The Doctor Rocks the Boat (8 page)

When they reached the Schuylkill Expressway they hit a traffic jam. Jennifer was afraid Fenimore was going to have a stroke. “Want me to drive for a while?” she offered, out of self-preservation more than kindness.

“No,” he snapped.

“They're probably going to the regatta too,” she said.

“They should stay home and read a book,” Fenimore said unreasonably.

Meanwhile, at Fenimore's office, Mrs. Doyle was working away, still playing catch-up for all the days her assistant had been home nursing his broken ankle. She was just finishing up when the phone rang. A phone call on Saturday afternoon was unusual. Mrs. Doyle lifted the receiver. It was Mrs. Lopez—and she sounded upset.

“What time did Ray leave?” she asked.

“The usual time—about 12:01,” Mrs. Doyle told her.

“Well, he's not home yet. Do you know where he could be?”

Mrs. Doyle tried to remember if Horatio had mentioned anything about going someplace after work. His conversations with the nurse were usually monosyllabic, and she couldn't remember him saying anything to her but “Hi” and “So long.” “I can't think of a thing,” said Mrs. Doyle. “I ordered a cab for him, gave him some money out of petty cash, and thought he was going straight home.”

The silence at the other end of the line quivered with anxiety.

“Could he have stopped off at a friend's house?” Mrs. Doyle suggested. “Or gone to a music store?” She knew how Rat loved his CDs.

“He wouldn't have given up the cab too far from home,” his mother said. “He can't walk more than a few blocks with those crutches.”

Mrs. Doyle considered. “I could call the cab company. They keep records of all their passenger pickup and drop-off locations,” she offered.

“Oh, would you, Mrs. Doyle? I'd be so—”

Doyle heard a door slam in the background over Mrs. Lopez's voice.

“
There you are!
Where have you been?”

Mrs. Doyle gently replaced the receiver.

Gradually the traffic loosened up and Fenimore was able to escape the expressway via the ramp near the zoo. He maneuvered his way through the narrow streets of Brewery Town, past the golden statue of Joan of Arc, to Eakins Circle, below the art museum. Kelly Drive was cordoned off by yellow police tape for the regatta and every parking space was taken.

“Pull over and get out,” Jennifer said. “I'll park the car and meet you later.”

Fenimore obeyed. As he jumped out he called back, “Come to the picnic ground below the grandstand. I'll be with the Ashburn party.”

The last Jennifer saw of him, he was making his way up the parkway toward Kelly Drive, head down, his expression anxious. In his business suit, regimental striped tie, and oxfords, he stood out like a sore thumb among the rest of the crowd who were dressed for a casual Saturday afternoon in shorts and jeans, T-shirts and sweats. As he trudged off in the shadow of that great Greek monument, the Philadelphia Art Museum, dressed in the wrong clothes, to try to save a young man's life, Jennifer found his figure touching. It wasn't until she lost sight of him in the crowd that she moved on to look for a parking space.

A
s Fenimore approached the grandstand, he paused to watch a race of eights finishing on the river. The contrast between the shells skimming effortlessly over the water and the extreme effort marking the faces of the eight men inside was almost comical. Once over the line, they slowed their pace, but did not stop until they had gone a dozen lengths. Then they collapsed, as if picked off by some hidden sniper. A few minutes later, however, they had recovered and were rowing toward the judges' stand to pick up their award. Fenimore moved swiftly on, berating himself for pausing for even a minute in his search for Chuck.

He saw Caroline first. Pale and strained, she was distributing sandwiches to a circle of friends seated on lawn chairs and blankets. Charlie, a paper cup in one hand and a pitcher of something pink in the other, was staggering among his guests, already seriously inebriated. There was a law against alcohol in Fairmount Park, and if caught with it, you paid a stiff fine. Although the stuff in Charlie's pitcher resembled lemonade, Fenimore was sure it was 90 percent vodka.

Caroline spied Fenimore and smiled, waving him over. Charlie caught sight of him at the same time and ostentatiously turned his
back. He still had not forgiven Fenimore for meddling in his son's medical affairs.

“Can I speak to you for a moment?” Fenimore said to Caroline, keeping his voice low.

Alarmed by his grave expression, she nodded and they moved away from the party, to a cluster of trees.

