Truth in Advertising Page 0,70

you try to run, at some point, perhaps without knowing it, you end up running back. Even if it’s too late. Which is why she comes over and puts her arms around me, a light embrace, gently patting my back.

I pick up the plastic bag, what is left of my father, and walk out into the blue-gray dawn. I need to call my family.

MAKE THE MEMORIES LAST

The train heads north hugging the Connecticut coast for a time. Late-afternoon light. I’m going to Boston. Tomorrow we are going to sit in a room—the Dolans—and listen to our father’s last will and testament. Tonight, we will have dinner.

Now, though, sitting in the café car on the Acela, I wait for the conference call. The presentation is today. I told Ian I’d prefer to go to the meeting and call in to the reading of the will, but he wouldn’t have it. I told Ian about my father when I got back to New York from Cape Cod. It was early, in the office. He’d come in with coffees. We were going to crack it. We were going to best the lame ideas we had. This was the Super Bowl and we were going to make a name for ourselves with this spot.

I say, “My father died.”

Ian says, “Is this a joke?”

“No. Real this time.”

“Jesus, Fin. I’m so sorry. You okay?”

“I’m fine. I’m tired.”

“What happened?”

“He stopped breathing,” I say.

“Cut the shit.”

“He was old.”

“Who else was there?”

“Where?”

Ian says, “In the room. When he died.”

“No one. He died in the middle of the night. Then I went over.”

“It’s sad, man.”

“Yeah.”

Ian says, “Why don’t you take a few days off. I’ll tell Martin. He’ll understand.”

“It’s fine. It’s nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“How long have you known me? How many times have I mentioned my father?”

“Twice,” he says. “Both times to tell me he was dead.”

“Exactly. So. He wasn’t really a part of my life.”

“I don’t know what to say. Have you told Phoebe?”

“No. I will, though.”

We didn’t crack it. In the end, after two dozen more ideas from all of us, Martin narrowed it down to Al Gore and William McDonough, with 1984 as a distant safety. We were eager to sell Al Gore. Big shoot, lots of travel, great computer-generated graphics, work for two weeks in L.A., which would largely involve Ian and me playing Ping-Pong at the post-production facility and eating expensive dinners. And then we would win awards for our spot. That’s how we scripted it.

I stopped by Ian’s office before I left for Penn Station. “I’m off.”

“Good luck up there.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

I waited by the door.

I said, “The Al Gore idea is good.”

Ian said, “Al Gore is good.”

I said, “The others kind of suck, huh?”

Ian said, “They’re not great.”

“Is the Al Gore idea good?”

Ian said, “Not really.”

“Why is that?”

“Well, we’re not that good.”

I said, “That sounds about right.”

I turned to go but stopped.

I said, “It’s a good job, isn’t it?”

Ian said, “Yes.”

I said, “And we’re lucky to have it. Especially these days.”

“Yes.”

“But we don’t really like it anymore.”

“No.”

“And yet we don’t leave.”

“Nope.”

“Why is that?”

Ian said, “Fear. Laziness. Complacency. Mostly we don’t know what to do.”

I said, “We die, ya know. One day. We die.”

Ian said, “I know.”

Silence.

Ian said, “Listen, thanks for stopping by, this has been great.”

I said, “The ideas.”

Ian said, “Don’t worry. It’s no big deal. It’s just the Super Bowl.”

• • •

The train hits a straightaway and ramps up speed. Time for the conference call.

Martin, Ian, Alan, Jill, and Keita will be with the client. Several other clients from offices around the globe will call in.

I dial the number, say my name, hit pound.

Someone says, “Hi. Who was that who just joined?”

I say, “It’s Fin.”

The voice says, “Hey, Fin, we’re just waiting on a couple of others.”

I hear muffled talk as people gather, the beep as others join the call, their recorded name announced.

Perhaps my father has left us millions of dollars, money we never knew he had. Perhaps he has left us stocks that he bought in IBM decades ago, a nest egg, an apology. “I was looking out for you. I just had anger issues.” Maybe there are home movies, a box of Super 8 film that he secretly took, edited together, making a short film of our young lives, one he narrated, explaining everything.

Someone says, “Hey, everyone. I’m Carole. Some of you might not know me. I wanted to thank you all for calling in. It’s much appreciated. I know we have a lot of ground to cover and I hope everyone