The Doctor Rocks the Boat (9 page)

“What are the chances of getting rid of those boathouses?” His voice was faintly familiar.

“Not good,” came the answer.

“I have an idea.”

“I'm listening.”

“What if one of those rowers should have an accident?”

Newborn.
Jennifer identified the first speaker—the developer at the Ashburn party.

They must have moved on because she couldn't hear his companion's answer. She cautiously turned. Neither man was in sight. Forgetting about the orange juice, Jennifer continued her search for Fenimore.

F
enimore would have dearly liked to leave the Ashburn party. But he had to wait for Jennifer. Where could she be? He scanned the celebratory group for a friendly face. There were none. He stood uncomfortably on the sidelines until a lively voice, vaguely familiar, spoke to him from behind. “Why, I do believe it's Dr. Fenimore.”

Turning, he saw an elderly woman in an elegant black pantsuit, enhanced by colorful costume jewelry, leaning on a cane. Without a doubt, she and Fenimore were the two best-dressed people on the Schuylkill that day.

“Mrs. Henderson!”

“Myra.” She eyed him with a bemused expression.

“How are you? I haven't seen you since . . .” The last time he had seen her was at the funeral of a young woman.

“Let's not think about that,” she said hastily. “Today is a day of celebration!”

“You're a friend of the Ashburns?”

“Oh yes. For many years. Charlie's mother and I were at school together. Now tell me what you've been up to. I see your name in the paper from time to time.”

“Let me find you a chair.” He spied a vacant lawn chair and dragged it over to his newfound friend.

She accepted the seat and gave him a keen look. “You aren't investigating any crimes today, I hope.”

“Good grief, no,” he said, a little too quickly. “I'm taking the day off.”

“Hmm.” She looked at him thoughtfully. Fenimore had forgotten how sharp she was.

“I'm waiting for a friend. You remember Jennifer?”

“Certainly. I would have thought you'd be married by now.”

Fenimore blushed. Why was everyone so anxious to marry him off? First Rafferty, now Mrs. Henderson.

“How is that young man who saved your life?” she asked.

“Horatio?”

“Such an unusual name.”

“Fine. Well, actually he's not fine. He broke his ankle skateboarding.”

“Does he still work for you?”

He nodded. “After school and Saturday mornings.”

“I thought he might go into medicine someday,” she mused.

“Did you?” Fenimore was interested, because the same possibility had crossed his mind.

“I have a knack for ferreting out doctors,” she said. “Remember how I discovered you?”

He certainly did. Mrs. Henderson had been in the hospital recovering from hip surgery when Fenimore had passed her room. She had called out, “Doctor!” And he had helped her get some medicine to relieve her pain.

“Have you recovered?” Fenimore asked, eyeing her cane.

“Oh yes. This thing is just for show.” She gave the cane a shake. “In a crowd, if you carry a cane, they give you a little more room. Not always, but this is a pretty nice group.”

“Have you been following Chuck's rowing career?” Fenimore asked.

“Oh yes. Charles has had that poor boy in a boat since he was a toddler. I've never approved of saddling kids with the thwarted ambitions of their parents. But no one listens to me since I never had any. Kids, that is, not ambitions,” she amended quickly.

Fenimore smiled.

“I love the regattas and the old boathouses. I come down every spring. But Boathouse Row is at risk, you know.” Her expression turned grave.

“Because of the marina, you mean?” He shook his head. “But Charlie is fighting it.”

“So am I.” She raised her chin and her look of determination would have daunted more than a city planner, Fenimore thought—say a Marine battalion?

“I'm president of the Pennsylvania Historical Society and we're working to get Boathouse Row certified as a historic landmark. If we succeed, no one will be able to touch it.”

“Wonderful!” Fenimore felt good for the first time that day. “And what are your chances of success?”

“Excellent. Time is our only problem. The commission is trying to get their plan for the marina accepted before the certification goes through. If they succeed . . .” she left her sentence hanging. Her gaze had fixed on the pitcher of pink fluid that Charlie was offering his guests. “What in God's name is that?” she asked.

“Vodka disguised as pink lemonade, I think,” said Fenimore.

“Yuck!”

The slang word uttered by such a distinguished lady tickled Fenimore.

“Charlie promised to bring me some martinis, but I guess he forgot.”

“Can I get you something to drink?”

“No, thanks. I'd rather stay sober than let a drop of that pink poison down my throat.” She reached into her petit-point bag and drew out a lighter and a cigarillo. There was a slight breeze and
she had trouble lighting it. Fenimore helped her. Several Ashburn guests sent disapproving glances her way. Fenimore suspected this was exactly what the elderly woman desired. Although he smoked a pipe occasionally, Fenimore only did so in the privacy of his home.

“Where's your pipe?” asked Myra, a mischievous glint in her eye.

“At home in a drawer.”

She frowned.

“Don't worry, I haven't given it up,” he quickly assured her.

“Good.” She nodded. “It's the minor vices that keep us from succumbing to the major sins.”

Fenimore wondered if she was speaking from experience. “I expect you're right.”

“Myra, dear . . .” An acquaintance charged up. Ignoring Fenimore, she directed her conversation exclusively to Mrs. Henderson.

Fenimore wandered off, feeling infinitely better about the chances of preserving Boathouse Row. Now where was Jennifer?

Jennifer spotted Fenimore first. She maneuvered her way through the crowd toward him. Catching his eye, she waved. As he hurried over, she asked, “Did you find Chuck?”

He nodded.

“What happened?”

“He refused to listen. He took off in his shell. There was nothing I could do.”

