Truth in Advertising (37 page)

“Then change that.”

“I don't know how.”

“Yes, you do.”

“No, I don't.”

“Let me go.”

“I can't.”

“Stop crying, Finny. Let me go. Forgive me.”

“Why did you do it?”

“Pain. Guilt. Shame.”

“You ruined me. How could you do that to us?”

“Don't say that. You know it's not true.”

“I'm nothing. I'm a fake person. We're not a family anymore.”

“You have a chance, every day, to change. If you want. One beautiful thing.”

“I don't know how.”

“Yes, you do. Let me go. Forgive me. Because if you don't let go, then
this
is it.
This
is your life. Are you happy?”

“I've never been happy.”

“Okay, then. Let me go. Both of us. Your father and me. Let us go, Finny. Please.”

I stare at the ceiling, the hot tears streaming down the sides of my face, into my ears.

T
hey called it a boat, not a submarine, and it was 260 feet long and back then it ran submerged during the day and surfaced at night to recharge the batteries, which needed air to operate. Bow to stern: the forward torpedoes and the forward battery, which was a bank, five feet high, of forty batteries. Then came the control room, the after-battery, and the engine room, which consisted of twin twelve-cylinder Nelsico engines. Then came the motor room. I read this online. It's the kind of thing he might have told me about if we'd been close, if he'd stayed. Perhaps he told Eddie. Perhaps he shared it with my mother on one of their early dates. “What was life like on a submarine?” she might have asked. It was an all-volunteer service. There was extra pay. Better food. There was also diesel rash, when fumes from the engines caused your skin to break out. You couldn't sit up in your bunk; you had to slide in and out. Four years in a submarine. At night in the dark, at war, bombs going off, locked in the motor room with a dead man in your lap. Fascists wanted to take over the world. Young men, teenagers, said,
Fuck you. Over my dead body
. My father was one of those men. He served. Not for himself but for a principle. He was also angry and hit Eddie, hit Kevin, verbally abused my mother, abandoned his family, left us ruined people. What narrative do we choose to live by?

•   •   •

The plane is half full, an early morning flight to Hawaii. Keita has the window seat. He was waiting in the lobby when I came down at
6
A.M.
Our seats are in the back, by the toilets. I hold the FedEx box on my lap.

“You can't do that,” the flight attendant had said, pointing at the box. She hated us on sight for some reason. You could feel her bad mood. A fight with her husband or boyfriend, her surly teenage daughter who now can't stand her mother, where once they sat close, watching
Sesame Street
together. How painful that must be. Her makeup was too heavy and it looked as if she hadn't slept well.

I smiled. “I'm sorry?”

She didn't smile. “You have to put that package in the overhead.”

It seemed logical enough. But I had visions of a section of the roof popping off and the FedEx box being sucked out into the thin cold air, falling into the Pacific. I'd read just a few weeks ago of a similar incident on a flight from Tucson, horrified passengers looking up into open sky, fierce wind and noise. No one was hurt. The pilot made an emergency landing. The story did not say whether anyone's ashes were lost.

I said, “If it's okay, I'd really prefer to hold on to it.”

She said, “Federal regulations.”

I was about to hand it over when Keita said, “Inside the box is his dead father. His ashes.”

She looked at each of us, one to the other, slammed the overhead, and walked away.

Keita opened a large Four Seasons bag he'd brought on the plane and spread out the breakfast that he'd had them prepare. Bagels, lox, capers, croissant, and jam.

Keita said, “You're a good son, Fin. Maybe I think your mother would be proud.”

There was something about the way he said it. I looked at him and smiled, saw small flakes of croissant around his mouth, a dab of jam on his chin.

I said, “Would you do it for your father?”

He reclined his chair and closed his eyes. He said, “My father once told me I was biggest disappointment of his life. He said these words to me. Because I wasn't like him.”

Then he opened his eyes and looked at me. “Would I do it? Yes. Because I always hope that one day he likes me.”

He closed his eyes. I stared out the window until I fell asleep.

