The Doctor Rocks the Boat Read online

  The Doctor

  Rocks the Boat

  ALSO BY ROBIN HATHAWAY

  DOCTOR FENIMORE BOOKS

  The Doctor Dines in Prague

  The Doctor and the Dead Man’s Chest

  The Doctor Makes a Dollhouse Call

  The Doctor Digs a Grave

  DOCTOR JO BANKS BOOKS

  Satan’s Pony

  Scarecrow

  The Doctor

  Rocks the Boat

  Robin Hathaway

  THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS/ST.MARTIN’S MINOTAUR

  NEWYORK

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, places, and events portrayed in this book are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS.

  An imprint of St. Martin’s Press.

  THE DOCTOR ROCKS THE BOAT. Copyright © 2006 by Robin Hathaway. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  www.thomasdunnebooks.com

  www.minotaurbooks.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Hathaway, Robin.

  The doctor rocks the boat / Robin Hathaway.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-312-34993-6

  ISBN-10: 0-312-34993-9

  1. Fenimore, Andrew (Fictitious character)—Fiction.

  2. Physicians—Fiction. 3. Rowing—Fiction. 4. Fathers and sons—Fiction. 5. Congenital heart disease—Fiction. I. Title

  PS3558.A7475 D635 2006

  813'.54—dc22

  2006041715

  First Edition: July 2006

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  To Bob,

  who also rowed, and steered me on the right course

  Smart lad, to slip betimes away

  From fields where glory does not stay,

  And early though the laurel grows

  It withers quicker than the rose.

  —A. E. HOUSMAN, “To an Athlete Dying Young”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Without the help of the following people, this novel would not have been possible:

  Robert Alan Keisman, M.D., a rower while in medical school, who shared his vast knowledge of both rowing and medicine.

  Ruth Cavin, my editor and continual source of inspiration.

  Laura Langlie, my agent and unfailing support.

  Stephanie Patterson, social worker, who supplied insight into the problems of runaways and victims of child abuse.

  Sara Jane Mitchell, whose knowledge of the history of Boathouse Row was very helpful.

  Daniel Albert, a young rower who kindly provided me with current rowing data.

  Julie Miller and Anne Keisman, trusted critics, who—even though close relatives—don’t pull any punches!

  The Doctor

  Rocks the Boat

  CHAPTER 1

  In the early morning light, the Schuylkill River glowed with the luminosity of a pearl.

  As Fenimore gazed from his train window, a dark speck glided onto the still surface. Was it an enterprising oarsman risen early to get in a few practice strokes before a big race? Or an ordinary citizen out for a recreational row? Fenimore had rowed for fun and relaxation when he was an intern, whenever he could fit it in, which wasn’t very often. And his father had done so before him. It was the perfect antidote to the hectic rush of medical school. He remembered the bliss of rowing in a singles shell for all he was worth, then resting, raising his oars, and listening to the solitary blip . . . blip . . . blip of the water dripping off his oars into the river—as if it were the only sound on earth. Was there anything more peaceful than that? After a row, he would return to the chaos of the hospital feeling refreshed and ready to go.

  Why had he stopped rowing? Why had he given up something he had enjoyed so much? Had life become that busy? Or was this just an excuse for pure, unadulterated sloth? Was life really worth living if you couldn’t spend a few hours a week doing something you really loved? Nonsense. It was just a matter of discipline. He would stop by the Windsor Boat Club and renew his membership next week. As soon as he got back from this cardiology conference. He’d be damned if he’d lead a life of quiet desperation, like Thoreau described, with no joy in it. With the air of someone who has made an important decision, Fenimore shook open his Inquirer and began to read what evils the world had concocted while he was asleep.

  On Monday, true to his word, Fenimore left the office earlier than usual and took a cab to Kelly Drive. The city was especially beautiful that spring afternoon. The cherry blossoms were in full bloom. And a haze of new green leaves, the color of pistachio ice cream, softened the trees along the Benjamin Franklin Parkway.

