The Doctor Rocks the Boat (6 page)

Fenimore checked his watch. 3:10. He kept the motor running and turned on the radio. The dial was set to FM. He switched to AM to see if he could catch the Phillies game. They were playing the Mets today. Five to one. Phillies. He thought of his friend Rafferty. The police detective and the Phillies were like Siamese twins. You couldn't think of one without the other. He hadn't seen Raff for a while. He should give him a call.

A bunch of noisy boys and girls, horsing around, passed the car, but no Horatio. Where was that kid? Kept after school for some misdemeanor? Fenimore remembered a time when throwing spitballs was the worst offense you could commit in school. Today, they were lucky if they came home alive.

Then he saw him. A black ghost swinging around the corner on yellow crutches. He always wore black. Fenimore had never seen him wear anything else. Black T-shirt, black cargo pants, black sneakers. Even his accessories were black. Black backpack, black baseball cap, turned backward.

“Yo, Doc!” He deftly switched one crutch to his left hand, opened the car door with his right, shed his backpack, tossed his crutches into the backseat, and slipped into the passenger seat—all in, what seemed to Fenimore, one fluid motion. Not for the
first time, Fenimore realized the boy was endowed with the grace of a natural athlete, and he began to entertain thoughts of turning him into a competitive rower. But not today. Plenty of time for that.

“Sorry I'm late. Had to see a friend.”

Now there was an evasive explanation if ever there was one. Maybe Mrs. Lopez did have grounds for worry. “How's the ankle?”

“Good. Soon I'll be surfing again.”

Fenimore let that go. He had the remedy, but all in good time. “Mrs. Doyle has really missed you,” he said as he pulled out into Porter Street.

“Missed my filing, you mean.”

“Well . . . that too.”

“How is the old b—” He caught himself.

“Right as rain.” Fenimore found Broad Street and joined the flow of traffic north, toward City Hall. During the ride, he became conscious of his companion's unusual silence. “Everything okay at school?” he asked.

“Uh-huh.”

It wasn't Fenimore's style to force people to talk, but he decided to risk one more question. “Something bothering you?”

“No, man.” Irritably.

Fenimore glanced at him. The boy was staring straight ahead, his mouth set in a grim line. Fenimore asked no more, but he felt uneasy. He resolved to keep an eye on him. When they reached Fenimore's house, the boy got out, retrieved his crutches and backpack, and swiftly mounted the marble steps. Mrs. Doyle must have been watching for him because she opened the door right away. She wore an uncharacteristic welcoming smile.

Fenimore went in search of a parking space.

F
enimore found a spot for his car on the other side of Broad Street. But instead of going back to the office, he decided to drop by the police administration building to see his old friend Dan Rafferty. Besides wanting to catch up with the detective, he had a question for him.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in!” Rafferty raised his shaggy head from a daunting pile of paper and grinned at Fenimore.

The detective's office was shabby and stuffy, but he had a spectacular view of Independence Hall and the never-ending stream of antlike tourists prowling around outside. Rafferty had long ago ceased to notice his view, but his visitors were always awed by it.

This office with the view had been part of the lure the police department brass had used to get Rafferty off the street when he reached forty-five. The detective wasn't fooled by the view or the new title of “Inspector” they bestowed on him, but he knew his stamina and reflexes weren't what they used to be, and he had grudgingly acquiesced.

The only evidence of the detective's private life was a family photo, pushed to one side of his desk to make room for the mass of files that covered it. The photo was old. The cherubic tykes
smiling from the frame were now sullen teenagers, and their mother, Mary, had put on a few pounds and acquired some gray hair.

“To what do I owe this rare pleasure?”

“Shut up, Raff. I know it's been awhile. But it looks like you haven't been exactly idle either.” Fenimore waved at the cluttered desk.

Rafferty grunted. “Wish I were back on the street. Thought computers were supposed to get rid of paper. All they do is make more of it. . . .”

This familiar refrain had become a ritual with Rafferty. Fenimore had learned to let it run its course before trying to get his friend's attention. “How 'bout those Phils,” Fenimore finally broke in.

