The Doctor Rocks the Boat (2 page)

“My son is starting as first stroke in the Ivy League Regatta this month,” Ashburn told Fenimore proudly. They had paused in front of a wall of framed photographs of rowers from former days. Charlie pointed to a photo of a young man who looked as if he were in the last throes of cardiac arrest. “That's Chuck last year, after we won the Singles,” Charlie said. “If he wins this year, he'll go to Henley.”

“Congratulations.” Fenimore remembered that Charlie had stopped rowing while still an undergraduate, although he had been an exceptional oarsman. Some health problem, he remembered vaguely. Charlie had been a patient of Fenimore's father at that time, and Fenimore remembered his father saying that he'd never seen a young man more devastated. He'd had his heart set on going
to the Henley Regatta in England and winning the Diamond Sculls, one of the most coveted awards in rowing. Fenimore looked more closely at the picture of Charlie's son. His face was pallid and drained. Fenimore—renowned for his sixth sense in health matters—wondered if the boy's exhaustion was due to something more than the race.

Once Charlie started on his son, he couldn't stop. For the remainder of the tour, Fenimore heard every detail of every race Chuck had won. One thing Fenimore noticed was Charlie's recurring use of the word “we.” He never said, “Chuck won that one.” It was always, “We took that easily.” Or, “That was a close one, but we did it.”

While they were touring the upper level, Charlie heard someone enter the boathouse down below. He excused himself and went to see who it was. Shortly afterward, Fenimore heard voices raised in anger and a door slam. When Charlie came back, he was red-faced and puffing with indignation. “Would you believe? Some developer wants to ‘reinvent' Kelly Drive,” he said. “Get rid of the boathouses and turn this land into a modern marina!”

Fenimore was as outraged as Charlie. “Can they do that?” he asked. “Can't this site be registered as a historic landmark or something?”

“We're working on it,” he said, frowning darkly. “But it isn't settled yet.”

When Charlie had recovered, he drew Fenimore's attention to a shell stored high above the others.
The Zephyr
was the faded name on its bow. “Remember that?” he asked Fenimore. He did. Built before World War II of special woods imported from the Pacific Islands, it was the lightest shell in the club, and, for that reason, the most difficult to handle. Special oars had been custom made for
The Zephyr
—known as
The Zephyr Pair.
They were lighter than the others. Only the most skilled rowers were allowed to use this shell. “It should be called
The Ashburn,
” Charlie said proudly. “It weighs only twenty-eight pounds—and Chuck's the
only one who can handle her. He keeps his weight under one hundred and thirty and uses her for his singles races.”

Not far from
The Zephyr
was a shell called
The Folly.
This had been Fenimore's favorite shell, and his father's before him. He was happy to see that it was still there. He couldn't wait to take it out, but it was too late today.

As they descended the broad staircase that had replaced the narrow, creaky one Fenimore remembered, he caught a glimpse of the river through the open doors.

“Like to see the view?” Without waiting for an answer, Charlie drew him out on the dock.

The smell of the river mixed with the scent of everything newly born—trees, grass, flowers—overwhelmed Fenimore. For a moment he forgot the ugly threats of the developer. The scents of spring don't move only the young. They have an even stronger effect on the middle-aged—stirring up waves of nostalgia for springs past as well as unleashing promises for the future. Fenimore couldn't wait to hit the water. If Ashburn hadn't been there he would have taken out a shell then and there.

“Quite a sight,” Fenimore said, looking downriver, past the Water Works, toward the waterfall and the Philadelphia skyline beyond. He had always loved the skyline, and it seemed to grow better with the years. Although on a smaller scale, the tableau was almost equal to Manhattan's. At this time of day, the sun turned the sandy walls of that Greek edifice—the Art Museum—a dusky gold, the spare Rouse Building became a glittering column of silver, and City Hall took on the more subdued luster of an old pewter teapot.

“This was my favorite rowing time,” Charlie said. “Then I'd come home and mix up a batch of martinis. Felt like I'd earned them after all that exercise.”