  “Beautiful day,” Fenimore ventured to the driver.

  “Uh-huh” was his enthusiastic reply.

  As the cab approached Boathouse Row, Fenimore’s blood quickened. The sight of all those scantily clad young people jogging, biking, and Rollerblading along the river reminded him of his youth. Hell, Fenimore, you aren’t that old! “Stop here, please,” he told the cabbie.

  The driver pulled over and stopped next to the Lincoln statue, which had been moved recently, Fenimore noted. It used to be in the center of Kelly Drive; now it was on the grass, over to one side. Where had he been when all this was going on? Shut up in your stuffy office on Spruce Street, he answered himself. He paid the cabbie and leapt out. “Keep the change!” he yelled and slammed the door with the vigor of a twenty-year-old.

  While Fenimore waited for the traffic light to change—That’s new too, he realized—he admired the row of elegant boathouses that lined the drive. They had always reminded him of a bunch of cheerful Victorian aunts. The one he was headed for had a peaked roof, brown shingles, a red door, and red trim. The Windsor Club had housed rowers and shells for more than 150 years. The Schuylkill Navy had been founded around 1860, he remembered, and except for a brief break during World War II, had been going strong ever since. His father had rowed at the Vesper Club before him. Not in competition, just for recreation. But when it came time for Fenimore to row, there was no place vacant at the Vesper Club, so he had joined the Windsor. The story of how his father began to row had become a family legend.

  When Dr. Fenimore Sr. had been a resident at the Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania, or HUP, as it is more commonly called, he had lived in a stuffy rented room on a top floor. One sultry summer day, in search of a breeze, he had walked over to the river—and watched the rowers with envy. They had looked so cool and serene, despite the heat of the day, slicing calmly through the water.

  On an impulse his father had knocked on the door of the first boathouse he came to. The Vesper Club. A handsome young man in shorts and nothing else threw open the door and said with an engaging grin, “Can I help you?”

  Fenimore’s father stared speechless for a moment as he recognized his greeter—the famous rower Jack Kelly Jr. “Uh . . . I was just wondering if . . . er . . . you ever rented shells to ordinary people?” he stuttered.

  “Sure. What did you have in mind?” Kelly’s blue eyes were so friendly and his manner so welcoming, Fenimore’s father blurted his request: “I’m a resident over at HUP and things get pretty hectic. I just thought it would be nice to go out on the river—away from all the turmoil—maybe once or twice a week.”

  “Terrific idea.” Again, that big grin. “When would you like to start?”

  “Well, you better tell me what it costs first,” his father said. “Y
ou see, residents don’t get paid much and—”

  “Ten dollars.”

  His father’s face fell. Ten dollars a row, in the 1950s, was much more than a resident could afford.

  Seeing his expression, Kelly said quickly, “That’s the fee for a year’s membership. You can row as often as you like. Unless there’s a race going on, of course,” he added half-apologetically.

  His father was so stunned he could think of nothing to say.

  “Come on in, I’ll show you around.” And the winner of the Diamond Sculls, that prestigious rowing award presented at Henley each year, treated Fenimore’s father to a tour of the boathouse—in all its sweaty glory. He was showed the gleaming wooden shells, stored in their racks. They were all wood in those days. Carbo-fiber shells had yet to make their appearance. And the oars, standing in rows, like soldiers along the wall. He let down a singles shell and demonstrated to Dr. Fenimore Sr. how to launch it, and even assigned him a locker for his own use. As a result of that one impulse, his father rowed for more than twenty years, and introduced his son to the same pleasure when he was in medical school. There was one pleasure he couldn’t share with his son, however. One day when his father had finished a row, there was a beautiful young woman, wearing a dress the color of apricots, standing on the dock. She was surrounded by young male admirers. When his father stepped onto the dock in a pair of skimpy shorts and nothing else, she turned. He stopped dead and stared. In those days, women were a rare sight at the boathouses.

