The Doctor Rocks the Boat

by Robin Hathaway

  When Fenimore got home, he went straight to his office. His home and office were housed together in an old brownstone on Spruce Street. His office and waiting room occupied the front half of the first floor; the rest of the house served as his living quarters. He had inherited his father’s house and medical practice when he died and had lived and worked there ever since. Fenimore was one of the few doctors left in Philadelphia who still practiced solo and made house calls. He knew he was a dying breed, and he didn’t know how much longer he could hold out, working in such an old-fashioned way.

  His father’s case files were stored in a rusty cabinet in the corner. The Ashburn file presented no difficulty. It was right where it should be—under A. He leafed through it, pausing at a report:

  Diagnosis—heart enlarged in the chest. X ray and the electrocardiogram suggested the heart muscle was thickened—and together with the episode of pre-syncope, the diagnosis appears to be hypertrophic cardiomyopathy.

  Today an echocardiogram would make a more definitive diagnosis of the condition, but this report told Fenimore all he wanted to know. He read the note at the bottom, scrawled in his father’s familiar hand. “This report confirms the finding that Charles Ashburn is predisposed to SCD (sudden cardiac death) and should not under any circumstances participate in competitive sports.”

  Fenimore sat down at his desk and stared at the report, now slightly yellowed with age. What was Charlie Ashburn’s condition to him? His son Chuck could be perfectly fit. These conditions often skip a generation or disappear altogether, he reminded himself. It’s none of your business, Fenimore. Snatching up the file, he stuffed it back in the cabinet.

  CHAPTER 3

  Fenimore had not been making it up—about having a date. He met Jennifer at eight o’clock to go to a movie that she had been dying to see.

  “It’s a romantic comedy,” she told him in a mock-serious tone. “Just what you need.”

  “Why me?” he asked in all innocence.

  “Because you’re not romantic or comic,” she said.

  He denied this vehemently. “I’m the most romantic-comic person in Philadelphia since—”

  “Since George Washington,” Jennifer said, pulling a long face.

  “No—since Ben Franklin. Now there was a romantic-comic fellow if there ever was one. He had all the ladies in Paris fawning over him and laughing at his jokes.”

  “Like you?” she said.

  “Well, I have one Philadelphia lady fawn—”

  “Dream on,” she said hotly.

  “Well—willing to go to the movies with me now and then,” he amended. “Hey, I forgot to tell you what I did today,” he said, changing the subject.

  She looked interested.

  “I rejoined the Windsor Club. I’m taking up rowing again.”

  She forgot her grievance and smiled at him. “That’s wonderful. I thought you could use some exercise.” Jennifer jogged every morning.

  “What d’ya mean?” He looked down self-consciously at his slightly rounded paunch.

  “Oh, nothing. But I really think it will be good for you to get back on the river. What made you decide to do it?”

  “I was looking out the train window on my way to that cardiology conference in New York, and I saw this guy in a singles shell gliding over the water. Suddenly it all came back to me—how much I enjoyed rowing.”

  “Let’s skip that movie and have a drink to celebrate,” she said.

  “Are you sure?” He looked pleased.

  “Sure.” She grabbed his arm and they took off for their favorite watering hole—the Raven. It was named after Poe’s poem, even though it was nowhere near the famous author’s house on Spring Garden Street. Tucked away on Samson Street, in the center of town, it was small and dark, with plenty of booths, but most important: It provided free snacks with the drinks. Fenimore ordered two glasses of Chardonnay. While they sipped and munched, he told her about running into Charlie Ashburn. “You remember him from that Penn-Princeton game?”

  “Oh, yeah. His wife really gave me the once-over.”

  He told her about Charlie’s aspirations for his son. “There’s one problem.” He set down his glass. “Charlie had a predisposition to sudden cardiac death. I looked up his old file. My father advised his parents that he avoid strenuous exercise and under no circumstances partake in competitive sports. As a result, Charlie dropped out of rowing at Penn. It was a body blow. I don’t think he ever got over it.” Fenimore took a deep swallow. “Now, he’s fixed all his thwarted ambitions on his son who has inherited his father’s rowing skills.”

  “Well, that’s good, isn’t it?” Jennifer said.

  “Except for one thing—”

  Jennifer looked up.

  “His son may have inherited more than his father’s rowing skills. He may have a predisposition to SCD too.”

  “Well . . . they must have had him tested.”

  “Maybe, but I think I should look into it.”

  “He’s not your patient,” Jennifer reminded him.

  “No, but—”

  “You feel responsible,” Jennifer finished for him.

  “Well, don’t you think—”

  “I guess you have no choice. I’m just . . .” she paused.

  “What?” Fenimore prompted.

  “. . . afraid they won’t thank you for your help.”

  He nodded. “You’re probably right.”

  CHAPTER 4

  When Mrs. Doyle, Fenimore’s longtime nurse and office manager, came to work Tuesday morning, she thought the office was empty. But as she hung up her jacket and settled down at her desk, she heard strange sounds coming from Dr. Fenimore’s inner office.

  “Oomph! Arg! Oomph! Arg!”

  She went over to the door and knocked gently. “Doctor? Are you all right?”

  Heavy panting, followed by a weak, “Fine.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes, sure.” The voice was stronger and held a peevish note.

  “All right, then.” She went back to her desk and attacked the mound of paperwork that awaited her.

  In a few minutes, the noises resumed. This time they were so agonizing she rushed to the door and shook the doorknob. “Doctor?”

  Deep, heavy panting, followed by two gasped words, “What now?”

  “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  He flung open the door and Mrs. Doyle was confronted by a sight that sent her blood pressure skyrocketing. Her employer stood before her red-faced, wearing nothing but a pair of yellow bathing trunks and brandishing a dumbbell.

  “Oh!” She took a step back.

  “Oh what? Haven’t you ever seen a man in a bathing suit?”

  “Yes. But not you,” she said sharply.

  “I’m getting in shape,” he explained.

  “For what? Your next patient? I hardly think Mrs. Dunwoody—”

  “No, smarty-pants. I’ve rejoined the Windsor Club. I’m going rowing this afternoon.”

  Mrs. Doyle tried to suppress a smile.

  “What’s so funny? You think I’m too old?” He glared at her.

  “Oh no. I was fifty when I took that refresher course in karate, but—”

  “Well, then?”

  “It’s just—so sudden,” she said lamely.

  “You have to start sometime. No time like the present. He who hesitates is lost.”

  “Truer words were never said. Time waits for no man.” Mrs. Doyle matched him homily for homily. “Speaking of which, your next patient is due any minute.”

  “Oh my. I have to shower. Keep her busy, Doyle.” He hurried up the stairs just as Mrs. Dunwoody came in the front door.

  “Was that the doctor?” she asked, her eyes fixed on his retreating naked back.

  “Yes. He was up all night with an emergency. A cardiac arrest at . . . er . . . a swimming pool.”

  Mrs. Dunwoody’s eyes were round. “A swimming pool—in the middle of the night?”

  “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.

  CHAPTER 5

  Fenimore 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.

  CHAPTER 6

  When 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 exhau
stion 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.”