The Doctor Rocks the Boat (7 page)

Dr. Burton was nondescript. Middle-height, middle-weight, middle-aged. His face had no distinguishing features. Everything could have been store-bought from the same manufacturer—eyes, nose, mouth—and attached with machinelike precision. The label on the box—
WHITE, MIDDLE CLASS, PROFESSIONAL, MALE
. His
manner was as familiar to Fenimore as an old pair of bedroom slippers. Patronizing, with a twist of bounce, and as much pizzazz as a goldfish.
^*

“Well, Doctor, what brings you to the boondocks from that sacred medical citadel—Philadelphia?” Burton asked.

“You come highly recommended,” Fenimore said, smiling fatuously.

“By whom?”

“Uh . . . a friend.” Fenimore rushed on. “I'm thinking of taking up rowing again and thought I'd better get my ticker checked out.”

“I see.” He examined the electrocardiogram his nurse had taken earlier and compared it to an older one Fenimore had brought with him. “Everything looks normal for someone your age,” he said. “I don't see any reason why you shouldn't row, as long as it's just recreation.”

“You can count on that. I'm not about to compete for the Diamond Sculls.” Fenimore forced a laugh.

The doctor pressed his icy stethoscope against Fenimore's chest, then his back, listening intently. When he was finished, he said, “Actually, a friend of mine has a son who's trying for Henley. Maybe you know him. He was at Penn around your time. Charlie Ashburn?”

“The name's familiar,” Fenimore mumbled.

“As for me, I don't go in for those old-fashioned sports,” Burton said. “Give me a motor boat with plenty of horsepower.”

“Um” was all Fenimore could muster as the doctor felt his groin and shot a finger up his rectum.

Removing his latex gloves, Dr. Burton tossed them into the nearby wastebasket and made a notation on Fenimore's chart. “Wouldn't hurt to have a colonoscopy,” he said perfunctorily. “A good precaution at your age.”

^*
Apologies to all goldfish advocates.

Fenimore nodded and immediately blocked on the suggestion. Like most doctors, he avoided medical examinations whenever
possible—unless he needed information for an investigation, such as now. He shivered on the examining table and eyed his clothes yearningly where they hung from a hook on the back of the door.

Burton continued, “I try to get down to the Mother Church for those Saturday afternoon lectures. When you live in the boonies it's important to make an effort to keep up,” he added piously. (“Mother Church” was some alums' fond nickname for the Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania.)

Fenimore nodded, keeping his teeth tightly clenched to prevent their chattering.

“I think you're in good shape,” Burton said at last. “I'll send you a report when the lab tests come back.” He stuck out his hand.

“Thank you, Doctor,” Fenimore shook the proffered hand fervently, thankful that the session had come to an end.

“By the way . . .”

Fenimore groaned inwardly.

“. . . what was your frat at HUP?”

“AMPO,” Fenimore uttered the name quickly, hoping to close the interview.

“No kidding?” He positively beamed at him. “We're brothers, then!”

For a moment Fenimore was afraid the doctor was going to hug him. Great. The last thing he wanted was for Burton to remember him, let alone with fraternal affection.

As soon as the door closed, Fenimore sprang from the examining table and donned his clothes with the zeal of an explorer returning from an Antarctic expedition. As he tied his shoes, he wondered about Charlie. Had he deliberately lied about Chuck's condition? Or had Dr. Burton lied to Charlie about his son's health? In either case, the question was—Why?

Fenimore appeared in the waiting room, fully clad, and reported his clean bill of health to Jennifer.

“Let's go for that walk,” Jennifer said.

Despite his good news, Fenimore was subdued when they
reached the car. Once inside, he told Jennifer the real reason for his trip to the Poconos—and what he had discovered.

“I know you've told me how a defibrillator works, but could you refresh my memory?”

“When the heart muscle fibrillates, i.e. quivers and stops pumping blood, the defibrillator—or ICD—delivers an electric shock that stops the fibrillating and causes the heart to resume its normal rhythm. It also records the type of event and the time it occurred. The patient carries a special card that contains all the data needed to read the information from the ICD so the medic or doctor involved can figure out what happened. It's called an ‘interrogation card.' ”

“What does an ICD look like?”

