“Weekdays would be no problem. Mrs. Doyle is here from nine to five every day. And, I guess I could ask Jennifer to come at night, and on the weekends.”
“Great idea!” Rafferty chortled.
Ignoring him, Fenimore went on, thinking aloud. “Maybe Mrs. Lopez, Horatio’s mother, could fill in for Jen, if Jen has something else to do.”
“Well, you work it out,” Rafferty said, “and let me know how things go.”
“Right. Thanks, Raff.”
“No problem. Mr. Fix-it, always at your service.”
Even though the solution they had arrived at was only temporary, Fenimore felt relieved.
CHAPTER 20
Although occupied with the arrangements for Tanya’s care, not to mention his medical practice, Fenimore did not forget Chuck. He combed all the recent medical journals for articles on SCD and ICD implants, and consulted a number of his colleagues on the subject to make sure he hadn’t missed some new development in the field. In the end, he was forced to accept the unavoidable conclusion: No one with Chuck’s condition should participate in competitive sports. Period. In other countries, such as Italy and Japan, the government took care of such matters. Every athlete was screened before they were allowed to take part in a sport. If they had a condition such as Chuck’s, they were automatically eliminated from playing by law. Unfortunately, no such law existed in the United States.
After a brief tussle with his conscience, there was no doubt in Fenimore’s mind as to what he should do. He knew he must confront Chuck, one-on-one, face-to-face, and try to convince him to give up the Henley race.
He knew Chuck’s practice schedule—five to seven in the morning, and four to six in the afternoon. Caroline had told him. He decided to waylay his prey in the morning, because he would be less likely to run into Charlie.
Dressed as if going for a row himself, Fenimore set out in his car at six thirty. He planned to arrive at the club after Chuck had showered. He would wait near the entrance and catch him as he was leaving. It was a fine spring morning and Fenimore wished he were going for a row, instead of facing such a painful encounter.
He passed the Lincoln statue on his right and turned into Sedgely Drive. The road was lined with cherry trees—“dressed in white for Eastertide” as Housman so aptly put it. Fenimore preferred to forget the rest of the poem; it dealt with the brevity of life, and depressed him.
There was no parking problem at this hour. He took out the thermos of Gatorade and two plastic cups that he had carefully prepared and laid them on the seat. Then he crossed Kelly Drive to the boathouse. Traffic was still a mere trickle. He passed a few young rowers, who cast him curious glances. I guess they’re wondering what Methuselah is doing up so early, thought Fenimore. He stopped one of them: “Have you seen Chuck Ashburn?”
The youth glanced at his watch. “He’s probably still out. He should be back in about twenty minutes.”
Twenty minutes? Fenimore shivered. He wouldn’t mind the chill if he were rowing, but standing around on the dock in a T-shirt and shorts was another matter. He went inside and was delighted to find a coffeepot and some cups set out on a table. He helped himself. Young men and women came and went around him. None of them seemed interested in either the coffee or him. They had other things on their minds, such as their fitness schedules and the next race. Fenimore sipped the warm brew and planned what he was going to say to Chuck.
Ultimately, as he had told Jennifer, the responsibility for people’s lives rests in their own hands. We are as free to risk our lives as to preserve them. People do so every day. Parachuting, bungee jumping, riding motorcycles and racecars, mountain climbing and spelunking. Some people feel that living on the brink adds zest to life. How was Chuck’s situation any different from theirs?
Yet it was.
But did Fenimore have any right to interfere? Not really. All he could do was present a strong argument for living a full life—having a career, marriage, a family, travel, retirement, hobbies. . . . He caught sight of Chuck at the bottom of the stairs. Chuck saw him at the same moment, and was about to dart up the stairs to the shower room. But Fenimore was too quick for him. “Hey, Chuck!” He stopped him. “Could you spare me a minute?”
The boy looked trapped.
“I have some Gatorade in the car. I’d like to talk to you.”
Slick with sweat from his row, strands of blond hair stuck to his forehead. “Let me shower first,” he said.
Fenimore nodded. But he didn’t leave and go to his car. He hovered near the base of the staircase, in case his prey decided to bolt.