“Dawn was my favorite time to row,” Fenimore said. “Always got my day off to a good start.”

Charlie glanced at his watch. “Say, the sun's over the yardarm. What d'ya say we run over to the league for a drink?”

Fenimore knew he was referring to the Union League, that prestigious club formed by Republicans during the Civil War.

“Thanks, Charlie, but I'll have to take a rain check. I have a date.”

“Still single, eh?” Ashburn sent him a look tinged with envy.

Fenimore nodded, anxious to get away now. He hoped Charlie wasn't going to be the fly in the ointment of his future rowing plans. But he was pretty sure he would be long gone before Charlie showed his face at the Windsor Club. Dawn wasn't Charlie's thing.

It was such a beautiful evening, Fenimore decided to walk home. But as he strode down the Parkway, he couldn't get Charlie out of his mind. What was the health problem that had stopped him from rowing competitively? He had been his father's patient at that time—maybe his old records were still in the office. Fenimore had never gotten around to throwing out his father's files. Or, rather, he couldn't bring himself to do it. It would be like throwing his father out of his own office. He would look it up when he got back. He felt the new Windsor locker key in his pocket and stopped thinking about Charlie. Instead, he thought of gliding alone over the water in the early morning light, like the oarsman in that famous painting by Thomas Eakins. What was his name? Max Schmitt.

When Fenimore got home, he went straight to his office. His home and office were housed together in an old brownstone on Spruce Street. His office and waiting room occupied the front half of the first floor; the rest of the house served as his living quarters. He had inherited his father's house and medical practice when he died and had lived and worked there ever since. Fenimore was one of the few doctors left in Philadelphia who still practiced solo and made house calls. He knew he was a dying breed, and he didn't know how much longer he could hold out, working in such an old-fashioned way.

His father's case files were stored in a rusty cabinet in the corner.
The Ashburn file presented no difficulty. It was right where it should be—under
A.
He leafed through it, pausing at a report:

Diagnosis—heart enlarged in the chest. X ray and the electrocardiogram suggested the heart muscle was thickened—and together with the episode of pre-syncope, the diagnosis appears to be hypertrophic cardiomyopathy.

Today an echocardiogram would make a more definitive diagnosis of the condition, but this report told Fenimore all he wanted to know. He read the note at the bottom, scrawled in his father's familiar hand. “This report confirms the finding that Charles Ashburn is predisposed to SCD (sudden cardiac death) and should not
under any circumstances
participate in competitive sports.”

Fenimore sat down at his desk and stared at the report, now slightly yellowed with age. What was Charlie Ashburn's condition to him? His son Chuck could be perfectly fit. These conditions often skip a generation or disappear altogether, he reminded himself.
It's none of your business, Fenimore.
Snatching up the file, he stuffed it back in the cabinet.

F
enimore had not been making it up—about having a date. He met Jennifer at eight o'clock to go to a movie that she had been dying to see.

“It's a romantic comedy,” she told him in a mock-serious tone. “Just what you need.”

“Why me?” he asked in all innocence.

“Because you're not romantic or comic,” she said.

He denied this vehemently. “I'm the most romantic-comic person in Philadelphia since—”

“Since George Washington,” Jennifer said, pulling a long face.

“No—since Ben Franklin. Now there was a romantic-comic fellow if there ever was one. He had all the ladies in Paris fawning over him and laughing at his jokes.”

“Like you?” she said.

“Well, I have one Philadelphia lady fawn—”

“Dream on,” she said hotly.

“Well—willing to go to the movies with me now and then,” he amended. “Hey, I forgot to tell you what I did today,” he said, changing the subject.

She looked interested.

“I rejoined the Windsor Club. I'm taking up rowing again.”

She forgot her grievance and smiled at him. “That's wonderful. I thought you could use some exercise.” Jennifer jogged every morning.

“What d'ya mean?” He looked down self-consciously at his slightly rounded paunch.

“Oh, nothing. But I really think it will be good for you to get back on the river. What made you decide to do it?”

