The Doctor Rocks the Boat

by Robin Hathaway

  “Down the road” turned out to be over a mile. Jennifer had worn sensible shoes, a pair of clogs, but Fenimore had on a pair of relatively new oxfords with slippery soles and his progress was slow. But it was a pretty walk. The birds were out in full force, building their nests for the coming broods. A row of forsythia bushes was in full bloom. And Jennifer actually spied a skunk cabbage poking its bright green snout through a patch of leftover snow.

  The diner was vintage 1930s with no frills or phony additions. Over bowls of homemade vegetable soup and chunks of warm, freshly baked bread, Fenimore explained the medical implications of Chuck’s condition to Jennifer.

  “Sudden cardiac death is a gamble. You can lead a perfectly normal life with the tendency and never have it kick in—doing everything anyone else does—except strenuous exercise. Chuck could jog, swim, shoot baskets, even row—as long as he doesn’t make excessive demands on his heart. Recreational sports would be relatively safe. It’s the competitive sports that are dangerous!” He broke off a piece of bread and debated about adding butter.

  “Oh, go ahead.” Jennifer read his mind. “You’re on vacation.”

  He frowned. “Some vacation.”

  “In small measure, life may perfect be,” Jennifer quoted.

  “Who said that?”

  “Ben Jonson.”

  “Umph.” But he spread a small amount of butter on the bread.

  “You know,” Jennifer mused, “sports aren’t only about physical fitness.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Well, surely you know that sports build character.”

  “Like taking steroids?”

  “I’m not talking about professional sports.”

  “What sports did you play?” he asked.

  “Field hockey.”

  “What position?”

  “Goalie.”

  “Goalie?” Fenimore sat back to better survey the petite woman before him. “I thought goalies had to be big enough to cover the goal.”

  “Wrong. They have to be alert and quick on their feet.”

  “But how does that build character?”

  “There are times in life when we all have our backs to the wall and have to come out fighting.”

  Fenimore nodded. “True.”

  “Also, there are times in life when everything runs smoothly, but you shouldn’t become complacent or a forward will come charging down the field and shoot a ball right between your legs.” Jennifer was growing animated. Fenimore sensed she was reliving a game from long ago. He was sure she was smelling the newly cut grass, the sweat of her teammates, the tangy odor of orange slices that were served at the half. “Or,” she went on, “even worse, a forward will pass the ball to a left inner or a right wing and, while you’re looking the other way, they’ll sneak the ball into the goal—behind you.”

  “Now that does sound like real life—at a medical center,” Fenimore said. After ordering two coffees, he turned back to Jennifer. “Were you a good goalie?” he asked. Even if she were wrapped in thick pads and a mask, it was hard for him to imagine this slight woman defending a vast space with only her body and a thin stick.

  “I was on the varsity team for four years,” she said. “But I didn’t bring this up to brag,” she added hastily. “I just wanted to point out that you shouldn’t belittle the role of sports in a kid’s life. Academia is all very well, but learning how to hold your own on a ball field—or on a river—teaches important lessons too.”

  “Touché,” Fenimore said, taking a sip of his coffee. “I would have loved to have seen you in action. Did your father come to your games?”

  “Once.”

  “Only once?”

  “It was the one game in which I was hit on the head by a ball. I was knocked out cold. He never came again.” Jennifer laughed.

  “Holy mackerel! You really got clobbered?”

  “Yep. I told you, athletics is not all about physical fitness. That blow knocked some sense into my head.”

  “I hadn’t noticed,” Fenimore teased.

  When they returned to the garage, Fenimore’s car was still on the lift and Virgil was nowhere to be seen.

  “Hell,” Fenimore said. “Where could he be?”

  “Virgil!” Jennifer sang into the dark garage.

  No answer.

  They wandered around to the back, where they found the missing mechanic. He was seated at a battered picnic table enjoying a late lunch washed down with a Budweiser.

  “Oh my God,” muttered Fenimore.

  “Are you almost finished?” asked Jennifer.

  “Just one more bite.” He held up the remains of a squashed cupcake.

  “I meant with our car.”