Fifteen minutes later, Chuck reappeared in jeans and a T-shirt, his backpack dangling from one shoulder. He didn’t greet Fenimore, or speak to him on the walk to the car. Traffic had picked up on Kelly Drive and they had to wait for the light.
“Beautiful day.” Fenimore attempted to break the awkward silence.
Chuck nodded. His interest in the weather was zero, Fenimore decided. Once in the car, each clutching a cup of Gatorade, Fenimore opened a window. He felt a desperate need for air before he began. The silence had grown, until it seemed like a third person sitting between them. An obese person.
Fenimore didn’t know how to begin. And he realized the young man beside him was not going to help him. Chuck glanced at his watch. He probably has an eight o’clock class, Fenimore thought. “I can drive you to class.”
“No thanks,” the boy said. “There’s a bus at seven thirty.”
Fenimore looked at the dashboard clock. It read seven fifteen. “You know why I asked you here,” he plunged in.
Chuck stared stoically through the windshield at the cherry trees in full bloom, but Fenimore doubted if he saw them. “I wanted to remind you what a full life has to offer and ask you to rethink the risk you’re taking, if you persist in racing at Henley.” He sounded pompous, even to himself.
The boy continued to stare straight ahead. Fenimore detected no change in his expression. “You were lucky last week. But you may not be so lucky next time.” He felt foolish, as if he were talking to a statue. He forced himself to go on. “Right now, winning at Henley seems like the most important thing in the world. And it is important, of course. It’s a tremendous achievement to have come this far in such a demanding sport. But a long life has much to offer, too—a rewarding career, marriage, children, travel, hobbies. . . .” He wasn’t even making a dent. Suppressing a strong desire to shake the boy, he tried again. “See those cherry trees!” He waved at the trees. “Don’t you want to see them next year? And the year after?” He was shouting. “Look at me, Chuck.”
Reluctantly, the boy turned his head.
“Do you really want to risk your life for a boat race?”
It was as if Fenimore had pressed a button and brought a mannequin to life. Chuck’s face flushed and his eyes blazed. “We all die,” he said. “Remember the Iraqi who risked his life to go to the polls?”
Fenimore nodded.
“When they asked him why he did it, he said, ‘Everybody dies. At least I will have died for something.’ ”
“But that’s different!” Fenimore cried. “He risked his life for a great cause—freedom. You’ll be risking yours for . . . for a cup!”
“No!” For the first time the boy looked Fenimore full in the eyes, and when he spoke he stressed each word: “For being the best I can be.”
Silence filled the car, but this time it wasn’t inert and obese. It was alive and palpitating. Fenimore watched Chuck place his cup of Gatorade, still half-full, in the cup holder—sloshing the liquid because his hand was shaking. He unfolded his legs and eased himself out of the car. Before shutting the door, he leaned in and said, “Thanks for the drink.”
After all, Chuck had gone to the best schools, and he came from one of the best Philadelphia families, you would expect him to have good manners. But, Fenimore asked himself, where had he learned the rest?
CHAPTER 21
Deeply depressed by his failure with Chuck, Fenimore retur
ned to his office. Still wearing his rowing clothes, he decided he might as well do a few push-ups before changing. Maybe the exercise would improve his mood. The office was deserted, except for Sal. The cat observed his calisthenics with a speculative expression before settling down on the windowsill for her morning nap.
After a fifteen-minute workout, Fenimore collapsed in his desk chair, breathing heavily. But he didn’t dare rest long. It was nearly time for his nurse to arrive, and he didn’t want to cause her another conniption fit with his half-naked form. He hurried upstairs to change.
When he reached the second floor, however, he kept going—up to the attic. On an impulse, he wanted to read that poem of Housman’s on cherry trees again. He wanted to refresh his memory of one part. He found the book and quickly flipped through Snyder and Martin to “Loveliest of Trees,” and read the last verse.
And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room.
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow
Perhaps if he had been able to quote that verse to Chuck, verbatim . . . No. He shook his head. It wouldn’t have made any difference. He sighed. The boy had made up his mind.