“I was looking out the train window on my way to that cardiology conference in New York, and I saw this guy in a singles shell gliding over the water. Suddenly it all came back to me—how much I enjoyed rowing.”

“Let's skip that movie and have a drink to celebrate,” she said.

“Are you sure?” He looked pleased.

“Sure.” She grabbed his arm and they took off for their favorite watering hole—the Raven. It was named after Poe's poem, even though it was nowhere near the famous author's house on Spring Garden Street. Tucked away on Samson Street, in the center of town, it was small and dark, with plenty of booths, but most important: It provided free snacks with the drinks. Fenimore ordered two glasses of Chardonnay. While they sipped and munched, he told her about running into Charlie Ashburn. “You remember him from that Penn-Princeton game?”

“Oh, yeah. His wife really gave me the once-over.”

He told her about Charlie's aspirations for his son. “There's one problem.” He set down his glass. “Charlie had a predisposition to sudden cardiac death. I looked up his old file. My father advised his parents that he avoid strenuous exercise and under no circumstances partake in competitive sports. As a result, Charlie dropped out of rowing at Penn. It was a body blow. I don't think he ever got over it.” Fenimore took a deep swallow. “Now, he's fixed all his thwarted ambitions on his son who has inherited his father's rowing skills.”

“Well, that's good, isn't it?” Jennifer said.

“Except for one thing—”

Jennifer looked up.

“His son may have inherited more than his father's rowing skills. He may have a predisposition to SCD too.”

“Well . . . they must have had him tested.”

“Maybe, but I think I should look into it.”

“He's not your patient,” Jennifer reminded him.

“No, but—”

“You feel responsible,” Jennifer finished for him.

“Well, don't you think—”

“I guess you have no choice. I'm just . . .” she paused.

“What?” Fenimore prompted.

“. . . afraid they won't thank you for your help.”

He nodded. “You're probably right.”

W
hen Mrs. Doyle, Fenimore's longtime nurse and office manager, came to work Tuesday morning, she thought the office was empty. But as she hung up her jacket and settled down at her desk, she heard strange sounds coming from Dr. Fenimore's inner office.

“Oomph! Arg! Oomph! Arg!”

She went over to the door and knocked gently. “Doctor? Are you all right?”

Heavy panting, followed by a weak, “Fine.”

“You're sure?”

“Yes, sure.” The voice was stronger and held a peevish note.

“All right, then.” She went back to her desk and attacked the mound of paperwork that awaited her.

In a few minutes, the noises resumed. This time they were so agonizing she rushed to the door and shook the doorknob. “Doctor?”

Deep, heavy panting, followed by two gasped words, “What now?”

“Are you sure you're all right?”

He flung open the door and Mrs. Doyle was confronted by a sight that sent her blood pressure skyrocketing. Her employer
stood before her red-faced, wearing nothing but a pair of yellow bathing trunks and brandishing a dumbbell.

“Oh!” She took a step back.

“Oh what? Haven't you ever seen a man in a bathing suit?”

“Yes. But not you,” she said sharply.

“I'm getting in shape,” he explained.

“For what? Your next patient? I hardly think Mrs. Dunwoody—”

“No, smarty-pants. I've rejoined the Windsor Club. I'm going rowing this afternoon.”

Mrs. Doyle tried to suppress a smile.

“What's so funny? You think I'm too old?” He glared at her.

“Oh no. I was fifty when I took that refresher course in karate, but—”

“Well, then?”

“It's just—so sudden,” she said lamely.

“You have to start sometime. No time like the present. He who hesitates is lost.”

“Truer words were never said. Time waits for no man.” Mrs. Doyle matched him homily for homily. “Speaking of which, your next patient is due any minute.”

“Oh my. I have to shower. Keep her busy, Doyle.” He hurried up the stairs just as Mrs. Dunwoody came in the front door.

“Was that the doctor?” she asked, her eyes fixed on his retreating naked back.

“Yes. He was up all night with an emergency. A cardiac arrest at . . . er . . . a swimming pool.”

Mrs. Dunwoody's eyes were round. “A swimming pool—in the middle of the night?”