The Doctor Rocks the Boat (3 page)

“Uh . . . yes. One of those all-night parties at a luxury hotel. The jet set, you know.”

“Tch, tch. Poor man. When does he ever sleep?”

“Please have a seat,” Mrs. Doyle said hastily. “We just got some new magazines—” To her great relief, the phone rang. It was Mrs. Lopez. She was calling to say that her son, Horatio, wouldn't be able to come to work that afternoon.

“What's the trouble?” asked Mrs. Doyle.

“A skateboard accident. He sprained his ankle.”

“Has he had an X ray?”

“No . . .”

“Then how can you be sure it's just a sprain? Is it swollen?”

“Yes, but I've put ice on it and strapped it up.”

“I'll tell the doctor. Meanwhile, tell him not to put any weight on it. I'll call you back in a few minutes.”

When the doctor reappeared, to Mrs. Doyle's relief, he was dressed in his usual white shirt, navy suit, regimental striped tie, and oxfords. She told him about Horatio.

“Did you tell him to get an X ray?”

“Yes, but Mrs. Lopez doesn't have a car, you know, and they really can't afford a cab.”

“Well, call her back. Tell her I'll be over as soon as I finish here and take him to the ER.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“Mrs. Dunwoody . . .” Fenimore beckoned.

“I hear you were up all night with that jet set,” she said.

“Er . . .”

Mrs. Doyle sent him a covert wink.

“That's right. Never a dull moment.”

“You doctors lead such hard lives, I always say—” The door closed on what she always said.

The phone rang again and two more patients came in the front door. Another morning at Dr. Fenimore's office was in full swing.

F
enimore rang the bell beside the door of a small row house in South Philadelphia. He had been instrumental in finding this brick house for Horatio and his mother and had helped them to acquire a fair mortgage. He had offered to help finance the mortgage, but Mrs. Lopez had flatly refused. “We can manage,” she told him. Before that, they had lived at the Morton Towers—a concrete public housing complex.

Mrs. Lopez opened the door. “Doctor, this is so kind.”

Her blue eyes and fair skin always startled Fenimore. Irish to the core, her son looked nothing like her. Horatio had dark hair and a complexion like strong tea—the image of his father, who was of Spanish background. But Mr. Lopez was long gone, the victim of a random shooting on his front step when his son was four.

“Not at all,” said Fenimore. “How's the patient?”

She led him past the offending skateboard that leaned against the wall, into the small living room. Fenimore's teenage employee was happily ensconced on the sofa in front of the TV, a glass of orange juice and a half-eaten donut resting on a table within easy reach.

“Hi, Doc.” He grinned. “Sorry I can't get up.” He glanced at his ankle, neatly strapped with adhesive tape.

Fenimore bent to examine the injury. When he squeezed the ankle gently Horatio winced. “Well, you'll have to get up if you're going to make it to my car. Your mother and I will give you a hand.” He crooked his finger at Mrs. Lopez. “Put one arm around my neck,” he ordered Horatio, “and the other around your mother's, and hop.”

Horatio obeyed. In this manner the threesome made its way out to the curb. The front steps were a major obstacle, but with the help of the railing the boy managed to gain the sidewalk without mishap. He stretched out on the backseat with a dramatic groan. Mrs. Lopez slipped into the passenger seat, and Fenimore drove.

The hospital was only a ten-minute ride. Once there, Fenimore fetched a wheelchair from the ER for his patient and brought it out to the car. Horatio seemed to be enjoying his invalid status, especially when a petite, blond nurse came up and made a fuss over him.

“Poor boy. What happened?” she asked with a concerned smile.

Horatio gazed up at her and said dolefully, “Skateboard.”

Her smile vanished. “You crazy kids! Deliberately setting out to break your necks. I have no sympathy for you.” She spun away.

Horatio stared after her. “She's obviously never surfed,” he said to no one in particular.

Fenimore wheeled him into the ER, closely followed by Mrs. Lopez.

The X ray revealed that Horatio's ankle was not sprained but broken in three places.

Two hours later, Horatio exited the ER, deftly wielding a new pair of crutches, his left foot in a cast. Compared to skateboarding, crutches were child's play. His mother followed behind, wearing a look of weary resignation. Fenimore, who had used the time efficiently to visit his hospital patients, reappeared at the hospital entrance in his car just as mother and son emerged.

“Perfect timing!” he sang out, throwing open the front and back doors. “Shall I drop you at school, Rat?” Fenimore asked, slyly. “You still have a few hours.”