•   •   •

Later, after a cab from the airport, we stand at the railing, looking out over the water at the remains of the USS
Arizona,
and I wonder if we look like a bad print ad for the Pearl Harbor Museum, with politically correct casting. Below us the souls of a thousand men, trapped on the
Arizona
that day. Another 1,300 killed that Sunday morning. I wonder what went through their minds as the bombs started exploding around them. Did they simply react as trained soldiers or did they panic, fear for their lives? Do you know, in the flash moment before your own death, that you are going to die?

I've watched the footage from that day and the days after. Movie-tone newsreels. Sixteen-millimeter film, a handheld camera that reporters used called a Bolex. No sound. We use them on shoots sometimes for their grainy quality. “A day that will live in infamy.” Except that wasn't what Roosevelt originally wrote. He wrote, “A day which will live in world history.” I saw a story about it once in the newspaper. It stayed with me, how carefully he chose his words.

My father was here. He saw what I am seeing now. He walked here, a boy of sixteen who lied about his age. I have seen photos. I remember finding an envelope in my mother's room, in a box in a closet behind shoes. Photos of him in his police department uniform, in a sailor's uniform. I remember one clearly. He is standing alone looking at the camera, so skinny, more a boy than a soldier. Dress whites, no hat. His arms hanging down by his sides, as if he didn't quite know what to do with them. He is smiling.

Keita says, “I feel that I should apologize. On behalf of the Japanese people. For this.” He extends his arm, palm up. There is a moment when I think he is making some kind of horrible joke. But then I look at his face and he looks like he might cry.

I say, “Then I should apologize, on behalf of the American people, for Hiroshima and Nagasaki.”

He nods and thinks about this. Then says, “Thank you.”

It begins to rain sideways.

•   •   •

Keita made a call to his assistant. Calls were made on his behalf. A boat was found. A taxi takes us across the island, my father in the FedEx box between us. I roll down the window, the brief shower over, and the humidity hits me in the face, soft and warm, the smell of flowers and ocean.

We drive through roads cut through hills, the occasional breathtaking view of an inlet. I write and produce television commercials for diapers. I have a good job with a good wage. I use my brain. I am successful. This is the story I have been telling myself for many years. Why is it that I have always thought that I was a better person than my father, when, in truth, I've done very little with my life, certainly nothing that took courage?

My phone rings. It's Martin. I am supposed to be in New York at the edit house. Jan is scheduled to come by tomorrow. We have a deadline to make. Super Bowl spot. Make your mark. Sorry, Martin. I'm running a little late this morning.

•   •   •

One imagines things, one plays out scenarios, populates them with people, things, colors, sounds. When I imagined this playing out, I saw clear Hawaiian skies, soft breezes, sun. I imagined a spotless, white pleasure boat, thirty feet long, with the only crew member a beautiful, dark-skinned woman of twenty-three. Cut to one mile out. Cut to me nodding gravely, dumping the ashes over the side, shrugging. Cut to my Polynesian friend fixing me a drink with dark rum, massaging my shoulders. Cut to a wide shot of us slowly heading back to shore.

Our cab drives through a shipyard that opens on massive, industrial piers. Most of the berths are empty, save for two, one an exceptionally large cargo ship, one smaller but still an awe-inspiring sight.

“Where's our boat?” I ask Keita.

“There,” he says.

“I don't understand.”

Our boat is different than I had imagined. It's black, first of all. It's also five hundred feet long and nine stories high. I learn that it is one of Keita's father's and that it's scheduled to leave next week for Anchorage, via the ports of Los Angeles and Seattle. It will carry hundreds of tractor-trailer-sized containers holding many tons of pineapples, limes, flash-frozen mahi-mahi, macadamia nuts, and brown sugar. Today, empty, its only cargo will be the six-pound remains of Edward Lawrence Dolan, Sr.

Keita says, “What do you think?”

I say, “Do you have anything bigger?”

Keita says, “Short notice, Fin. If we wait until Wednesday there's a 1,600-foot tanker coming in from Dubai.”

•   •   •

There are rooms with carpeting and bunks built into the wall. There is a dining room with a bar area. Tables bolted to the floor. We are offered coffee that is surprisingly good. My forearms ache from switching the box back and forth. Four to six pounds, the average remains. Anywhere from two to three hours at normal operating temperature between 1,500 and 2,000 degrees Fahrenheit. I can't seem to put the box down.

