The Doctor Rocks the Boat (5 page)

At the first break in the general conversation, Fenimore spoke up. “Funny thing happened today, Charlie,” he said, staring down the table at his host.

Charlie looked at him, expecting a joke.

“I was cleaning out some of my father's old files and came across a medical report of yours.”

Charlie's smile faltered.

“I was reminded of why you gave up rowing.”

The silence at the table was as complete as at a Quaker meeting—undisturbed by a single cough, murmur, or clink of silverware.

“I assume Chuck has been tested for SCD?” Fenimore ended his statement with a question mark.

Charlie rolled his eyes. “Well, actually I'd sort of forgotten about all that.”

O'Brien cast a quick glance at Chuck, but his expression was unreadable.

The Walshes exchanged a puzzled look.

The others stirred restlessly. One guest looked over his shoulder, as if in search of the dessert.

“Well,” Fenimore went on, “I'd certainly look into it. With a genetic history like yours, you can't be too careful.” Fenimore's own heart was on the verge of fibrillating. Charlie's face had turned crimson, his jaw was clenched, and Fenimore knew if they had been alone, he would have been dead meat. Aware of the tension, Jennifer reached for his hand under the table and squeezed it.

“I'll look into it.” Charlie threw his napkin on the table and left the room.

Chuck stared after his father and started to rise. Caroline stopped him. “Dear, would you go in the kitchen and see what's keeping the strawberries. I think they must have strayed back to the store.”

A stream of relieved laughter flowed around the table.

Reluctantly, Chuck headed for the kitchen.

Slowly the general conversation resumed and the strawberry shortcake made its belated appearance. Charlie's chair remained empty through dessert, coffee, and the liqueurs. Fenimore and Jennifer excused themselves as soon as dinner was over. Pale but triumphant, Caroline accompanied them to the door. “Thank you, Andrew,” she said. Her words were simple but heartfelt.

Once in the car, Jennifer said, “Well, that was a nice, relaxing evening.”

Fenimore tried to explain why he had ignored medical ethics and discussed a patient's private affairs at a dinner party. He thought Jennifer, of all people, would understand about the Housman poem. When he finished, she was silent for so long, he wasn't sure what she thought.

“I knew you couldn't resist,” she said at last, “but I'm not happy about it. Did you see Ashburn's face when he left the room?”

Fenimore nodded.

“If looks could kill . . .”

I
n the hectic pace of his cardiology practice, Fenimore didn't give a thought to the Ashburns and their problems for several days. But on Wednesday afternoon his workload became lighter, and Fenimore decided to head for the river. As he entered the Windsor Club around four thirty, he remembered this was Charlie's favorite time to hang out, and he looked around warily.

But the only people in sight were a group of youths hauling in an eight-oared shell, amid a lot of good-natured shouting and kidding. Fenimore moved out of their way and climbed to the third floor, where the lockers were located. While changing into shorts and a T-shirt, he wondered if his performance at the Ashburn party had brought any results. He had heard nothing from Caroline.
Heck, I didn't come here to worry about the Ashburns. I came here to relax and enjoy myself.

He shoved the shell into the water and carefully stepped in. It rocked and dipped precariously as he settled into the seat. A singles shell is a delicate instrument. Made of light carbo-fiber, it weighs only about thirty pounds and is easily tippable. He slipped his feet into the open shoes anchored to the bottom, fastened the
Velcro straps, and reached for the oars. Facing the stern and the city skyline, he fit the oars into the oarlocks. Then, with deft strokes, he began to propel the craft upstream, toward the Falls Bridge.

Catch. Drive. Recover. Finish. The four parts of the rowing cycle came back to him. Adopting an easy rhythm (he was here to relax, not to prove his skills), he slid slowly under the Girard Avenue Bridge, past the Grant statue and Peter's Island on his left. All troublesome thoughts were either wafted away by the gentle breeze or carried downstream by the flow of the river.

When he reached the Columbia Avenue Bridge, he turned reluctantly and headed homeward. A pair of Canada geese floated across his path, seemingly unaware of his presence. A seagull swooped overhead.
You're a long way from home, buddy.
(The Atlantic Ocean was a good sixty-five miles from Philadelphia.)

As Fenimore pulled up to the dock, the skyline was a mix of glittering silver and tawny gold. After successfully lifting the shell out of the water, he paused to catch his breath and take in the splendid view.

“Have a good row?”