“What's wrong, Andrew?”

He told her.

She turned a shade paler and leaned against the nearest tree for support.

“When is the Singles race?” he asked her.

“It's the next race.” She glanced at her watch. “About twenty minutes.”

“Where is Chuck?”

“I don't know.” She shook her head. “At the boathouse . . . or upriver with O'Brien.”

“We have to find him. I'll check the boathouse. You look for O'Brien.”

They set off in opposite directions. Approaching the Windsor Club from the riverbank, Fenimore's oxfords echoed hollowly on the wooden dock. The boathouse was silent and deserted. The bays were empty. All the shells were either on the river or resting in slings on the riverbank. An uneasy feeling overcame Fenimore, as if the ghosts of all the young rowers—winners and losers—since 1860 were hovering there, waiting expectantly, like himself, for the big race to begin. This mood was broken by the sound of very unghostlike footsteps, on the dock. Fenimore looked up to see Hank Walsh coming toward him.

“Doctor? What brings you here?” He appeared relaxed and calm, despite the impending race.

“I'm looking for Chuck.”

“He's not here. He usually sticks to himself before a race. You might find him upriver, near the starting line.”

“Thanks—and good luck,” he added.

Hank nodded and went to collect his shell from its sling.

Fenimore hastened back to the picnic ground, scanning the crowd for Caroline or O'Brien. Caroline saw Fenimore first and came rushing up. “O'Brien and the boys are at the falls, where the race begins. I've asked a park groundskeeper to drive you up there in his cart.” She led Fenimore to the keeper.

“Hop on,” the man said cheerfully. “These things move faster than you think. And I have a horn!” He beeped it twice.

Fenimore climbed in.

“We're off!” said the keeper, giving a sharp beep that sent the cluster of people in front of him scattering.

Fenimore sat forward, peering ahead, hoping for a glimpse of Chuck.

A
s the cart scooted through the crowd, scattering people in its wake, Fenimore tried to think what he was going to say to Chuck. He had nothing in mind other than, “Stop, you damned fool! Do you want to kill yourself?” Hardly the best approach. Within a few minutes, he caught sight of the Falls Bridge and the starting line, designated by a row of colorful buoys. “You can let me out here,” he told the driver.

“If you need a lift back, just give a whistle,” the driver said with a wink.

“Thanks.” Fenimore was already scanning the riverfront for Chuck. He spotted O'Brien, squatting under a tree, surrounded by a group of young rowers. He appeared to be giving them a postrace pep talk. Fenimore hated to interrupt, but this was a matter of life and death. “Excuse me, I'm looking for Chuck,” he said.

O'Brien glanced at his watch. “He likes to keep to himself before a race,” he said, with a frown. “Can't it wait 'til later?”

“I'm afraid not.”
Definitely not,
thought Fenimore. He debated whether to tell O'Brien about his discovery. He decided against it. This was Chuck's decision; no one could make it for him.

“Well, you may find him down there.” The coach gestured at the riverbank

Fenimore had gone only a few yards when he saw Chuck. He was sitting on the bank, his back to Fenimore. Fenimore recognized the boy by the number six on his shirt, and by his shell—
The Zephyr
—that was tied to the wharf below him. He seemed to be in deep contemplation. Fenimore wondered if he practiced yoga. So many young people did today. Not a bad way to get your nerves in order. He even recommended it to some of his patients. He hated to disturb him, but—“Chuck!”

The boy looked around.

“Could I speak to you for a minute?”

“It's almost race time.” Polite, but resolute.

“It's very important. I've talked to Dr. Burton. . . .”

Chuck came alive. He scrambled down to the wharf, grabbed his oars, and settled into his shell.

“Wait!” Fenimore scurried down the bank, slipping and sliding in his oxfords.

Chuck dipped his oars and pulled swiftly away from the dock.

Fenimore looked after him and his heart sank like one of those leaden stones by the river's edge. Turning his back on the river, he went in search of the groundskeeper to cadge a ride to the grandstand. All he could do now was watch the race—and its finish.