  “Oh.” He ran a hand through his patchy hair and studied the remains of his lunch. “I have bad news. There’s this missing part. I sent my son to town for it, but I close at four and—”

  “Look,” Fenimore broke in desperately, “I’ll pay you extra if you’ll finish the job tonight.”

  “Gee, that’s real nice.” Virgil grinned. “But it’s the wife’s birthday and I promised to take her out to dinner.”

  So, when Virgil’s son came back (Ajax was his name), he drove Fenimore and Jennifer in his pickup back to the Pine Haven B & B. They spent a restless, unromantic night among a million gewgaws and two Pekinese dogs, who took turns yapping at their door until dawn.

  CHAPTER 14

  When Fenimore called the next morning, Virgil said, “The car won’t be ready until noon.” To keep Fenimore from blowing a gasket, Jennifer led him on a walk through a wooded glen behind the B & B. She tried to teach him how to identify trees by their bark, the difference between fox and dog tracks, and the mating habits of certain birds.

  “What about the bees?” Fenimore repeated his earlier complaint.

  “It’s too early for them. We have to come back in June,” she said.

  “Over my dead body,” he seethed.

  Once on the road, Jennifer had to caution Fenimore frequently about the speed limit. He knew the big Singles race between Chuck and Hank Walsh was in the afternoon, but he didn’t know the exact time. As he sped down the Pennsylvania Turnpike he kept an anxious eye on the dashboard clock. Since it was Saturday, Jennifer suggested they listen to the Metropolitan Opera broadcast. “They’re doing Don Giovanni today,” she said. “Your favorite.” But when she turned it on, the high-pitched arias even got on her nerves and she snapped it off. Anxiety and opera don’t mix, she decided.

  When they reached the Schuylkill Expressway they hit a traffic jam. Jennifer was afraid Fenimore was going to have a stroke. “Want me to drive for a while?” she offered, out of self-preservation more than kindness.

  “No,” he snapped.

  “They’re probably going to the regatta too,” she said.

  “They should stay home and read a book,” Fenimore said unreasonably.

  Meanwhile, at Fenimore’s office, Mrs. Doyle was working away, still playing catch-up for all the days her assistant had been home nursing his broken ankle. She was just finishing up when the phone rang. A phone call on Saturday afternoon was unusual. Mrs. Doyle lifted the receiver. It was Mrs. Lopez—and she sounded upset.

  “What time did Ray leave?” she asked.

  “The usual time—about 12:01,” Mrs. Doyle told her.

  “Well, he’s not home yet. Do you know where he could be?”

  Mrs. Doyle tried to remember if Horatio had mentioned anything about going someplace after work. His conversations with the nurse were usually monosyllabic, and she couldn’t remember him saying anything to her but “Hi” and “So long.” “I can’t think of a thing,” said Mrs. Doyle. “I ordered a cab for him, gave him some money out of petty cash, and thought he was going straight home.”

  The silence at the other end of the line quivered with anxiety.

  “Could he have stopped off at a friend’s house?” Mrs. Doyle suggested. “Or gone to a music store?” She knew how Rat loved his CDs.
/>   “He wouldn’t have given up the cab too far from home,” his mother said. “He can’t walk more than a few blocks with those crutches.”

  Mrs. Doyle considered. “I could call the cab company. They keep records of all their passenger pickup and drop-off locations,” she offered.

  “Oh, would you, Mrs. Doyle? I’d be so—”

  Doyle heard a door slam in the background over Mrs. Lopez’s voice.

  “There you are! Where have you been?”

  Mrs. Doyle gently replaced the receiver.

  Gradually the traffic loosened up and Fenimore was able to escape the expressway via the ramp near the zoo. He maneuvered his way through the narrow streets of Brewery Town, past the golden statue of Joan of Arc, to Eakins Circle, below the art museum. Kelly Drive was cordoned off by yellow police tape for the regatta and every parking space was taken.

  “Pull over and get out,” Jennifer said. “I’ll park the car and meet you later.”

  Fenimore obeyed. As he jumped out he called back, “Come to the picnic ground below the grandstand. I’ll be with the Ashburn party.”

