The Doctor Rocks the Boat (11 page)

Fenimore's other employee was not as enthusiastic, however. Even though the rally would mean escaping work, he declined to go.

“Why, Rat?”

“ 'Cause I think the marina would be great. They said on TV last night they were gonna have all this cool stuff: movies, video games, a pool—even a skateboard arena!”

Fenimore and Doyle shuddered.

“Well, if that's the way you feel,” Fenimore said, “you can stay in the office and cover the phone.”

Horatio grunted.

C
ity Hall is a Philadelphia institution. Topped by the figure of the Quaker founder, William Penn, it has occupied the center of the city—where Broad and Market Streets cross—since 1884. This Victorian structure was once ridiculed as a public eyesore, with its cupids and gargoyles, its curlicues and furbelows. But today it is cherished and coddled and cleaned with a fervor unknown in the past.

Fenimore and his entourage (he and Mrs. Doyle had persuaded a half-dozen patients to join them—the less sickly ones) piled into the courtyard through the west side archway, bearing a sign (concocted by Doyle from a piece of cardboard attached to a yardstick) which read:

 

DOWN WITH MARINA
!
UP WITH BOATHOUSE ROW
!

 

As they bustled in, Fenimore caught sight of Charlie, who seemed to have the entire Union League in tow. At least he was surrounded by a large group of men sporting Brooks Brothers suits and regimental striped ties.

Just then, there was a commotion at the north archway, and Mrs. Henderson swept in, flanked by several scholarly young people and a large group of plump, gray-haired dowagers. Spying Fenimore, she came up briskly. “You and Charlie and I must leave this gang and go to the hearing in room thirteen where we can state our case.”

Fenimore passed this news on to his nurse.

“Don't worry, Doctor,” she assured him. “The Doyles can handle this end of it.” Surrounded by hordes of Irish faces, all bearing a faint resemblance to Mrs. Doyle, Fenimore felt a quiver of alarm—especially when he glimpsed a few of her burly nephews.

“No rough stuff, now,” he warned.

“Saint's honor.” Mrs. Doyle crossed herself. “Unless
they
start it,” she muttered to herself. She had caught sight of Newborn, the wily developer whose picture she had seen in
The Inquirer.
He was waving a much more elegant sign than hers:

 

BRING THE SCHULKILL
INTO THE 21ST CENTURY
!

 

He had left the
y
out of Schuylkill, she was happy to see. I'll bring
him
into the twenty-first century—
feet first,
she thought. But she said, “Now run along, Doctor.”

The threesome—Fenimore, Charlie, and Mrs. Henderson—made their way through the throng. Mrs. Henderson occupied the middle spot, acting as a buffer between the two men. Room 13 was packed. Two police officers guarded the door.

“Stand back. No room. You can watch it on TV tonight,” one officer cried. He had never met Mrs. Henderson.

“Young man!” She pounded her cane. “I'm president of the Pennsylvania Historical Society and I have reserved three seats in the front row.”

“ID,” he said curtly.

She promptly pushed her passport under his nose. She had never acquired a driver's license because she had always employed a chauffeur.

He glanced at it and let her through. She beckoned to Fenimore and Charlie.

“Just a minute. Who are these—?”

“Dr. Charles Ashburn and Dr. Andrew Fenimore, both highly respected physicians at the Pennsylvania Hospital—and friends of mine.”

“IDs,” he repeated, but a little less belligerently.

The two doctors dug out their driver's licenses.

The officer scanned them and, with a shrug, let them pass.

If Ashburn and Fenimore had been on more friendly terms, they would have shared a laugh over their lady friend's tactics. As it was, they made their way silently through the congested room to their seats.

The meeting was slow to start, and Fenimore had plenty of time to take in his surroundings. Dingy crystal chandeliers hung from the high ceilings, dusty red carpets covered the floor, mottled green blinds were drawn down tightly over the tall windows, shutting out all natural light. A dais with a heavy mahogany table dominated the front of the room. Behind the table sat a dozen people, men and women in various poses of tension and relaxation—all members of the City Planning Commission. Fenimore wondered which were friends and which were foes. He had barely absorbed all this grimy grandeur, when a bearlike man with a bald pate rose and called the meeting to order. Mrs. Henderson nudged Fenimore and whispered, “That's Wormwood, the man we're after.” She had a mean glint in her eye.

Suddenly, Fenimore relaxed. With this lady on their side they had nothing to worry about.

C
ommissioner Wormwood opened the hearing by introducing the members of the Planning Commission. First he called on Mariah Grub, a fuzzy-haired woman who looked as if she'd just gotten out of bed and had slept in her clothes. She presented the Commission's side of the debate. She did so in an irritating mumble, stressing that there was nothing new about commercial establishments on the Schuylkill. As far back as the 1700s there had been numerous inns and taverns lining the river, serving the traditional catfish and waffles, washed down with grog and mint juleps, depending on the season. (Laughter from the audience.)

Jack Newborn, the developer, was called on next. Stocky and electric, he presented his case in a rapid-fire manner, using numerous charts, diagrams, and slides that nobody understood. But he made the point that river traffic was actually much heavier in the old days, when steamboats plied the Schuylkill packed with pleasure seekers and he pointed out how a modern marina would draw people and revenue into the city.

William Ott, the chief architect of the marina, claimed, in a leisurely drawl, that his design would be as great an addition to the riverbank as the Water Works had been in 1815. And he
quoted Charles Dickens on that structure: “The Water Works . . . are no less ornamental than useful, being tastefully laid out as a public garden.”

All the promoters of the marina swore that this new development would be a gold-plated asset for Philadelphia, enticing tourists and cash to swell the city's coffers. When they subsided to faint applause, Commissioner Wormwood opened the hearing to the audience. Mrs. Henderson, despite her arthritic hip, leapt to her feet and began:

“ ‘Schuylkill' comes from a Dutch word meaning ‘hidden river.' It was called this because the mouth of the river was hidden from the early settlers by bulrushes. Clear and pure, the river abounded with many varieties of fish, and its banks were populated by all kinds of birds and animals. The Lenape Indians made their homes in caves along the banks, and William Penn paddled up the river in a canoe and praised its beauty. The so-called ‘commercial establishments' that Mr. Newborn described were quiet country inns, peopled by fishermen and gentry.

“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.

S
purred 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.