By five-thirty Phyllis was as satisfied as she’d be, the movers’ cartons and sisal removed to the back of the house, the kitchen in order; and Pam came downstairs announcing that the beds were made—her brother’s in a way she hoped he’d appreciate.
«If your IQ was one point lower, you’d be a plant,» was Steve’s only comment.
The original owner of Monticellino—or, as he was referred to without much affection, him—had installed one desirable appliance in the kitchen: a char-broil grate. The collective decision was reached for Andrew to drive into Tawning Spring, find a butcher shop, and come back with the largest sirloin steak he could buy. Trevayne thought it was a fine idea; he’d stop and chat with the 1600 Patrol on the way.
He did so. And not to his surprise but to his liking, he saw beneath the dashboard of the government automobile, the largest, most complicated assortment of radio dials he could imagine in one vehicle outside of a spacecraft.
That was fine, too.
The original owner’s char-broil grate had one disadvantage: it smoked up most of the downstairs. As this required multiple windows to be opened, Trevayne remembered the rug switch to the guest-house panel, stepped on it, and loudly—if inexplicably to the children—complained redundantly about him and his char-broil fiasco.
«You know, Mom,» said Steven Trevayne, watching his father open and close the front door, fanning the not currently overpowering smoke, «I think you’d better get him back on a sailboat. Dry land does something to his lobotomy.»
«I think you’d better feed him, Mother,» added Pam. «What did you say? He’s been here for three weeks with no food.»
Trevayne saw his wife and children laughing and realized the apparent ridiculousness of his actions, vocal and physical. «Be quiet or I’ll cancel your subscriptions to Child Life.»
The outsized steak was good, but no more than that. Several other decisions were made concerning the butcher shop and his char-broil grate. Pam and Phyllis brought on the coffee as Steve and Andy carried off the remaining dishes.
«I wonder how Lillian’s doing?» asked Pam. «Up there all by herself.»
«That’s the way she likes it,» said Steve, pouring a half-cup of heavy cream into his coffee. «Anyway, she can tell off the gardening service. She says Mom’s too easy with them.»
«I’m not easy or hard. I rarely see them.»
«Lillian thinks you should look. Remember?» Steve turned to his sister. «She told us when we drove her into town last month that she didn’t like the way they kept changing the crews. There was too much time wasted explaining, and the rock gardens were always loused up. She’s a regular Louis the Fourteenth.»
Andrew suddenly but unobtrusively looked up at his son. It was a small thing, if anything, but it caught his attention. Why had the gardening service changed personnel? It was a family business, and as the family was Italian and large, there was never any dearth of employees. At one time or another they’d all worked the grounds of Barnegat. He’d look into the gardening service; he’d make some inquiries into the Aiello Landscapers. He would dismiss them.
«Lillian’s protective,» he said, backing off the subject. «We should be grateful.»
«We are. Continuously,» replied Phyllis.
«How’s your committee coming, Dad?» Steve added some coffee to his heavy cream.
«Subcommittee, not committee; the difference is significant only in Washington. We’ve got most of the staff together now. The offices are in shape. Incidentally, very few beer breaks.»
«Unenlightened management, probably.»
«Positively.» Andy nodded.
«When do you start blasting?» asked the son.
«Blasting? Where did you pick up that word?»
«Saturday morning cartoons,» interjected Pam.
«Your father means relative to him,» said Phyllis, watching her husband’s concerned look.
«Well, aren’t you going to out-Nader the raiders?» Steve smiled without much humor.
«Our functions are different.»
«Oh? How so, Dad?»
«Ralph Nader’s concerned with overall consumer problems. We’re interested in specific contractual obligations pertaining to government agreements. There’s a big difference.»
«Same people,» said the son.
«Not necessarily.»
«Mostly,» added the daughter.
«Not really.»
«You’re qualifying.» Steve drank from his cup, his eyes on his father. «That means you’re not sure.»
«He probably hasn’t had the time to find out, Steve,» said Phyllis. «I don’t think that’s ‘qualifying’ anything.»
«Of course it is, Phyl. A legitimate qualification. We’re not sure. And whether they’re the same people Nader’s gone after or different people, that’s not the issue. We’re dealing in specific abuses.»
«It’s all part of the larger picture,» said Steve. «The vested interests.»
«Now hold it a minute.» Trevayne poured himself more coffee. «I’m not sure of your definition of ‘vested interests,’ but I assume you mean ‘well-financed.’ Okay?»
«Okay.»
«Heavy financing has brought about a lot of decent things. Medical research, I’d put first; then advanced technology in agriculture, construction, transportation. The results of these heavily financed projects help everyone. Health, food, shelter; vested interests can make enormous contributions. Isn’t that valid?»
«Of course. When making contributions has something to do with it. And not just a by-product of making money.»
«Your argument’s with the profit motive, then?»
«Partially, yes.»
«It’s proved pretty viable. Especially when compared to other systems. The competition’s built in; that makes more things available to more people.»
«Don’t mistake me,» said the son. «No one’s against the profit motive as such, Dad. Just when it becomes the only motive.»
«I understand that,» Andrew said. He knew he felt it deeply himself.
«Are you sure you do, Dad?»
«You don’t believe I can?»
«I want to believe you. It’s nice to read what reporters and people like that say about you. It’s a good feeling, you know?»
«Then what prevents you?» asked Phyllis.
«I don’t know, exactly. I guess I’d feel better if Dad was angry. Or angrier, maybe.»
Andrew and Phyllis exchanged glances. Phyllis spoke quickly.
«Anger’s not a solution, darling. It’s a state of mind.»
«It’s not very constructive, Steve,» added Trevayne lamely.
«But, Jesus! It’s a starting point, Dad. I mean, you can do something. That’s heavy; that’s a real opportunity. But you’ll blow it if you’re hung up on ‘specific abuses.’»
«Why? Those are actual starting points.»
«No, they’re not! They’re the sort of things that clog up the drains. By the time you get finished arguing every little point, you’re drowning in a sewer. You’re up to your neck—»
«It’s not necessary to complete the analogy,» interrupted Phyllis.
«… in a thousand extraneous facts that high-powered law firms delay in the courts.»
«I think, if I understand you,» said Andrew, «you’re advocating a spiked broom. That kind of cure could be worse than the disease. It’s dangerous.»
«Okay. Maybe it’s a little far out.» Steven Trevayne smiled earnestly without affection. «But take it from the ‘guardians of tomorrow.’ We’re getting impatient, Dad.»