  Grace Kelly sent him a dazzling smile.

  CHAPTER 2

  Fenimore made his way through the throng of youths jogging in front of the Windsor Club and knocked on the door.

  “Yes?” A heavyset man with a flushed face opened it. The face was familiar. Charlie Ashburn. An older fraternity brother from medical school, now an orthopedic surgeon at HUP, and a former rower of some skill. “Fenimore? For God’s sake, where did you pop up from?”

  “Hi, Charlie. I was just walking by and thought I’d try to renew my membership. Spring fever, I guess,” he murmured.

  “Come in. Come in. I’ll sign you up.” Charlie led him into an office that bore no resemblance to the one Fenimore remembered from earlier days—a cubbyhole under the stairs with a cluttered desk and a scruffy swivel chair. This office was spacious and air-conditioned, and the surface of the chrome desk was empty except for a miniature bronze replica of the Kelly statue—the original of which occupied a prominent place on Kelly Drive.

  Ashburn unlocked the desk drawer and drew out a freshly minted application and a pen. “Sit right down and fill it out before you change your mind,” he urged.

  Fenimore scanned the sheet. The cost of membership had gone up, but it was still a bargain. Fenimore filled out the form quickly and wrote a check. He handed it to Charlie.

  Once the business was over, Charlie insisted on showing Fenimore around the club. “There’ve been a lot of improvements since your day, Fenimore.” The upstairs, formerly a warren of lockers and furnished with a wooden bench or two, had been transformed into a grand ballroom for such functions as cocktail parties, wedding receptions, etc. “The revenue from renting space for these affairs helps keep dues down and the club afloat,” Charlie told him. During the tour Fenimore tried to remember when he had last seen Ashburn. One year ago—or was it two?—at the Penn-Princeton football game. Afterward, back at the frat house, Charlie and his expensively clad wife had drunk too much and made snide remarks, not too discreetly, about some of the newer fraternity members. A few of the new recruits weren’t up to the standards of their day, it seemed. Jennifer, Fenimore’s constant companion, had also fallen under their scrutiny and failed their fashion test. She had committed the sin of not changing the sneakers and socks that she had worn to the game for the cocktail party. Most of the women had changed into panty hose and heels. “I could feel Caroline Ashburn’s laser gaze searing my feet,” she told Fenimore later.

  “My son is starting as first stroke in the Ivy League Regatta this month,” Ashburn told Fenimore proudly. They had paused in front of a wall of framed photographs of rowers from former days. Charlie pointed to a photo of a young man who looked as if he were in the last throes of cardiac arrest. “That’s Chuck last year, after we won the Singles,” Charlie said. “If he wins this year, he’ll go to Henley.”

  “Congratulations.” Fenimore remembered that Charlie had stopped rowing while still an undergraduate, although he had been an exceptional oarsman. Some health problem, he remembered vaguely. Charlie had been a patient of Fenimore’s father at that time, and Fenimore remembered his father saying that he’d never seen a young man more devastated. He’d had his heart set on going to the Henley Regatta in England and winning the Diamond Sculls, one of the most coveted awards in rowing. Fenimore looked more closely at the picture of Charlie’s son. His face was pallid and drained. Fenimore—renowned for his sixth sense in health matters—wondered if the boy’s exhaustion was due to something more than the race.

  Once Charlie started on his son, he couldn’t stop. For the remainder of the tour, Fenimore heard every detail of every race Chuck had won. One thing Fenimore noticed was Charlie’s recurring use of the word “we.” He never said, “Chuck won that one.” It was always, “We took that easily.” Or, “That was a close one, but we did it.”