  The last Jennifer saw of him, he was making his way up the parkway toward Kelly Drive, head down, his expression anxious. In his business suit, regimental striped tie, and oxfords, he stood out like a sore thumb among the rest of the crowd who were dressed for a casual Saturday afternoon in shorts and jeans, T-shirts and sweats. As he trudged off in the shadow of that great Greek monument, the Philadelphia Art Museum, dressed in the wrong clothes, to try to save a young man’s life, Jennifer found his figure touching. It wasn’t until she lost sight of him in the crowd that she moved on to look for a parking space.

  CHAPTER 15

  As Fenimore approached the grandstand, he paused to watch a race of eights finishing on the river. The contrast between the shells skimming effortlessly over the water and the extreme effort marking the faces of the eight men inside was almost comical. Once over the line, they slowed their pace, but did not stop until they had gone a dozen lengths. Then they collapsed, as if picked off by some hidden sniper. A few minutes later, however, they had recovered and were rowing toward the judges’ stand to pick up their award. Fenimore moved swiftly on, berating himself for pausing for even a minute in his search for Chuck.

  He saw Caroline first. Pale and strained, she was distributing sandwiches to a circle of friends seated on lawn chairs and blankets. Charlie, a paper cup in one hand and a pitcher of something pink in the other, was staggering among his guests, already seriously inebriated. There was a law against alcohol in Fairmount Park, and if caught with it, you paid a stiff fine. Although the stuff in Charlie’s pitcher resembled lemonade, Fenimore was sure it was 90 percent vodka.

  Caroline spied Fenimore and smiled, waving him over. Charlie caught sight of him at the same time and ostentatiously turned his back. He still had not forgiven Fenimore for meddling in his son’s medical affairs.

  “Can I speak to you for a moment?” Fenimore said to Caroline, keeping his voice low.

  Alarmed by his grave expression, she nodded and they moved away from the party, to a cluster of trees.

  “What’s wrong, Andrew?”

  He told her.

  She turned a shade paler and leaned against the nearest tree for support.

  “When is the Singles race?” he asked her.

  “It’s the next race.” She glanced at her watch. “About twenty minutes.”

  “Where is Chuck?”

  “I don’t know.” She shook her head. “At the boathouse . . . or upriver with O’Brien.”

  “We have to find him. I’ll check the boathouse. You look for O’Brien.”

  They set off in opposite directions. Approaching the Windsor Club from the riverbank, Fenimore’s oxfords echoed hollowly on the wooden dock. The boathouse was silent and deserted. The bays were empty. All the shells were either on the river or resting in slings on the riverbank. An uneasy feeling overcame Fenimore, as if the ghosts of all the young rowers—winners and losers—since 1860 were hovering there, waiting expectantly, like himself, for the big race to begin. This mood was broken by the sound of very unghostlike footsteps, on the dock. Fenimore looked up to see Hank Walsh coming toward him.

  “Doctor? What brings you here?” He appeared relaxed and calm, despite the impending race.

  “I’m looking for Chuck.”

  “He’s not here. He usually sticks to himself before a race. You might find him upriver, near the starting line.”

  “Thanks—and good luck,” he added.

  Hank nodded and went to collect his shell from its sling.

  Fenimore hastened back to the picnic ground, scanning the crowd for Caroline or O’Brien. Caroline saw Fenimore first and came rushing up. “O’Brien and the boys are at the falls, where the race begins. I’ve asked a park groundskeeper to drive you up there in his cart.” She led Fenimore to the keeper.

  “Hop on,” the man said cheerfully. “These things move faster than you think. And I have a horn!” He beeped it twice.

  Fenimore climbed in.

  “We’re off!” said the keeper, giving a sharp beep that sent the cluster of people in front of him scattering.

  Fenimore sat forward, peering ahead, hoping for a glimpse of Chuck.

  CHAPTER 16

  As the cart scooted through the crowd, scattering people in its wake, Fenimore tried to think what he was going to say to Chuck. He had nothing in mind other than, “Stop, you damned fool! Do you want to kill yourself?” Hardly the best approach. Within a few minutes, he caught sight of the Falls Bridge and the starting line, designated by a row of colorful buoys. “You can let me out here,” he told the driver.