“Yeah. Did you see them today? Beat the hell out of the Mets. Five to one.”

“Yeah, I heard.” Fenimore pulled a chair up to the desk and sat down.

“What's on your mind?” At last the detective had run out of complaints.

“Just a minor legal question.”

Rafferty was instantly alert. He knew his friend's predilection for dabbling in detective work. He heartily disapproved, but found it interesting all the same.

“What would the penalty be for a doctor caught rifling through another doctor's case files? Not lifting anything, mind you. Just taking a peek.”

Rafferty scratched his head. “Depends on the other doctor. If he brushes it off, you're home free. If he decides to press charges, you could be in deep trouble—a stiff fine, or even a prison sentence.”

“Hmm. Not to mention what the AMA ethics committee would do to me . . . er . . . him,” Fenimore grumbled.

“Mincemeat,” Rafferty said. He looked at him quizzically. “What are you up to, Fenimore?”

“Just a little detective work.” He told him about Chuck Ashburn.

“Isn't there some other way you could get a look at his file? Make up a story that you're doing a study on SCD in athletes, and you need data.”

Fenimore thought about this and shook his head. “Wouldn't work. He'd be sure to tell Charlie and he'd know what I was up to.”

“Well, I sure wouldn't risk my whole career on such a venture.” Rafferty looked stern.

“How's the family?” Fenimore asked, to change the subject.

“Terrific. Dan Jr.'s flunking algebra. Molly's in love with a high school dropout. Mikey wants to be a racecar driver when he grows up. And Mary's sorry she didn't take the veil.”

“Status quo.”

“Right.” He laughed. “I can't wait 'til
you
tie the knot. How's Jennifer?”

“Fine.” Fenimore was amazed to find himself blushing.

“Still hangin' in there? Well, watch yourself, Doc. She won't stick around forever. How long you been goin' together?”

Fenimore shrugged. “Three or four years.”

“See—you don't even know. Bad sign.”

“I'd better get back to the office.” Fenimore was anxious to end the conversation.

“Let's make a date at the Raven real soon,” Rafferty said.

“You bet.” Fenimore hurried away.

F
enimore returned to his office and a placid scene: his nurse/office manager busily typing, with a cup of tea at her side; his office assistant busily filing, his iPod firmly attached to his ears; his cat sleeping peacefully on the windowsill, with her paws tucked under her chin. All was right with the world—except for that small nagging doubt Rafferty had planted in his mind about Jennifer. He entered his inner office and gave her a call.

“Nicholson's Books,” her familiar voice answered.

“I'd like a copy of
Gone with the Wind
in Serbo-Croatian.”

“Sorry. We just had a run on that and sold our last copy.”

“Pshaw! And I wanted to give it to my mother-in-law for her birthday.”

“Well, we have
Wuthering Heights
in Farsi.”

“Oh no. She's afraid of heights.”

“Then how about
Notes from the Underground
in Russian?”

“Hmm. Let me think about it.”

Jennifer cut short the banter. “What's up?”

“Could you take a drive to the Poconos with me tomorrow?”

“What's in the Poconos?”

“Mountains, lakes, pine trees—”

“I mean, why are you going there?”

“For a physical checkup.”

“What's wrong?” Her voice was sharp with anxiety.

Feeling guilty, but also gratified, he said, “Nothing. Just routine. But it would be nice to have company.” He paused. “We could make a night of it. It should be pretty this time of year. I've got the name of a B & B,” he said hopefully.

“Why not? I have a helper coming in tomorrow. Dad won't have to cover the shop alone. What time is your exam?”

“Two o'clock. I'll pick you up at eleven.” He hung up before she could change her mind.

The ride to the Poconos was uneventful. Except for an occasional forsythia bush in bloom and the pale green haze in the treetops where budding leaves were beginning to show, spring was coyly hiding her charms. And the farther north they drove, the more bashful she became.

“We're about a week too early,” Fenimore said.

“Oh no. I like early spring. I'll bet if we took a walk in the woods we'd see the skunk cabbage poking up.”