Fenimore had barely returned to his office, fully dressed, when the phone rang. Mrs. Doyle answered it. “For you, Doctor. A Myra Henderson.” She handed him the receiver.
“How are you, Mrs. Henderson?”
“Myra. Fit as a fiddle. I’m not calling for your medical advice. I need another kind of help.”
“I’d be happy to—”
“The public hearing on the marina is being held at City Hall today. Charlie is getting up a crowd of his cronies to support us. I’m bringing as many Historical Society members as I can dig up, and I wondered if you could bring some people along to swell the crowd.”
“I’ll do my best. When and where do you want them?”
“Two o’clock, in City Hall Courtyard.”
“Oh my. I have a full schedule this afternoon.”
“Can’t you change it? This is important.”
“Why didn’t Charlie call me before?”
“Oh—didn’t you know?”
“Know what?”
“You’re persona non grata.”
“Oh.”
“He’s not speaking to you. He asked me to call you.”
“I see. Well, I’ll try to juggle things. Maybe I can persuade Mrs. Doyle and Horatio to come too.”
“Capital.”
“Capital?”
“That’s what my dear husband, the judge, used to say when he was pleased.”
“Did he say that in court?”
“Mercy, no. They might have thought he was referring to the crime.”
Fenimore suppressed a laugh. Then he said, “Capital! I’ll see you in court . . . er . . . the courtyard.”
When Fenimore told Mrs. Doyle about the protest rally, her eyes lit up. She thought it was a wonderful idea and agreed to help marshal some troops. Although she and her husband had never had any children of their own, Mrs. Doyle came from a huge family full of nieces, nephews, and cousins—first, second, and third, and once, twice, and three times removed. She put in a few calls before the first patient arrived and reported to Fenimore that there would be plenty of people at the hearing. They might not fully understand the cause, but they were warm bodies with strong voices, and that’s what counted at a protest.
Fenimore’s other employee was not as enthusiastic, however. Even though the rally would mean escaping work, he declined to go.
“Why, Rat?”
“ ’Cause I think the marina would be great. They said on TV last night they were gonna have all this cool stuff: movies, video games, a pool—even a skateboard arena!”
Fenimore and Doyle shuddered.
“Well, if that’s the way you feel,” Fenimore said, “you can stay in the office and cover the phone.”
Horatio grunted.
CHAPTER 22
City Hall is a Philadelphia institution. Topped by the figure of the Quaker founder, William Penn, it has occupied the center of the city—where Broad and Market Streets cross—since 1884. This Victorian structure was once ridiculed as a public eyesore, with its cupids and gargoyles, its curlicues and furbelows. But today it is cherished and coddled and cleaned with a fervor unknown in the past.
Fenimore and his entourage (he and Mrs. Doyle had persuaded a half-dozen patients to join them—the less sickly ones) piled into the courtyard through the west side archway, bearing a sign (concocted by Doyle from a piece of cardboard attached to a yardstick) which read:
DOWN WITH MARINA!
UP WITH BOATHOUSE ROW!
As they bustled in, Fenimore caught sight of Charlie, who seemed to have the entire Union League in tow. At least he was surrounded by a large group of men sporting Brooks Brothers suits and regimental striped ties.
Just then, there was a commotion at the north archway, and Mrs. Henderson swept in, flanked by several scholarly young people and a large group of plump, gray-haired dowagers. Spying Fenimore, she came up briskly. “You and Charlie and I must leave this gang and go to the hearing in room thirteen where we can state our case.”
Fenimore passed this news on to his nurse.
“Don’t worry, Doctor,” she assured him. “The Doyles can handle this end of it.” Surrounded by hordes of Irish faces, all bearing a faint resemblance to Mrs. Doyle, Fenimore felt a quiver of alarm—especially when he glimpsed a few of her burly nephews.
“No rough stuff, now,” he warned.
“Saint’s honor.” Mrs. Doyle crossed herself. “Unless they start it,” she muttered to herself. She had caught sight of Newborn, the wily developer whose picture she had seen in The Inquirer. He was waving a much more elegant sign than hers:
BRING THE SCHULKILL
INTO THE 21ST CENTURY!