Keita and I stand just below the bridge at a railing watching the pier recede.

Keita says, “Fin. There are many types of ships. Do you understand?”

I smile and nod. No, I don't understand.

Keita says, “This. This is small ship. This is called Handy Size, up to 40,000 deadweight tons. Then there is Handymax, up to 50,000 deadweight tons. Then Aframax, up to 115,000 deadweight tons. Suezmax, the largest ship that can pass through the Suez Canal. Panamax, the Panama Canal. Malaccamax, the Malacca Strait.”

He turns and looks at the water. “Look, Fin. Seals.”

I turn and see a herd of seals, maybe eight, swimming off the right of the ship. Sleek and fast. They look like they're playing.

Keita says, “Okay. Now we mention the big ships. VLCC, Very Large Crude Carrier, up to 320,000 deadweight tons. And the ULCC,
Ultra Large Crude Carrier, up to 550,000 deadweight tons. Over 1,500 feet long. Okay. Maybe this is a big boat, Fin. Too big for our needs today.”

He turns to me. “I work at my father's company for twenty-five years, since I was ten years old. He make me read everything, make me travel on them for months. I throw up. I miss home. I hate ships.”

•   •   •

We were met by a representative of the company, a Japanese man named Aki, early thirties, who is clearly in awe of being around Keita, son to the famous Nagori-San. Aki gives us a brief tour that ends on the bridge, high above the main deck, 360-degree views. Aki introduces Keita and me to the ship's captain. His name is Swede Walker and he's 6' 3" and has more hair on his forearms than I have on my head. He's late fifties, tall, military bearing, brush cut, clean shaven, all business. From the few words he's said I'd guess he's from Oklahoma or Texas. I'd also guess that he hates me. Two other men are on the bridge with him, punching numbers into a computer. Both are quiet, deferential. One is Japanese and works for Keita's father's company and I don't get his name. He's training on the boat for a year. The other is named Larry, early thirties, James Taylor's twin brother. He laughs a lot and looks like someone who might follow The Grateful Dead from city to city as a hobby.

Keita says something to the Japanese sailor and Aki, in Japanese, and the three of them laugh. He turns to us and says, “I do not mean to be rude, speaking Japanese. I say to them that it is strange that the son of a Japanese shipping empire gets seasick.”

Larry smiles. Swede Walker stares out the window.

Keita leans over to me. “Fin. I do not feel very good. I must lie down.”

He and Aki leave the bridge. I feel awkward, sense that the captain wants me to leave.

I ask Larry how he likes working on a cargo ship.

“Awesome, sir.” He laughs. “Ya know. The people. The quiet. Like, the ocean, right?”

I ask him where he's from.

“Nova Scotia. So I kind of
have
to be around the ocean, sir.”

I ask him if he sees himself doing this for a while. He laughs.

“No big plan. Just kind of working my way around the world. Have you seen the aurora borealis?”

I shake my head no.

“You have to see it.”

I envy his easygoing nature, his ease with the unknown future.

The Japanese sailor excuses himself. It's just Swede Walker and James Taylor now. Swede stands behind a large chair looking at a bank of computer screens, arms folded.

Swede says to the computer monitors, “So what is this shit show?”

Larry says nothing, knows that Swede isn't talking to him.

I say, “What do you mean?”

I know exactly what he means but I ask to annoy him. He reminds me of my father at his worst, of temperamental bosses who like to instill fear, who operate by intimidation. My reaction to that is always the same; to be intimidated and then to feel profoundly unmanly for feeling intimidated, to feel that I have done something wrong.

He says, “What the hell are we doing out here?”

I say, “My father died. He wanted his ashes scattered here.”

Larry turns, surprised, and says, “Did you consider a smaller boat, sir? There are fishing charters.”

Swede is looking at me—the disgust palpable—but turns back now, looking ahead, out the window. He says, under his breath but clearly audible, “Un-fucking-believable. If you're rich enough you get to do anything.”