Phantom Island

Chapter 4
 
Undercover Clamdigger

    “Rocky’s our new chief of security,” Dad explained. “He’s been working undercover, disguised as a clamdigger, keeping watch on the island from a clamboat. I hope you’ll welcome him not merely as an employee of Peters International, but — well — as family — as — that is — well — as your brother.”
    “Our brother!” Lucy and I squeaked, as close to simultaneously as people can manage.
    “Yes,” said Dad, turning his eyes to the floor, “your brother. You see, some years ago, I committed an indiscretion.”
    “A what?” squealed Lucy.
    “An indiscretion,” muttered Dad.
    “I heard what you said,” said Lucy, “I want to know what you meant by it.”
    Gently, trying to avoid bruising any of the sensitive souls in the room, I said, “Given the reference to Rocky as our brother, an indiscretion, would, in this case, I think, refer to a liaison with a woman other than Mom.”
    “I know that,” said Lucy, in a tone full of the indignation that an adolescent feels when she is being accused of ignorance. “I want details.”
    “I — that is — you see —” babbled Dad.
    It was painful to see him this way. He had always seemed to me the person in the world most self-assured, most confident that the course he had chosen for himself was not merely the right course but the only course that would have made sense for him to pursue. That confidence had made him a captain of industry, or at least a captain of the knickknack industry, and it had always made me awed in his presence. And, of course, I considered him the soul of propriety. What he did was right, and what he did would always be right, and, by extension, I suppose, what he had done must always have been right. Apparently, I had been wrong. If I thought that he could do no wrong, I had been confusing the improbable with the impossible, as Psmith said.
    In a gesture of compassionate understanding, Rocky threw a strong arm across Dad’s shoulders and said to us, “Say, kids, I understand that you want to know all the sordid details, and I’m sure it comes as a shock to you to find out that you’ve got a bastard brother—even if he is a swell guy who’s almost certain to become your best friend—but right now I think we ought to turn our attention to the big problem confronting us.”
    “There’s a bigger problem?” asked Lucy.
    “Yes, there is,” said Rocky. “That clamboat didn’t blow up by itself, and it was no accident. I’m not a smoker, and even if I were, I’m not so stupid as to light up in an engine room full of fuel fumes. This was sabotage!”
    Dad seemed relieved to have the conversation take a turn away from his indiscretion, but Lucy was annoyed. “I think you’re clouding the issue,” she grumbled.
    “Let me give you some background, kids,” said Rocky. He turned to Dad and added, “with your permission, sir.” Dad gave his permission with a nod and a smile, and in his smile I thought I saw paternal pride.
    “It’s like this,” Rocky began, and I swear he gave a glance around the room to see if there was anyone there who shouldn’t be. Finding no one, he continued. “As you know, every year at this time, the island is a beehive of feverish activity, as — um — your father — our — well — everybody in the IHQ works to get the new knickknacks ready for their big launch in the fall.”
    “Tell me about it,” said Lucy. “We call it the silly season, the wacky weeks, the daffy days, the manic months.”
    “You’ve got a flare for satire, Toots,” said Rocky, flashing that big irresistible grin at her like a floodlight.
    She seemed almost on the verge of saying “Thanks,” but she caught herself and instead stuck her tongue out at him. It didn’t have quite the effect she wanted, i think. It looked provocative, flirtatious, even yearning, and it made Rocky chuckle, which made Lucy furious. I could see her fury in her eyes, though Rocky probably couldn’t.
    “This year the stakes are a bit higher than they have been in the past,” said Rocky. “Maybe you should explain why, sir, before I go on.”
    With a sigh, Dad looked at each of us, then returned to his desk and sank into his chair. “We’re in trouble,” he said, “financial trouble. The last couple of years haven’t been good ones for us. We;ve been experiencing increased competition, not only from our traditional rivals General Gewgaws and Worldwide Whatnots, but from international firms, some of which have popped up out of nowhere just in the last couple of years and are now beating us on price.” He sighed again and shook his head. “But I can’t blame all our trouble on competition. Our designs for the past couple of years just haven’t caught the public’s fancy. I’ve got to accept most of the responsibility for that myself.”
    “Aw, Dad,” I said, “don’t be hard on yourself. The public is notoriously fickle, isn’t it?”
    “Well —” he said.
    “And public taste is constantly shifting with every change in the direction of the wind, isn’t it?” I continued.
    “That’s true, but . . .”
    “So,” I concluded, “a business like ours is essentially a crap shoot, and only a fool thinks that he can predict the next fad that will catch the public's fancy.”