Fenimore turned. Charlie Ashburn stood on the dock behind him. Something about his stance, his tone, his expression, caused Fenimore to move instinctively away from the edge of the dock.

“Yes. It was fine.” Fenimore started to hoist the shell onto his shoulders.

“Let me give you a hand.” Charlie, a much bigger man than Fenimore, raised the shell as if it were made of straw and carried it effortlessly into the shed.

“Thanks.” Fenimore followed him.

When the shell was safely secured in the bay, Charlie said, “Chuck had that exam you recommended. Got a clean bill of health.”

“That's great,” Fenimore said sincerely. “Where did you take him?”

“No place you've ever heard of. A hospital upstate. Friend of mine's head of cardiology there. Former classmate. I respect his judgment.”

Fenimore caught the implication—Charlie didn't think much of Fenimore's judgment. “Well, I'm certainly glad everything turned out so well.” He started for the stairs to the locker room, but Charlie remained in the way.

“I was a little surprised at your bringing up my medical history at dinner, Fenimore. Isn't there such a thing as patient privacy anymore?”

Fenimore felt the blood rush to his face. “Sorry if I was indiscreet. It was a case of intellectual curiosity outweighing social propriety, I'm afraid.”

Charlie still didn't move. “If I remember rightly, as a resident you were a stickler for propriety.”

“Was I? Quite the prig, I guess.” He laughed. “Now if you'd let me pass, I'd—”

Charlie didn't budge. His eyes narrowed and he placed a large open hand against Fenimore's chest. “Keep out of my family affairs, Fenimore.”

As Fenimore stared, the man gave him a shove that sent him staggering backward. Regaining his balance, Fenimore said nothing.

Charlie left him standing there.

As Fenimore made his way shakily upstairs to his locker, he wondered when a nice Main Line boy like Charlie had adopted Mafia manners. And, more important, why?

When Fenimore returned to his office, there was a phone message waiting for him from Caroline Ashburn. He'd had his fill of the Ashburns. Reluctantly he returned her call.

“Oh, Andrew, I have the most wonderful news. Charlie took Chuck to be examined and he's fine! Not a sign of Charlie's old trouble. And I owe it all to you. I can't thank you enough.”

“I'm very happy,” Fenimore said. “Where was the exam done?”

“At Pine Lake Hospital in the Poconos. A friend of Charlie's, Dan Burton, lives and practices up there. He and Charlie hunt together a lot. Sometimes they take Chuck along.”

“This may seem like a strange request, Caroline, but I wonder if you could ask Burton for a copy of Chuck's report.”

“Whatever for?”

“I'd like to review it.” Here he was again, throwing professional ethics to the wind.

“I don't see how I could do that, Andrew. Charlie might find out and think I was checking up on him.”

“Well . . . it was just a thought.”

“I wouldn't worry, Andrew. Dan has an excellent reputation. Charlie says he could be head of a department at some major medical center, but he prefers the rural life. I have no question about his competence. And I'm so relieved, I can't tell you. My only regret is that I didn't think of you sooner, and I spent all those years worrying unnecessarily.”

“Hmm.”

“Are you coming to the races next weekend? Chuck competes in the Singles. If he wins he goes to Henley.”

“You bet. I wouldn't miss 'em.”

“Come sit with us. We always do a picnic below the grandstand. And be sure to pray for good weather. I'll be a nervous wreck, of course. And as for Charlie—I don't know what I'll do with him. I just hope he doesn't drink too much.”

“I'll see you Saturday,” Fenimore said.

As soon as he hung up, he reached for a thick volume in the bookcase. The
AMA Directory of Physicians.
He flicked through the
B
s: Barton, Burcell, Burton, Daniel. Cardiologist. Board Certified. Chief of Cardiology, Pine Lake Hospital, Pine Lake, Pennsylvania. He called information for the doctor's number, then dialed it. As the phone rang, Fenimore realized it was after five and he would probably get a recorded message.

“Dr. Burton's office,” a perky female voice with a slight upstate accent answered.

They still hold evening office hours in Pine Lake? Maybe I should move there.
“This is Andrew Fenimore from Philadelphia. I'd like to make an appointment with Dr. Burton for a cardiac evaluation.”

“From Philadelphia?” To upstate people, Philadelphia is the home of the devil. “Who referred you?”

Fenimore knew she was trying to figure out why anyone from a city with umpteen famous hospitals and thousands of specialists would come to Pine Lake for a medical exam. Good question. “I'm a cardiologist myself and heard about Dr. Burton through the grapevine. He has an excellent reputation.”

