“After the Industrial Revolution, when Pennsylvania was full of factories, the river went through a bad time. It was polluted with chemicals and sludge, the result of factory owners allowing refuse to be dumped indiscriminately into the river. The fish died and much of the wildlife disappeared. But, in recent years, Philadelphia has reclaimed the river by dredging and cracking down on the polluters. The only things that disturb the Schuylkill today are the fish, the mallards, and the gentle sweep of rowers’ oars. No, I’m wrong,” she corrected herself. “Recently The Inquirer reported that an otter was seen for the first time in many years, diving from the bank!” She paused dramatically. “And, best of all, Boathouse Row, that beautiful stretch of Victorian architecture that enhances the river with its picturesque lighting every evening, will soon be registered as a historic landmark.” Turning, she fixed her piercing gaze on the audience. “Do we really want to change this beautiful, natural waterway into a commercial tourist attraction?” Mrs. Henderson sat down to a burst of wild applause.
Fenimore was the last to stop clapping.
Charlie spoke next. He gave an impassioned plea for the preservation of the boathouses and the sport of rowing. “Rowing is an institution in Philadelphia. In 1835 the first race was held between bargemen: The Imps and the Blue Devils. The Imps wore red and white stripes and the Blue Devils, of course, wore blue jerseys. The Devils won. In 1859 the first college crew was organized by the University of Pennsylvania. During the sesquicentennial, spectators came in droves in their carriages and on horseback, to cheer the oarsmen on. And Thomas Eakins immortalized rowing in his famous painting Max Schmitt in a Single Scull. Jack Kelley strengthened the sport by winning worldwide competitions, and later, his son, Jack Jr., won the coveted Diamond Sculls at Henley. Both these men promoted rowing as a way to build character as well as fitness in young men—two qualities we desperately need today.”
Fenimore looked away. How could Charlie wax so eloquently on character and fitness when he was sacrificing his own son’s health for—a cup?
“Boathouse Row was home to these great men. Are we really going to let these people destroy it?” He gestured at the people on the dais. Ott wore a sneer and Newborn looked as if he would like to jump off the dais and strangle him.
Someone booed and all hell broke loose at the back of the room.
“Down with marinas! Up with boathouses!” chanted the demonstrators.
“Down!”
“Up!”
Fenimore craned his neck, half expecting to see his nurse leading the fray. But the police had already cleared the room.
Commissioner Wormwood wiped his brow and opened the floor to anyone who wished to speak. Fenimore was so moved he jumped to his feet. He described an experience he once had on an Amtrak train, when passengers on the other side of his car had rushed across the aisle to look out the window. “At first, I thought, terrorists?” (laughter.) “But no, they just wanted to glimpse our beautiful boathouses, aglow in the dark! Talk about tourist attractions!” He sat down amid cheers.
Fenimore was followed by the presidents of the Fairmount Park Commission, the Park House Association, and the University of Pennsylvania. He looked at his watch. Time to go. He had hospital rounds and patients to see. He wondered if Mrs. Doyle was still here or if she had been arrested for instigating that rumpus at the back of the room. He wouldn’t be surprised. Maybe he would have to bail her out. He excused himself to Mrs. Henderson, nodded to Charlie, who ignored him, and irritated a number of people by crawling past them to the end of the row.
When he stepped into the courtyard, he found it deserted except for a homeless man wrapped in a rug, a trickle of pedestrians, and a few pigeons. No sign of Doyle—or her extended family. He gave the homeless man a dollar, paid the fortune he owed to the parking garage, and drove to the hospital. As he drove, he wondered what the outcome of the hearing would be. But he was optimistic. He was betting on Mrs. Henderson and Mrs. Doyle. With those two battle-axes on their side, how could they lose?
When Fenimore arrived home, he found Horatio waiting for him.
“What’s up, Rat?”
“It’s Tanya.”
“What . . . ?”
“She’s got this lousy cough.”
Fenimore felt a wave of guilt. He should have done something about her sooner. “Bring her over tonight. I’ll take a look at her.”
“What if a cop spots her?”