“It's about the size of half a pack of cigarettes and fits under the skin of the chest, hardly visible to the naked eye.”

“Is the operation risky?”

“Not at all. It's done on an outpatient basis and usually takes no more than a few minutes.”

“But why did Chuck need one?”

“Because he suffers from SCD, just like his father.”

“Then why is he rowing?”

“Because, apparently, Charlie is so keen on his son going to Henley, he's willing to risk the boy's life to send him there.”

Jennifer shook her head, appalled. “What are you going to do?”

“The first thing is to get back to Philly and stop Chuck from racing tomorrow. This is the big race in which the two top singles rowers compete to go to Henley. Chuck will be competing against Hank Walsh.”

“But how will you explain how you found out?”

“I'll worry about that after I stop him.” He looked grim.

“So much for our idyllic mountain weekend,” Jennifer said wistfully.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “We'll come again,” he promised, “when all this is over and spring has really sprung.” He kissed her lightly on the cheek and turned the key in the ignition.

Nothing happened.

He tried again.

Dead.

“Oh my God. Did I leave my lights on?” He checked the knob. It was turned to “Off.” He pulled the lever that opened the hood and leapt out. When he came back, he was shaking his head. “The battery looks all right, but I'll need a jump. I'll go inside and call a garage.”

“Don't bother. I have my cell.” She pulled it out. “Do you belong to AAA?”

He nodded, and dug the card from his wallet. When she called, they told her there would be a half-hour wait.

“We might as well take that walk,” Fenimore said gloomily. They left the car and set off down the road.

S
orry, folks. This isn't a simple jump job. You need a new alternator.” The AAA man gave them the bad news. “I can tow you to the nearest garage. It's just down the road.”

“But I have to get back to Philadelphia.”

“If Virgil's not busy . . .”

Virgil?

“. . . he can probably fix it for you by late afternoon,” the man said.

Resigned, Fenimore shouted, “Tow away!” He and Jennifer climbed into the cab.

Virgil wasn't busy, but he was talkative, and he didn't seem in any hurry to fix the car. Fenimore and Jennifer quickly realized that as long as they hung around, the mechanic would talk more than work. They asked him to direct them to the nearest restaurant.

“There's a diner down the road on the left,” he said in a disappointed tone, sorry to lose his audience.

“Down the road” turned out to be over a mile. Jennifer had worn sensible shoes, a pair of clogs, but Fenimore had on a pair of relatively new oxfords with slippery soles and his progress was slow. But it was a pretty walk. The birds were out in full force,
building their nests for the coming broods. A row of forsythia bushes was in full bloom. And Jennifer actually spied a skunk cabbage poking its bright green snout through a patch of leftover snow.

The diner was vintage 1930s with no frills or phony additions. Over bowls of homemade vegetable soup and chunks of warm, freshly baked bread, Fenimore explained the medical implications of Chuck's condition to Jennifer.

“Sudden cardiac death is a gamble. You can lead a perfectly normal life with the tendency and never have it kick in—doing everything anyone else does—
except strenuous exercise.
Chuck could jog, swim, shoot baskets, even row—as long as he doesn't make excessive demands on his heart. Recreational sports would be relatively safe. It's the competitive sports that are dangerous!” He broke off a piece of bread and debated about adding butter.

“Oh, go ahead.” Jennifer read his mind. “You're on vacation.”

He frowned. “Some vacation.”

“In small measure, life may perfect be,” Jennifer quoted.

“Who said that?”

“Ben Jonson.”

“Umph.” But he spread a small amount of butter on the bread.

“You know,” Jennifer mused, “sports aren't only about physical fitness.”

“How's that?”

“Well, surely you know that sports build character.”

“Like taking steroids?”

“I'm not talking about professional sports.”

“What sports did you play?” he asked.

“Field hockey.”

“What position?”