“But he made it.”

“Yes, he made it.
This
time,” he added somberly.

Jennifer told him about the conversation she had overheard.

“An accident? Are you sure you heard right?”

Jennifer was sure.

As soon as one worry disappears, it is replaced by another. “It's a great life, if you don't weaken,” he muttered.

“What?”

“An old saying of my grandmother's.” He had never understood what it meant when he was a boy. Now he did.

O
ver dinner at their favorite restaurant, the Silk City Diner, Fenimore was preoccupied. He toyed with his food, and all Jennifer's attempts at conversation fell flat. While waiting for their coffee, he blurted, “I can't believe that kid is going to row at Henley with a defibrillator!”

“Can't you stop him?” asked Jennifer.

“You saw how effective I was at stopping him today.” He shook his head. “Basically, the responsibility for our health is up to us. It's a free country. All the authority of a major medical center can't force a patient to accept medical treatment or to stay within its walls. All a doctor can do is inform them of the benefits of taking his advice, and the consequences of refusing it. The patient can take it or leave it.” He drained his coffee. “Remember Sweet Grass?” Fenimore was referring to a young woman who had refused medical treatment because it would have interfered with her wedding plans.

Jennifer nodded. “It's strange, isn't it, that we can be fined for not wearing a seat belt, but are free to refuse medical treatment that could save our life.”

“All a physician can do is present the evidence in as convincing a manner as possible.”

“And—have you done that?”

Fenimore looked at her sharply. “No, not really. All I did was shout that I had talked to Dr. Burton. There was no time for anything else.”

“Maybe you should.”

“You're damned right.” He signaled the waitress for the check.

The next morning, Fenimore called Caroline and told her about his plan to speak to Chuck. He asked her if she would help him arrange a meeting. To his surprise, he found her uncooperative. It seemed she was no longer opposed to Chuck rowing at Henley. “After all, he survived yesterday's race with no ill effects,” she said, “and he has a whole month to get back in shape for Henley.”

Fenimore was speechless.

“It's quite a pageant, Andrew,” she went on. “Everyone who's anyone in the rowing world will be there. They have cocktail parties, banquets, and high teas. The British always do everything so elegantly. All my friends are green with envy.”

Fenimore stared at the receiver, unable to believe what he was hearing.

“I'm going to have to buy a whole new wardrobe.” She laughed. “The Brits are a little more formal than we Philadelphians.”

“But what about the risk?” Fenimore finally sputtered. “Nothing has changed. Chuck still suffers from SCD.” He knew he was speaking too loudly.

“Really, Andrew, you do take the fun out of everything. This is a wonderful opportunity for Chuck. Indeed, for the whole family. It would be a tragedy for him to miss it. I have to run now. Bloomies is having a sale on evening wear. I can't miss it.”

Fenimore continued holding the receiver until the operator began haranguing him: “Please hang up. Beep. Please hang up. Beep.”

Mrs. Doyle stuck her head in the door. “Are you ready for your first patient?”

“Send them in,” he said in a resigned voice.

When morning office hours were over, Fenimore had an idea. He called Frank O'Brien.

“Sorry, Doc. My hands are tied. I'd like to stop the boy, but he's twenty-one. I can't force him to give up such an opportunity.”

“But if it's a matter of life and death!”

“We don't know that, do we, Doctor? He survived yesterday's race. And he seemed as fit as ever at this morning's practice.”

“But the odds—”

“I'm sorry. I really am.” The coach hung up.

Damn.
Now it was up to him to prevent Chuck from rowing at Henley. He would have to waylay him somehow and present his case. And it would have to be a good case. He would not have more than one chance and he didn't want to muff it.

F
enimore continued his routine, which now included picking up Horatio every day after school and driving him to the office. One day, while he was waiting in his car for the boy, he saw a headline in
The Inquirer:

Boathouse Row Due for Face-Lift

Famous Boathouse Row along the Schuylkill may soon be replaced by a more modern marina. Cornelius Wormwood, director of the City Planning Commission, announced the news today. By a narrow margin, the commission voted to include the site in their plan for redevelopment of the riverfront. A public hearing will be scheduled for those opposed in the near future.

Fenimore shoved the newspaper aside and glanced at the dashboard clock. 3:15. Where was that kid? Another ten minutes passed before Fenimore left his car (carefully locking it) and went to look for the boy. He didn't have to go far. A block from the school he spied a pair of crutches leaning against a brick wall. Next to them was the entrance to a cellar, its doors wide open. Peering down into the dark hole, he called, “Rat!”

No answer.

A ladder led from the sidewalk down to the cellar. Cautiously, Fenimore descended. The space below was dark, but enough light seeped in from the open door for him to see the room was full of trash. The smell of decaying garbage and excrement engulfed him, and he heard the patter of little feet—not the human kind. Reemerging into daylight, he returned to his car to find Rat (the human kind) leaning against the hood.

“Yo, Doc.” He waved nonchalantly.

“Where the hell have you been?” Fenimore read him the riot act for keeping him waiting.

Horatio's cool evaporated and, to Fenimore's horror, his eyes filled with tears.

“Sorry,” Fenimore hastily apologized. “I was worried about you. What were your crutches doing next to that cellar door?”

As soon as they were in the car, Horatio broke down. “There's this girl,” he croaked. “She's homeless. And I'm sorta looking after her.”

Fenimore listened attentively.

“I came on her one day after school. She was rooting through the trash. You know how they do.”

Fenimore nodded.

“I didn't think nothing of it . . . until she looked up at me.”