“I see.” Light dawned. A doctor from the big city wants to keep his medical history private so he chooses a doctor from out of town. “Let me check our calendar.”

While Fenimore waited, he wondered at his own audacity. He wasn't exactly heeding Charlie's warning.

“Yes, Doctor. We could fit you in this Friday—at two o'clock.”

Fenimore was amazed that the old professional courtesies were still intact at Pine Lake; the receptionist was obviously doing him a special favor.

“That should give you plenty of time to drive up here and back the same day,” she went on. “But, if you want to stay overnight, there's a nice B & B down the road. Pine Haven. I could give you their number.”

“Thanks. That's very kind.” He jotted down the number. He didn't particularly want to stay overnight, but you never know what delays you may run into, and it might be a good idea to have a Plan B, he decided. Maybe Jennifer would like to come along. He called Pine Haven and made a reservation for a double room.

T
he rest of the week went by in a whirl. Fenimore was too busy to get down to the river again, and Mrs. Doyle was swamped with paperwork. One evening his nurse stayed so late, Fenimore asked why she was still there.

“Well, I'm doing the work of two, you know,” she grumbled.

“Of course.” He caught her meaning. “Tell you what, I'll pick up Rat after school tomorrow and bring him here. He's probably bored silly sitting home every afternoon in front of the boob tube.”

“That's a good idea, Doctor. He watches far too much TV anyway.”

Fenimore smiled, knowing that Mrs. Doyle's TV was on non-stop when she was at home. “I'll take care of it. Now skedaddle! This stuff can wait 'til tomorrow.” He shoved her purse at her and pointed her to the door.

When Fenimore called Rat to suggest his idea, Mrs. Lopez answered the phone.

“How's the patient?” Fenimore asked.

“Oh, Doctor, I'm so glad you called. I'm worried about him.”

“His ankle?” Fenimore was alarmed.

“No. But I've noticed he's been eating more than usual.”

“That's hardly a cause for concern.” Fenimore chuckled. “He's a growing teenager.”

“But he's not getting any exercise. Why would he need to eat so much? Sometimes he puts away a gallon of milk a day, and once he ate a whole loaf of bread between breakfast and lunch.”

“It's probably boredom. Which brings me to the reason I called. Mrs. Doyle is missing his services at the office. Would it be all right if I taxied him to and from work after school until his ankle has healed?”

“Oh, Doctor, that's a wonderful idea, because that's the other thing I was worried about. He's been coming home late from school. Sometimes he's not home until four or five o'clock, and I don't know what he's up to.”

Mrs. Lopez worked full-time and always worried about the threat of drugs and gangs in the neighborhood. She tried to keep an eye on her son, but it wasn't easy.

“Have you asked him what he's ‘up to'?”

“Oh, I couldn't do that. Ray and I have a very trusting relationship.”

Except, you don't trust him,
Fenimore thought. “Well, once he gets back to work, all these problems will be solved.”

“Oh, yes. I was so happy when he began working for you, Doctor. It kept him busy and out of trouble. And you're such a good influence—now that his father's gone.”

“Well,” Fenimore cleared his throat, “tell Rat . . . er . . . Ray, I'll pick him up outside the playground tomorrow at three o'clock sharp.”

“Don't worry, he'll be there,” Mrs. Lopez said with fervor.

“I'll be where?” Fenimore heard his young employee's querulous voice in the background. There must have been a commercial break and he had caught his mother's closing words.

On the way to pick up Horatio the next afternoon, Fenimore had an idea. He was anxious to discourage his protégé's interest in
skateboarding. He knew the statistics for injuries, and even for mortality, among the young. They were alarming. But the way to discourage him was not to forbid it. Everyone knew that was bad psychology. Instead you had to offer an alternative. And Fenimore had the perfect one. Rowing. Yes, that was it. He would introduce Rat to the joys of rowing, just as his father had introduced him. Fenimore felt a glow of pride at coming up with such a brilliant idea. His plan would have to wait until Rat recovered from his injury. But, at the first opportunity, he would take the boy down to the river. After one ride in a shell, he would never look at a skateboard again. Fenimore was whistling cheerfully as he pulled up to the school playground. Behind the chain-link fence, a couple of youths were tossing a basketball around, taking shots at a rusted rim with no basket. But no sign of Horatio.