Fenimore was taken aback. He hadn’t thought of that. “You’d better bring her after dark—and disguise her somehow.”
He nodded. “Leave it to me.”
Fenimore did. He knew Horatio’s skills at disguises. With a few items garnered from a thrift shop, he had once changed Fenimore from a respectable physician into a street thug. He pictured Tanya arriving in a burka.
CHAPTER 24
Spurred by Horatio’s report, Fenimore went upstairs to examine his two spare bedrooms—one for Tanya, one for her baby-sitter. Thank heavens these brownstones were roomy, he thought. But to his dismay he found that his rooms, although large, were shabby and in disrepair. The ceiling of one bore ugly brown stains from a leak in the roof and the floorboards in the other had buckled in places from the damp.
Where will I find time to do these repairs?
Hold on, Fenimore. This child has been living in a cellar, filled with refuse and rats. To her, either of these rooms will seem like paradise. And as for Jennifer, it’s not as if she hasn’t slept here before. She knows what to expect, and she’s not exactly a neat freak. And Mrs. Lopez can’t be too finicky after living with Horatio all these years.
Fenimore vacuumed and dusted, made up the beds, and laid out fresh towels. Feeling calmer, he went to the telephone. He called Doyle first.
“She won’t be any trouble,” he explained. “All you have to do is keep an eye on her, see that she eats a nutritious lunch and doesn’t leave the house. Why, most thirteen-year-olds are baby-sitters themselves, so it should be easy.”
“Huh.”
With that single syllable, Doyle conveyed to Fenimore how little he knew about teenagers. But as soon as she heard Tanya’s history, she was more than willing to help.
Jennifer was a different story.
“Oh, Andrew,” she said as soon as she heard his voice. “I was just about to call you. I’m going to be out of town this weekend.”
“Oh?”
“I’m going to South Jersey to work on my book.”
“Your what?”
“Remember Roaring Wings?”
“How could I forget him?” Roaring Wings was the formidable brother of Sweet Grass, the victim of a murder that Fenimore had solved. One of the last chiefs of the Lenape tribe, he had little patience with the wasechus (white man) and made no attempt to hide his disdain for him. Fenimore was no exception.
“Well, he called me last night,” Jennifer went on, “and asked how I was getting on with my book about the Lenapes. . . .”
To Fenimore’s knowledge, Jennifer had not written a word about the Lenapes. “So, what did you tell him?”
“I thought fast and told him it was still in the research stage and I’d like to come down and interview him.”
“Quick thinking.”
“He sounded very pleased.”
“A first for Roaring Wings,” Fenimore muttered.
“I’m going down on Saturday to talk to him.”
“I see.” He detected an underlying excitement in her voice that was disturbing. He realized he hadn’t heard it for some time.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, sensing his disappointment.
“Nothing. I was hoping you could teen-sit this weekend. Tanya, Horatio’s homeless friend, is moving in on Saturday.”
“Oh, I am sorry. Maybe I could change—”
“No. We’ll manage,” Fenimore said heroically.
“I’m really excited. I’m taking a tape recorder along.”
“Do you think he’ll go for that?”
“Pro
bably not, but it’s worth a try. I don’t know shorthand.”
“Have you ever interviewed anyone?”
“No.”
“Well, be sure to prepare a good list of questions.”
“I’ve already started. Dad has a wonderful library on the Lenapes.”
“Well . . . good luck.”
“Thanks. And I’m sorry I can’t help out.”
Fenimore called Doyle back.
“Don’t worry, Doctor,” she said cheerfully. “I’ll be glad to come for the weekend. Just be sure your TV is working.”
“Bless you,” Fenimore said.
Having solved that crisis, Fenimore was feeling good, except for a tiny gnawing doubt about Jennifer. Rafferty’s warning came back to him. Had he been taking her too much for granted? He ate a lonely dinner of lowfat ham on rye, washed down with a Diet Coke. By using paper plates and cups, he had managed to reduce his dishwashing chores to a minimum. He was washing his single utensil—the knife he had used to spread the mustard—when the doorbell rang.
