Englishman allowed, “but those days are long gone.” His smile failed to take the sting out of his words.
Fenimore turned to the person on his left—a sturdy, freckle-faced woman.
“Jill O’Brien,” she said with a smile.
“The coach’s wife?”
She nodded.
“What’s it like being wedded to a river rat?” Fenimore asked.
She laughed. “I am a bit of a sailor’s wife, but we have a house full of kids and I don’t have much time to miss Frank.”
“Are they all rowers?”
“Well, they’re all under ten, so it’s a bit early to tell. But I’d put my money on Beth, our oldest daughter. She’s a good little athlete and women rowers have finally come into their own.”
“Time marches on,” Fenimore said, remembering Jack Kelly Sr. being refused entry in the Henley race because he was a mere tradesman. He owned a successful brick business but lacked a university education. Kelly had been so outraged by this snub, he had sent his jockstrap to the king. Fenimore was glad that times had changed and Beth O’Brien would not have to send her bra to Queen Elizabeth II!
The grapefruit and chicken breast courses passed uneventfully, except for one minor incident. Frank O’Brien looked over at Chuck, who was seated across from him, and said brusquely, “Better hit the sack early tonight.”
Chuck had not contributed much to the conversation, but Fenimore wasn’t sure whether this was due to shyness or fatigue. The boy merely nodded in response to his coach. Caroline, seated at the head of the table, overheard the remark and her bright hostess façade faded momentarily.
When the dishes were cleared, a dark-skinned woman in a white uniform circled the table, taking orders for coffee—regular or decaf. When she disappeared into the kitchen, Caroline glanced at Fenimore. With a start, he realized this was his cue.
The Doctor Rocks the Boat Page 3