He had left the y out of Schuylkill, she was happy to see. I’ll bring him into the twenty-first century—feet first, she thought. But she said, “Now run along, Doctor.”
The threesome—Fenimore, Charlie, and Mrs. Henderson—made their way through the throng. Mrs. Henderson occupied the middle spot, acting as a buffer between the two men. Room 13 was packed. Two police officers guarded the door.
“Stand back. No room. You can watch it on TV tonight,” one officer cried. He had never met Mrs. Henderson.
“Young man!” She pounded her cane. “I’m president of the Pennsylvania Historical Society and I have reserved three seats in the front row.”
“ID,” he said curtly.
She promptly pushed her passport under his nose. She had never acquired a driver’s license because she had always employed a chauffeur.
He glanced at it and let her through. She beckoned to Fenimore and Charlie.
“Just a minute. Who are these—?”
“Dr. Charles Ashburn and Dr. Andrew Fenimore, both highly respected physicians at the Pennsylvania Hospital—and friends of mine.”
“IDs,” he repeated, but a little less belligerently.
The two doctors dug out their driver’s licenses.
The officer scanned them and, with a shrug, let them pass.
If Ashburn and Fenimore had been on more friendly terms, they would have shared a laugh over their lady friend’s tactics. As it was, they made their way silently through the congested room to their seats.
The meeting was slow to start, and Fenimore had plenty of time to take in his surroundings. Dingy crystal chandeliers hung from the high ceilings, dusty red carpets covered the floor, mottled green blinds were drawn down tightly over the tall windows, shutting out all natural light. A dais with a heavy mahogany table dominated the front of the room. Behind the table sat a dozen people, men and women in various poses of tension and relaxation—all members of the City Planning Commission. Fenimore wondered which were friends and which were foes. He had barely absorbed all this grimy grandeur, when a bearlike man with a bald pate rose and called the meeting to
order. Mrs. Henderson nudged Fenimore and whispered, “That’s Wormwood, the man we’re after.” She had a mean glint in her eye.
Suddenly, Fenimore relaxed. With this lady on their side they had nothing to worry about.
CHAPTER 23
Commissioner Wormwood opened the hearing by introducing the members of the Planning Commission. First he called on Mariah Grub, a fuzzy-haired woman who looked as if she’d just gotten out of bed and had slept in her clothes. She presented the Commission’s side of the debate. She did so in an irritating mumble, stressing that there was nothing new about commercial establishments on the Schuylkill. As far back as the 1700s there had been numerous inns and taverns lining the river, serving the traditional catfish and waffles, washed down with grog and mint juleps, depending on the season. (Laughter from the audience.)
Jack Newborn, the developer, was called on next. Stocky and electric, he presented his case in a rapid-fire manner, using numerous charts, diagrams, and slides that nobody understood. But he made the point that river traffic was actually much heavier in the old days, when steamboats plied the Schuylkill packed with pleasure seekers and he pointed out how a modern marina would draw people and revenue into the city.
William Ott, the chief architect of the marina, claimed, in a leisurely drawl, that his design would be as great an addition to the riverbank as the Water Works had been in 1815. And he quoted Charles Dickens on that structure: “The Water Works . . . are no less ornamental than useful, being tastefully laid out as a public garden.”
All the promoters of the marina swore that this new development would be a gold-plated asset for Philadelphia, enticing tourists and cash to swell the city’s coffers. When they subsided to faint applause, Commissioner Wormwood opened the hearing to the audience. Mrs. Henderson, despite her arthritic hip, leapt to her feet and began:
“ ‘Schuylkill’ comes from a Dutch word meaning ‘hidden river.’ It was called this because the mouth of the river was hidden from the early settlers by bulrushes. Clear and pure, the river abounded with many varieties of fish, and its banks were populated by all kinds of birds and animals. The Lenape Indians made their homes in caves along the banks, and William Penn paddled up the river in a canoe and praised its beauty. The so-called ‘commercial establishments’ that Mr. Newborn described were quiet country inns, peopled by fishermen and gentry.
The Doctor Rocks the Boat Page 8