He glanced at his companion in amazement. “What do you know about skunk cabbage? I thought you were a city girl.”

“Not always. My grandfather had a farm in Lancaster County. He knew all about nature. When I was little he used to take me for long walks in the woods.”

“Hmm. That's the first time I've heard of that.”

“There are lots of things you haven't heard of.”

He gave her a sidewise look. Had he detected a note of bitterness?

They rode in silence until Jennifer spied a sign. “Pine Lake. Five miles,” she read.

Fenimore glanced at the clock on the dashboard. One thirty. They'd made good time. They had been climbing a winding, wooded road for several miles, and Fenimore's ears were popping. As they neared the crest, the road emerged from the woods into
an open space with a view of the mountains. A gentle haze encircled their blue caps.

“Nice,” murmured Jennifer.

“Uh-huh.” Fenimore reached for her hand and pressed it.

With a smile she returned the pressure.

Perhaps he
had
been taking her for granted lately. He would make up for it in the future. “I'm glad you came,” he said.

Spring may have been hiding her face, but her scents were strong as they stepped out of the car. The air was pungent with the smell of growing things.

“The last thing I want to do is go see a doctor,” Fenimore grumbled.

“As soon as you're done we'll go for a walk,” Jennifer promised. “And I'll teach you about the birds and the flowers—”

“What about the bees?” He cast her a lascivious look.

“Come on.” She grabbed his hand. “Let's get this over with.”

T
he receptionist did not look as perky as she had sounded. And she was older. About sixty. She ordered Fenimore to the back recesses of the office and told him to get undressed. Jennifer took a seat in the waiting room and tried to concentrate on an article on fly-fishing in
Field & Stream.

While waiting for Dr. Burton to make his appearance, Fenimore, clad in only a hospital gown, shivered and tried to read
Time
with a picture of Saddam Hussein on the cover. Was there some secret medical code requiring outdated magazines and Arctic temperatures in examining rooms? If there was, he and Doyle didn't abide by it. Their examining room was toasty warm and their magazines were hot off the press (well, mostly). Another part of the code was to keep the patient waiting for at least twenty minutes so he could work up a good case of nerves and high blood pressure before seeing the doctor. After all, it would be such a waste if the doctor found nothing wrong with the patient.

Fenimore, although feeling fit as a fiddle when he arrived, now suffered from symptoms ranging from headache to shortness of breath to rapid heartbeat. Of course, this could be the onset of hypothermia. He glanced at his watch. Only five minutes had passed.
By the code, he still had fifteen minutes to go. Now would be a good time to snatch a peek at the Ashburn file. (Besides, it might be warmer in the file room. It was important to keep all those medical records comfortable.) He slid off the examining table and opened the door a crack. He had seen a nurse enter a room across the hall, carrying a pile of manila folders. After glancing up and down the hall, he padded barefoot to the door and tried the knob. It turned. He ducked inside. It
was
warmer here. Quite comfortable, in fact. His teeth even stopped chattering. He scanned the filing cabinets that lined the walls. All were labeled
PATIENT FILES
. Fortunately, the habit of computer filing had not reached this rural, upstate neighborhood. Each drawer was labeled alphabetically. The top drawer of the first cabinet read
A–C
. Cautiously, he pulled it out. Locating the Ashburn file easily, he was leafing through it when he heard footsteps in the hall.

“Dr. Fenimore?” The nurse was looking for him.

He had replaced the file and shut the drawer before the door opened. The nurse stared at him.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, “I was looking for the bathroom.”

The nurse's eyes narrowed. “At the other end of the hall, on your right,” she said shortly.

As he slid past her, she added, “When you're finished, the doctor is waiting for you.”

Let him wait,
thought Fenimore,
and may he freeze his buns off!

Once inside the bathroom, Fenimore leaned his head against the cool tile wall. He had worked up quite a sweat in the file room. But it had been worth it. He reviewed what he had learned. Chuck suffered from SCD, just like his father. Not only that, but he had
received a defibrillator implant at Pine Lake Hospital a year ago!