CHAPTER 25
Fenimore peered through the frosted glass panels of his Victorian front door and was surprised to see another youth with Horatio. Slighter and shorter, but with the same dress code—baggy pants, T-shirt, baseball cap worn in reverse. Where was Tanya? He opened the door.
Casting a quick glance up and down the street, Horatio shoved his companion into the vestibule. In the stronger light of the hall, it was obvious that the youth’s features were too delicate for a boy’s, and even though the T-shirt was two sizes too big, certain curves were discernable underneath.
“Come in. Come in.” Fenimore’s shyness emerged in the form of brusqueness. He didn’t know many teenage girls. Most of his female patients were sixty-five or over.
As soon as she was inside, Tanya yanked off her cap, letting an abundance of thick, dark hair fall to her shoulders. “Geez, Rat. That hat was squeezin’ my brains to death.”
“If you had any,” Rat said.
She jabbed him with her elbow.
He feigned mortal injury.
Thus Fenimore was introduced to teenage courtship for the first time. The performance was interrupted by Tanya, who broke into a violent fit of coughing. Fenimore hurried her into his inner office, and asked Horatio to leave while he examined her.
The minute they were alone, Fenimore sensed the young woman’s tension. He knew he should have a female chaperone. Especially in light of the child’s history. He cursed himself for not having Doyle there. But he had to listen to her chest. And he couldn’t do it adequately unless she removed her shirt. He told her to go into the examining room and take off her T-shirt.
When he entered, she had removed her shirt and was holding it over her small breasts. Adopting his most professional manner—no small talk, no jokes—he said, “This may be cold,” and pressed the metal disk of his stethoscope against her bare back. His nervousness was instantly replaced by concern. He heard definite rales, and when he asked her to cough for him she went into a spasm that continued until he brought her a glass of water and cough syrup with codeine. There was no need to listen to her chest. Fenimore had learned all he needed to know. He said, “Your cold has turned into something more serious. I’m prescribing an antibiotic, and you must get plenty of rest.”
She looked alarmed.
“You’ll be fine in a few days,” he assured her. “Rat and I, and my nurse, Mrs. Doyle, will take good care of you.”
It was Tanya’s turn to look nervous. “I can’t pay you anything.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll take it out of Rat’s pay.” He winked. “He works for me, you know.”
She smiled for the first time. “He won’t like that.”
“I know.” He smiled back. He told her to put on her shirt, and left the room.
He found Rat in the outer office, reading a medical journal. He read them often, and afterward, to Fenimore’s amazement, asked intelligent questions about the articles. Fenimore told the boy about Tanya’s condition. “She can’t go back to that cellar tonight. She has to stay here. And you’ll have to be her chaperone.”
“Huh?”
“I know, it’s crazy, but these are the times we live in. You can sleep on the couch. You’d better call your mother.”
While Horatio made his call, Fenimore took Tanya upstairs and introduced her to her new quarters. She was thrilled. The clean white sheets were what attracted her most. She ran her hand lightly over them, as if the plain cotton were satin or silk and buried her face in the pillow. He showed her the bathroom down the hall. Horatio joined them, and watched his friend’s face with pleasure as she reacted to her new surroundings.
“Uh . . . do you have a nightgown?” Fenimore asked, hesitantly.
“My mom gave her one of hers,” Horatio said. He tossed a grocery bag with the nightgown at Tanya. She caught it.
“What about a toothbrush?”
The boy drew a new one from his pocket and flipped it at her. She dropped it.
“Butterfingers!”
Rat had thought of everything. Fenimore wondered when the girl had last brushed her teeth. For someone who had lived in a cellar for over six weeks, they looked remarkably clean. Then it dawned on him that she had been clean when he had examined her. She had no body odor, and when he had bent to listen to her lungs, her hair had smelled of shampoo. After Tanya had taken her antibiotic and gone to bed, Fenimore confronted Horatio.
“I took her to my house first,” he said, “and my mom helped her clean up. Tan wouldn’t come to see you—dirty.”