  “If you need a lift back, just give a whistle,” the driver said with a wink.

  “Thanks.” Fenimore was already scanning the riverfront for Chuck. He spotted O’Brien, squatting under a tree, surrounded by a group of young rowers. He appeared to be giving them a postrace pep talk. Fenimore hated to interrupt, but this was a matter of life and death. “Excuse me, I’m looking for Chuck,” he said.

  O’Brien glanced at his watch. “He likes to keep to himself before a race,” he said, with a frown. “Can’t it wait ’til later?”

  “I’m afraid not.” Definitely not, thought Fenimore. He debated whether to tell O’Brien about his discovery. He decided against it. This was Chuck’s decision; no one could make it for him.

  “Well, you may find him down there.” The coach gestured at the riverbank

  Fenimore had gone only a few yards when he saw Chuck. He was sitting on the bank, his back to Fenimore. Fenimore recognized the boy by the number six on his shirt, and by his shell—The Zephyr—that was tied to the wharf below him. He seemed to be in deep contemplation. Fenimore wondered if he practiced yoga. So many young people did today. Not a bad way to get your nerves in order. He even recommended it to some of his patients. He hated to disturb him, but—“Chuck!”

  The boy looked around.

  “Could I speak to you for a minute?”

  “It’s almost race time.” Polite, but resolute.

  “It’s very important. I’ve talked to Dr. Burton. . . .”

  Chuck came alive. He scrambled down to the wharf, grabbed his oars, and settled into his shell.

  “Wait!” Fenimore scurried down the bank, slipping and sliding in his oxfords.

  Chuck dipped his oars and pulled swiftly away from the dock.

  Fenimore looked after him and his heart sank like one of those leaden stones by the river’s edge. Turning his back on the river, he went in search of the groundskeeper to cadge a ride to the grandstand. All he could do now was watch the race—and its finish.

  When he arrived at the finish line, the race was just about to begin. The Ashburn party had deserted their picnic site and moved down to the water’s edge to gain a better view. Fenimore hurried to join them. Caroline saw him, but there was no way she could leave Charlie at such a crucial moment. Fenimore shook his head, to let her know he had fa
iled. Slowly she turned back to the river. Fenimore followed her gaze. The two singles shells were mere fly-specks on the water. It was impossible to tell which one was in the lead. He scanned the bank for the Walshes, to no avail. They would be easy to spot. There were next to no African Americans in this crowd. Rowing was still primarily a white sport, the way basketball was a black one. But this was changing. He had read somewhere that public high schools were introducing rowing into their curriculum and he had noticed shells for rent—to the public—near the Water Works.

  The attention of the crowd was frozen on the rowers—two dark specks upriver. Fenimore could just make out the numbers on their shirts: Chuck’s six and Hank’s twenty-two. That was the frustrating thing about regattas. You couldn’t watch the whole race at once. You could watch the beginning, the middle, or the end, depending on where you were situated. Most people opted for the excitement of the finish line.

  As the two shells sped closer the crowd grew quieter. But as they drew abreast, and were neck and neck, a sound rose from the riverbank like the roar of a cataract. Fenimore stared intently at number six. Chuck’s face was distorted beyond recognition by the enormity of his effort. Fenimore closed his eyes and prayed. Not for the boy’s victory. For his survival.

  An eerie hush fell. They must be nearing the finish line. Fenimore opened his eyes in time to see Chuck spurt over the line—a fraction of a second ahead of Hank.

  He glanced to his left, where the Ashburns were standing. Charlie, red-faced, was screaming, stamping, and pounding his fist into his palm. Caroline, white and stiff, seemed to be still holding her breath. Friends of the Ashburns began crowding around them. The women squealing, the men alternately pumping Charlie’s hand and pounding him on the back. Fenimore’s gaze switched back to the oarsmen. They had continued to row a few lengths, lessening their pace gradually, as they had been taught. Then they raised their oars from the water, drifted to a halt, and slumped in their seats.

  Hank recovered first. Fenimore saw him lift his hand and make a V sign to Chuck. Fenimore held his breath, until he saw Chuck slowly raise his hand in acknowledgment.