When he arrived at the finish line, the race was just about to begin. The Ashburn party had deserted their picnic site and moved down to the water's edge to gain a better view. Fenimore hurried to join them. Caroline saw him, but there was no way she could leave Charlie at such a crucial moment. Fenimore shook his head, to let her know he had failed. Slowly she turned back to the river. Fenimore followed her gaze. The two singles shells were mere fly-specks on the water. It was impossible to tell which one was in the lead. He scanned the bank for the Walshes, to no avail. They would be easy to spot. There were next to no African Americans in this crowd. Rowing was still primarily a white sport, the way basketball was a black one. But this was changing. He had read
somewhere that public high schools were introducing rowing into their curriculum and he had noticed shells for rent—to the public—near the Water Works.

The attention of the crowd was frozen on the rowers—two dark specks upriver. Fenimore could just make out the numbers on their shirts: Chuck's six and Hank's twenty-two. That was the frustrating thing about regattas. You couldn't watch the whole race at once. You could watch the beginning, the middle, or the end, depending on where you were situated. Most people opted for the excitement of the finish line.

As the two shells sped closer the crowd grew quieter. But as they drew abreast, and were neck and neck, a sound rose from the riverbank like the roar of a cataract. Fenimore stared intently at number six. Chuck's face was distorted beyond recognition by the enormity of his effort. Fenimore closed his eyes and prayed. Not for the boy's victory. For his survival.

An eerie hush fell. They must be nearing the finish line. Fenimore opened his eyes in time to see Chuck spurt over the line—a fraction of a second ahead of Hank.

He glanced to his left, where the Ashburns were standing. Charlie, red-faced, was screaming, stamping, and pounding his fist into his palm. Caroline, white and stiff, seemed to be still holding her breath. Friends of the Ashburns began crowding around them. The women squealing, the men alternately pumping Charlie's hand and pounding him on the back. Fenimore's gaze switched back to the oarsmen. They had continued to row a few lengths, lessening their pace gradually, as they had been taught. Then they raised their oars from the water, drifted to a halt, and slumped in their seats.

Hank recovered first. Fenimore saw him lift his hand and make a
V
sign to Chuck. Fenimore held his breath, until he saw Chuck slowly raise his hand in acknowledgment.

“Andrew!” Caroline had extricated herself from her ebullient guests and was making her way toward him. Her first words to him were, “He'll go to Henley now.”

Fenimore nodded. “Congratulations,” he murmured.

She stood, irresolute, confused. “You tried to stop him?”

“He wouldn't listen.”

Charlie came up to recapture his wife. Ignoring Fenimore, he thrust a glass of champagne (disguised with a dash of orange juice) into her hand and pulled her back into the mêlée.

Fenimore saw the Walshes arrive and congratulate the Ashburns. Mrs. Walsh was a tiny birdlike woman. He wondered why she had been absent the night of the Ashburn dinner party. Maybe she didn't like such gatherings. Charlie was urging them to stay, trying to force glasses of champagne on them. They graciously refused and went away.

As Jennifer edged through the crowd, searching for Fenimore, an enormous cheer erupted near the river's edge. She craned her neck to see who had won. It was impossible to tell. She asked a pert coed who was jumping up and down nearby.

“Number six!” she cried gleefully.

“But who's number six?” Jennifer asked.

The girl looked at her in amazement. “Chuck, of course. Chuck Ashburn.”

“Thanks.” Jennifer's emotions took a roller-coaster ride.
Down.
Andrew had failed to stop Chuck from racing.
Up.
Chuck had won the race and survived!

She suddenly felt very tired. Those yapping dogs had kept her awake all night, then the tension of wondering if the mechanic would finish the car in time, followed by the hair-raising drive from Pine Lake to Philadelphia, and now the news that Chuck had won—and survived! She sat down on the grass to rest. She needed a breather, she decided, before facing the Ashburns and their obnoxious guests. Fleetingly, she wondered how the Walshes were feeling.

She tried to block out the noise of the crowd and focus on the serene flow of the river, the way her yoga teacher had taught her. But it was hard to concentrate in the midst of the excited youthful
throng. They flowed around her, trying to avoid stepping on her hands and tripping over her feet. She stood up. On the whole, it was an orderly crowd. There was no sign of alcohol. Orange juice was the favored drink of the day. The bike path was lined with vendors selling bottled water and juice, plus T-shirts, caps, and programs. Jennifer was deciding whether to buy some juice when her attention was caught by male voices behind her. She didn't mean to eavesdrop, but . . .