“Goalie.”

“Goalie?” Fenimore sat back to better survey the petite woman before him. “I thought goalies had to be big enough to cover the goal.”

“Wrong. They have to be alert and quick on their feet.”

“But how does that build character?”

“There are times in life when we all have our backs to the wall and have to come out fighting.”

Fenimore nodded. “True.”

“Also, there are times in life when everything runs smoothly, but you shouldn't become complacent or a forward will come charging down the field and shoot a ball right between your legs.” Jennifer was growing animated. Fenimore sensed she was reliving a game from long ago. He was sure she was smelling the newly cut grass, the sweat of her teammates, the tangy odor of orange slices that were served at the half. “Or,” she went on, “even worse, a forward will pass the ball to a left inner or a right wing and, while you're looking the other way, they'll sneak the ball into the goal—behind you.”

“Now that does sound like real life—at a medical center,” Fenimore said. After ordering two coffees, he turned back to Jennifer. “Were you a good goalie?” he asked. Even if she were wrapped in thick pads and a mask, it was hard for him to imagine this slight woman defending a vast space with only her body and a thin stick.

“I was on the varsity team for four years,” she said. “But I didn't bring this up to brag,” she added hastily. “I just wanted to point out that you shouldn't belittle the role of sports in a kid's life. Academia is all very well, but learning how to hold your own on a ball field—or on a river—teaches important lessons too.”

“Touché,” Fenimore said, taking a sip of his coffee. “I would have loved to have seen you in action. Did your father come to your games?”

“Once.”

“Only once?”

“It was the one game in which I was hit on the head by a ball. I was knocked out cold. He never came again.” Jennifer laughed.

“Holy mackerel! You really got clobbered?”

“Yep. I told you, athletics is not all about physical fitness. That blow knocked some sense into my head.”

“I hadn't noticed,” Fenimore teased.

When they returned to the garage, Fenimore's car was still on the lift and Virgil was nowhere to be seen.

“Hell,” Fenimore said. “Where could he be?”

“Virgil!” Jennifer sang into the dark garage.

No answer.

They wandered around to the back, where they found the missing mechanic. He was seated at a battered picnic table enjoying a late lunch washed down with a Budweiser.

“Oh my God,” muttered Fenimore.

“Are you almost finished?” asked Jennifer.

“Just one more bite.” He held up the remains of a squashed cupcake.

“I meant with our car.”

“Oh.” He ran a hand through his patchy hair and studied the remains of his lunch. “I have bad news. There's this missing part. I sent my son to town for it, but I close at four and—”

“Look,” Fenimore broke in desperately, “I'll pay you extra if you'll finish the job tonight.”

“Gee, that's real nice.” Virgil grinned. “But it's the wife's birthday and I promised to take her out to dinner.”

So, when Virgil's son came back (Ajax was his name), he drove Fenimore and Jennifer in his pickup back to the Pine Haven B & B. They spent a restless, unromantic night among a million gewgaws and two Pekinese dogs, who took turns yapping at their door until dawn.

W
hen Fenimore called the next morning, Virgil said, “The car won't be ready until noon.” To keep Fenimore from blowing a gasket, Jennifer led him on a walk through a wooded glen behind the B & B. She tried to teach him how to identify trees by their bark, the difference between fox and dog tracks, and the mating habits of certain birds.

“What about the bees?” Fenimore repeated his earlier complaint.

“It's too early for them. We have to come back in June,” she said.

“Over my dead body,” he seethed.

Once on the road, Jennifer had to caution Fenimore frequently about the speed limit. He knew the big Singles race between Chuck and Hank Walsh was in the afternoon, but he didn't know the exact time. As he sped down the Pennsylvania Turnpike he kept an anxious eye on the dashboard clock. Since it was Saturday, Jennifer suggested they listen to the Metropolitan Opera broadcast. “They're doing
Don Giovanni
today,” she said. “Your favorite.” But when she turned it on, the high-pitched arias even got on her nerves and she snapped it off. Anxiety and opera don't mix, she decided.