  While they were touring the upper level, Charlie heard someone enter the boathouse down below. He excused himself and went to see who it was. Shortly afterward, Fenimore heard voices raised in anger and a door slam. When Charlie came back, he was red-faced and puffing with indignation. “Would you believe? Some developer wants to ‘reinvent’ Kelly Drive,” he said. “Get rid of the boathouses and turn this land into a modern marina!”

  Fenimore was as outraged as Charlie. “Can they do that?” he asked. “Can’t this site be registered as a historic landmark or something?”

  “We’re working on it,” he said, frowning darkly. “But it isn’t settled yet.”

  When Charlie had recovered, he drew Fenimore’s attention to a shell stored high above the others. The Zephyr was the faded name on its bow. “Remember that?” he asked Fenimore. He did. Built before World War II of special woods imported from the Pacific Islands, it was the lightest shell in the club, and, for that reason, the most difficult to handle. Special oars had been custom made for The Zephyr—known as The Zephyr Pair. They were lighter than the others. Only the most skilled rowers were allowed to use this shell. “It should be called The Ashburn,” Charlie said proudly. “It weighs only twenty-eight pounds—and Chuck’s the only one who can handle her. He keeps his weight under one hundred and thirty and uses her for his singles races.”

  Not far from The Zephyr was a shell called The Folly. This had been Fenimore’s favorite shell, and his father’s before him. He was happy to see that it was still there. He couldn’t wait to take it out, but it was too late today.

  As they descended the broad staircase that had replaced the narrow, creaky one Fenimore remembered, he caught a glimpse of the river through the open doors.

  “Like to see the view?” Without waiting for an answer, Charlie drew him out on the dock.

  The smell of the river mixed with the scent of everything newly born—trees, grass, flowers—overwhelmed Fenimore. For a moment he forgot the ugly threats of the developer. The scents of spring don’t move only the young. They have an even stronger effect on the middle-aged—stirring up waves of nostalgia for springs past as well as unleashing promises for the future. Fenimore couldn’t wait to hit the water. If Ashburn hadn’t been there he would have taken out a shell then and there.

  “Quite a sight,” Fenimore said, looking downriver, past the Water Works, toward the waterfall and the Philadelphia skyline beyond. He had always loved the skyline, and it seemed to grow better with the years. Although on a smaller scale, the tableau was almost equal to Manhattan’s. At this time of day, the sun turned the sandy walls of that Greek edifice—the Art Museum—a dusky gold, the spare R
ouse Building became a glittering column of silver, and City Hall took on the more subdued luster of an old pewter teapot.

  “This was my favorite rowing time,” Charlie said. “Then I’d come home and mix up a batch of martinis. Felt like I’d earned them after all that exercise.”

  “Dawn was my favorite time to row,” Fenimore said. “Always got my day off to a good start.”

  Charlie glanced at his watch. “Say, the sun’s over the yardarm. What d’ya say we run over to the league for a drink?”

  Fenimore knew he was referring to the Union League, that prestigious club formed by Republicans during the Civil War.

  “Thanks, Charlie, but I’ll have to take a rain check. I have a date.”

  “Still single, eh?” Ashburn sent him a look tinged with envy.

  Fenimore nodded, anxious to get away now. He hoped Charlie wasn’t going to be the fly in the ointment of his future rowing plans. But he was pretty sure he would be long gone before Charlie showed his face at the Windsor Club. Dawn wasn’t Charlie’s thing.

  It was such a beautiful evening, Fenimore decided to walk home. But as he strode down the Parkway, he couldn’t get Charlie out of his mind. What was the health problem that had stopped him from rowing competitively? He had been his father’s patient at that time—maybe his old records were still in the office. Fenimore had never gotten around to throwing out his father’s files. Or, rather, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. It would be like throwing his father out of his own office. He would look it up when he got back. He felt the new Windsor locker key in his pocket and stopped thinking about Charlie. Instead, he thought of gliding alone over the water in the early morning light, like the oarsman in that famous painting by Thomas Eakins. What was his name? Max Schmitt.