“Hell, no—”

“
Ray!
Watch your mouth.”

Ray was Mrs. Lopez's pet name for her son, but the boy preferred to be called Rat.

“Sorry, Doc, but I've got this great excuse to stay home today, and—”

“If it wouldn't be too much trouble, Doctor”—his mother cut in—“the school is only a few blocks from our house.”

“Aw, geez . . .”

“But we better stop at the house first and pick up his book bag. It has his homework in it.”

“Holy sh—”

“Ray!”

Grumbling continued intermittently from the backseat until the bag was picked up and the school was in sight.

As Fenimore helped the boy out, Horatio grimaced.

“Did they give you anything for the pain?” he asked.

“They gave me a prescription.” Mrs. Lopez produced it from her purse.

“I'll get it filled and deliver it to the school nurse,” Fenimore said. “You can pick it up in about an hour at the infirmary, Rat.”

“No, Doctor. You've done enough,” Mrs. Lopez said. “I'll take care of this. There's a drugstore right around the corner.”

“But you have to get to work.”

“So do you,” she said firmly and waved him on.

“Thanks, Doc!” Horatio yelled after him, and his mother thought maybe there was some hope for her son after all.

W
hen Fenimore returned to his office, he glimpsed the back of an elegantly clad, expensively coiffed woman in his waiting room. He was annoyed. He thought he was done for the day. He had planned to leave the office early and head for the river. In a whisper, he asked Mrs. Doyle to identify the interloper.

“A Mrs. Ashburn,” she said. “She apologized for coming without an appointment. She seemed upset.”

Fenimore quickly swallowed his resentment and entered the waiting room. “Caroline?”

She turned abruptly. “Oh, Andrew, I'm sorry to barge in on you like this, but—”

“Come in. Come in.” He guided her into his inner office and, much to his nurse's discomfiture, closed the door.

When Caroline was seated, Fenimore said, “I saw Charlie yesterday.”

“I know. That's why I'm here. When he mentioned seeing you, it occurred to me that you were the one person who might be able to help.”

“In what way?”

“It's my son, Chuck.”

“Is he ill?”

“No. At least”—she looked at Fenimore—“not yet. But he will be if someone doesn't stop him.”

“Stop him?”

“From rowing,” she said sharply. “That's all he and my husband think about, day and night: ‘Row, row, row your boat . . .' They drive me crazy.”

“But it is a fine sport—”

“Is it?” Her harsh tone cut Fenimore off like a chain saw. “Do you call it fine when someone gets up at four o'clock in the morning, every morning, and drives himself to such a state of exhaustion he can barely row back to the boathouse, then arrives for his first class in a state of near collapse to put in a full academic day, only to go back on the river to row another two hours, then is up until midnight hitting his books, only to rise at four o'clock the next morning—and repeat the whole process again the next day for five days a week? And on the weekends, of course, there are the races!”

“But—”

“But?”

“If he's been in training, his body should be used to this regimen.”

“No body is used to that regimen, Andrew. It's—it's cruel.”

To Fenimore's surprise, her eyes brimmed with tears. This was more than a simple case of an overprotective mother, he decided.

“Has Chuck complained to you?”

“Oh God no. He wouldn't dare. He'd be afraid his father would get wind of it. You see, ever since Chuck was about ten years old, Charlie has had his heart set on his son going to Henley and winning the Diamond Sculls.”

Fenimore's eyes widened.

“Yes, I know. It's insane. But Charles had to quit rowing when he was Chuck's age because of a heart defect. Your father was the one who made the diagnosis. Now he's trying to make up for it by killing his son—”

“Whoa. Those are pretty strong words. Why should this kill Chuck?”

Caroline's eyes narrowed, destroying all the beneficial effects of carefully applied cosmetics. “Chuck may have the same defect Charlie has.”

“You've had him examined?”

She shook her head.

“Why not? It's easy to find out—”

“Charlie discouraged it. He said, ‘That was all long ago.' And Chuck didn't want an exam. . . .”

“But surely, in this case . . .”

She gave a short, mirthless laugh. “You don't know Charlie. On the surface, he seems affable, but underneath he's a steel rod. When he wants something, he gets it, whether in business, in marriage”—she paused infinitesimally—“or sports. And Chuck takes after him.”

Fenimore tried to absorb this. After a moment he said, “How can I help?”

“As I said, your father diagnosed Charlie when he was at Penn.”

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.