Free The Doctor Rocks the Boat by Robin Hathaway Page B

shell—
The Zephyr
—that was tied to the wharf below him. He seemed to be in deep contemplation. Fenimore wondered if he practiced yoga. So many young people did today. Not a bad way to get your nerves in order. He even recommended it to some of his patients. He hated to disturb him, but—“Chuck!”
    The boy looked around.
    â€œCould I speak to you for a minute?”
    â€œIt’s almost race time.” Polite, but resolute.
    â€œIt’s very important. I’ve talked to Dr. Burton. . . .”
    Chuck came alive. He scrambled down to the wharf, grabbed his oars, and settled into his shell.
    â€œWait!” Fenimore scurried down the bank, slipping and sliding in his oxfords.
    Chuck dipped his oars and pulled swiftly away from the dock.
    Fenimore looked after him and his heart sank like one of those leaden stones by the river’s edge. Turning his back on the river, he went in search of the groundskeeper to cadge a ride to the grandstand. All he could do now was watch the race—and its finish.
    When he arrived at the finish line, the race was just about to begin. The Ashburn party had deserted their picnic site and moved down to the water’s edge to gain a better view. Fenimore hurried to join them. Caroline saw him, but there was no way she could leave Charlie at such a crucial moment. Fenimore shook his head, to let her know he had failed. Slowly she turned back to the river. Fenimore followed her gaze. The two singles shells were mere fly-specks on the water. It was impossible to tell which one was in the lead. He scanned the bank for the Walshes, to no avail. They would be easy to spot. There were next to no African Americans in this crowd. Rowing was still primarily a white sport, the way basketball was a black one. But this was changing. He had readsomewhere that public high schools were introducing rowing into their curriculum and he had noticed shells for rent—to the public—near the Water Works.
    The attention of the crowd was frozen on the rowers—two dark specks upriver. Fenimore could just make out the numbers on their shirts: Chuck’s six and Hank’s twenty-two. That was the frustrating thing about regattas. You couldn’t watch the whole race at once. You could watch the beginning, the middle, or the end, depending on where you were situated. Most people opted for the excitement of the finish line.
    As the two shells sped closer the crowd grew quieter. But as they drew abreast, and were neck and neck, a sound rose from the riverbank like the roar of a cataract. Fenimore stared intently at number six. Chuck’s face was distorted beyond recognition by the enormity of his effort. Fenimore closed his eyes and prayed. Not for the boy’s victory. For his survival.
    An eerie hush fell. They must be nearing the finish line. Fenimore opened his eyes in time to see Chuck spurt over the line—a fraction of a second ahead of Hank.
    He glanced to his left, where the Ashburns were standing. Charlie, red-faced, was screaming, stamping, and pounding his fist into his palm. Caroline, white and stiff, seemed to be still holding her breath. Friends of the Ashburns began crowding around them. The women squealing, the men alternately pumping Charlie’s hand and pounding him on the back. Fenimore’s gaze switched back to the oarsmen. They had continued to row a few lengths, lessening their pace gradually, as they had been taught. Then they raised their oars from the water, drifted to a halt, and slumped in their seats.
    Hank recovered first. Fenimore saw him lift his hand and make a
V
sign to Chuck. Fenimore held his breath, until he saw Chuck slowly raise his hand in acknowledgment.
    â€œAndrew!” Caroline had extricated herself from her ebullient guests and was making her way toward him. Her first words to him were, “He’ll go to Henley now.”
    Fenimore nodded. “Congratulations,” he murmured.
    She stood,