Truth in Advertising Page 0,113

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