He patted the boy’s shoulder. “You’ve taken good care of her, Rat.” Fenimore had thought of asking Mrs. Lopez to take the girl in, but then he had remembered that she worked full-time and the two teenagers would be alone all day—at least in the summer. Besides, she had a limited income and didn’t need another mouth to feed.
Embarrassed by the doctor’s praise, Rat grabbed the blanket and pillow that Fenimore had brought down for him, threw himself on the sofa, and picked up the TV remote. Sal curled up beside him.
“You know where the fridge is,” Fenimore said.
Horatio grunted.
Fenimore returned to his room. Unaccustomed to having a full house, and missing Sal’s company, he slept fitfully.
CHAPTER 26
Saturday began quietly enough.
Fenimore overslept. Something he rarely did. Probably due to his restless night. By the time he dressed and arrived downstairs, Rat had purchased coffee and bagels from a deli on the corner and was passing them out.
Tanya was wearing the same clothes as the night before.
“We’ll have to get you some new clothes, young lady,” Fenimore said.
She looked down at her outfit. “What’s wrong with these?”
“Yeah, Doc. What’s wrong with those? I took a lot of pains with that outfit.” Rat looked at Tanya appraisingly.
“I’m sure you did. But she’ll need more than one ensemble.”
“En—what?”
“Outfit.”
“Okay. Sure. But if you’re gonna take Tan shoppin’, I’m coming with you,” he said. “Or she’ll end up looking like a nun in lace-ups.”
“Lace-ups!” she gasped.
“Yeah, and I don’t mean sneakers.”
“Oow.” She screwed up her face.
“He might even make you wear a bra.”
Tanya blushed.
So did Fenimore. “That’s enough, Rat. You can come along if you want, but you have to behave yourself.”
He shrugged, falling into his standard tough-guy stance.
Tanya began to cough. When she recovered, Fenimore said, “There will be no shopping until you’re all well. Why don’t you lie down on the couch and watch TV while Rat and I get to work.”
Office hours were about to begin and Mrs. Doyle would be arriving any minute. Rat set the TV to the Cartoon Channel for Tanya. Mrs. Doyle came in with her overnight bag and the latest TV Guide under one
arm. Rat introduced Tanya to the nurse. Rat and Doyle went to work in the office. Fenimore took care of his morning patients and went to the hospital to do his rounds. He wondered briefly how Jennifer was making out with Roaring Wings. (Poor choice of words!) How her interview was going. When he returned, Doyle had prepared a healthy lunch for the four of them: chicken sandwiches, fruit cups, and iced tea. Tanya only coughed once during the meal. After lunch, Sal put her stamp of approval on the new guest by curling up beside her on the sofa. Fenimore suggested that Tanya take a nap. Horatio plumped a pillow behind her head. The warmth of the look she sent him in return did not escape Fenimore. Young love, he thought wistfully, and returned to his office.
He was daydreaming at his desk when the phone rang, startling him. Since Doyle was there, he let her answer it. He couldn’t hear her words through the door, but he sensed her alarm. A moment later she burst in.
“It was Mrs. Ashburn. Chuck collapsed during rowing practice. He’s in Emergency at HUP. She wants you to come!”
HUP was its usual chaotic self. A vendor was selling melons from the back of a ramshackle truck at one entrance. The main lobby was full of people milling around, chatting, reading, sleeping, and chasing after their children.
Fenimore automatically made his way through the mêleé to the elevators. He could have come in the back entrance, but his mind was so absorbed with Chuck he simply forgot. The Cardiac Care Unit was on the eighth floor. He got off with a young woman and an elderly couple, and wondered, fleetingly, who they were coming to visit. Fenimore was used to visiting the CCU at his own hospital. He did so every day. But as a doctor, not as a family friend. It made a difference. A small group was gathered outside in the corridor: Frank O’Brien, Henry Walsh, and a few rowers, still in their rowing attire. Only immediate family members were allowed in the CCU. A young man, probably a resident, was speaking to them quietly as Fenimore came up. He told Fenimore to go right in.
The Doctor Rocks the Boat Page 9