The Doctor Rocks the Boat by Robin Hathaway Page B

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!
    Dr. Burton was nondescript. Middle-height, middle-weight, middle-aged. His face had no distinguishing features. Everything could have been store-bought from the same manufacturer—eyes, nose, mouth—and attached with machinelike precision. The label on the box— WHITE, MIDDLE CLASS, PROFESSIONAL, MALE . Hismanner was as familiar to Fenimore as an old pair of bedroom slippers. Patronizing, with a twist of bounce, and as much pizzazz as a goldfish. *
    â€œWell, Doctor, what brings you to the boondocks from that sacred medical citadel—Philadelphia?” Burton asked.
    â€œYou come highly recommended,” Fenimore said, smiling fatuously.
    â€œBy whom?”
    â€œUh . . . a friend.” Fenimore rushed on. “I’m thinking of taking up rowing again and thought I’d better get my ticker checked out.”
    â€œI see.” He examined the electrocardiogram his nurse had taken earlier and compared it to an older one Fenimore had brought with him. “Everything looks normal for someone your age,” he said. “I don’t see any reason why you shouldn’t row, as long as it’s just recreation.”
    â€œYou can count on that. I’m not about to compete for the Diamond Sculls.” Fenimore forced a laugh.
    The doctor pressed his icy stethoscope against Fenimore’s chest, then his back, listening intently. When he was finished, he said, “Actually, a friend of mine has a son who’s trying for Henley. Maybe you know him. He was at Penn around your time. Charlie Ashburn?”
    â€œThe name’s familiar,” Fenimore mumbled.
    â€œAs for me, I don’t go in for those old-fashioned sports,” Burton said. “Give me a motor boat with plenty of horsepower.”
    â€œUm” was all Fenimore could muster as the doctor felt his groin and shot a finger up his rectum.
    Removing his latex gloves, Dr. Burton tossed them into the nearby wastebasket and made a notation on Fenimore’s chart. “Wouldn’t hurt to have a colonoscopy,” he said perfunctorily. “A good precaution at your age.”
    * Apologies to all goldfish advocates.
    Fenimore nodded and immediately blocked on the suggestion. Like most doctors, he avoided medical examinations wheneverpossible—unless he needed information for an investigation, such as now. He shivered on the examining table and eyed his clothes yearningly where they hung from a hook on the back of the door.
    Burton continued, “I try to get down to the Mother Church for those Saturday afternoon lectures. When you live in the boonies it’s important to make an effort to keep up,” he added piously. (“Mother Church” was some alums’ fond nickname for the Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania.)
    Fenimore nodded, keeping his teeth tightly clenched to prevent their chattering.
    â€œI think you’re in good shape,” Burton said at last. “I’ll send you a report when the lab tests come back.” He stuck out his hand.
    â€œThank you, Doctor,” Fenimore shook the proffered hand fervently, thankful that the session had come to an end.
    â€œBy the way . . .”
    Fenimore groaned inwardly.
    â€œ. . . what was your frat at HUP?”
    â€œAMPO,” Fenimore uttered the name quickly, hoping to close the