Soul Survivor (37 page)

Interestingly, the San Antonio reunion had not broken Bruce’s
Natoma Bay
fever. He was still chasing its story, still wracked by anxiety over fulfilling his promise to write a book, still nursing
a wild hope that he could untangle it all and get to the bottom of his spiritual confusion. To that end, he welcomed TV exposure.
It might enlarge the story, bring in new threads, give him one more opportunity to expand the Leininger archives. And so,
in July, when an invitation arrived from ABC correspondent Chris Cuomo, the family flew to New York City to appear on
Good Morning America.

This despite the fact that James had unequivocally laid out his own opposition to public discussion of his dreams: “Sometimes
I remember what happened, but I don’t want to talk about it. Maybe when I’m a teenager.”

And the show did respect his wishes. When they were on the air, the sensitive Cuomo did not broach the delicate topic with
James—he just showed some old clips from the 2004 interview and asked how the boy was doing.

But the program triggered fresh interest in James’s saga. When the Leiningers returned home to Lafayette, they began getting
calls from a Japanese production company. It was eager to televise James’s story and willing to bring the whole family to
Japan for the filming.

Bruce was all for it. He still harbored a dream of sending divers down to the wreck of James Huston’s plane, although Anne
Barron, James Huston’s sister, didn’t want the remains violated.

Andrea was against the trip. She had her usual reasons: the cost, the fact that they would have to pull James out of school
for two weeks—and there was something new. During the New York trip she had contracted a potent case of vertigo. It made travel
for her unbearable. Just to get home from New York, she needed heavy medication. Since then, she had been balancing medications,
trying to get her body under control. The thought of a long and complicated trip to Japan—planes, trains, and boats—left her
in a state of dread.

But Bruce was dizzy with eagerness to go on this trip. He announced that he would be going to Japan, with her or without her.
For a while, this became a hot family battle, with Bruce being banished to the couch.

Finally, he got Andrea to come around when he convinced the Japanese company to stage a kind of ceremonial healing event at
Chichi-Jima—something that Andrea was eager to see. And to assuage her vertigo attacks, the Japanese also agreed to upgrade
her airline ticket to business class (Bruce and James rode in coach) and offered to provide first-class hotels, cover all
incidental expenses, and pay the family a small fee.

When Andrea agreed, Bruce was thrilled, and he quickly arranged for passports, vaccinations, translators.

By this time, Andrea had gotten some relief from her vertigo. Her new doctor, Juan Perez, prescribed Meclizine patches—a powerful
histamine receptor blocker—and Lexapro to control her panic attacks. The headmaster of Ascension Day School, Pat Dickens,
gave James permission to miss school for the two-week trip.

In two weeks, they were off to tape a one-hour special for a program called “Mystery Experience—Unbelievable,” to be shown
on Fuji National Television.

Anne Barron, at eighty-eight, who declined an invitation, asked Bruce to drop some flowers on her brother’s final resting
place. There was no airfield on Chichi-Jima, so they would have to get there on the biweekly boat. Also, there were no florists
on the little island, so the Leiningers bought a bouquet of roses, gladiolus, carnations, and baby’s breath in Tokyo and carried
it on
Ogasawara Maru
for the twenty-six-hour trip to the island.

It was a rough passage across 650 miles of the Pacific, down to the Ogasawara Archipeligo, with a typhoon passing nearby,
and Andrea shared her pills with a grateful Japanese film crew. Wearing the Meclizine patch, she was fine.

On the morning of their arrival, Bruce and Andrea stood on deck, straining to see the island. James, for reasons of his own,
chose to stay in the cabin.

Then we saw it. Like barracuda teeth jutting out of the ocean. As we got closer, we could make out the green mountains of
Chichi-Jima. And as we turned into the harbor of Futami-ko, I could see “Welcome Rock.” Bruce had told me to expect it. There,
inside the harbor, was the rusted wreck of an old Japanese ship, and I thought maybe James Huston had strafed that ship when
he flew into the harbor.

Then we passed over the spot where James Huston’s plane actually went down.

There was a steel band to greet us as we landed, and they took us around the island—a kind of VIP tour. At one point, as we
stood on a cliff overlooking Futami-ko, James tugged at Bruce’s sleeve and said, “This is where the planes flew in when James
Huston was killed.” He recognized the view.

As the tour continued, we saw how sparsely the island was populated. There are only two thousand people living on Chichi-Jima,
and many driveways had six-inch cannon shell casings as curb markers. The hills surrounding Futami-ko were freckled with rusted
cannons; they covered every angle of attack. One of them, I thought—we both thought—had probably brought down James Huston’s
plane.

The Leiningers stayed in a small inn called Cabbage Beach Pension, and rested up from the ordeal of the typhoon and the long
trip. On the afternoon of September 4, they held a memorial service for Huston. They boarded a small oceangoing fishing boat
called
Little George
. The captain didn’t speak English, and for the most part, everyone was silent. Andrea held the flowers. Bruce composed his
thoughts, and James watched the fish swim below the surface. He didn’t know what was planned—just that they would mark the
spot where James Huston’s plane went down.

Little George
headed out into the harbor. The sea was still a little choppy—the aftermath of the storm. Bruce had asked local divers to
go down and look, but because of the depth they declined.

When the boat reached the spot where Huston’s plane went into the water, the captain cut the engines. Everyone looked at James,
but he didn’t show any emotion.

“Are you okay, buddy?” asked Bruce.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

But he wouldn’t look at Bruce or at the camera. It was clear that he was containing his emotions.

Andrea pulled her son close and said softly, “James Huston has been part of your life for as long as you can remember. And
he will always be an important part of who you are. It’s time for you to let go.”

James nodded.

“It’s time to say good-bye.”

He put his head down in his mother’s lap and broke into tears. It was a deep, heart-wrenching sob, as if he was unleashing
all the pent-up emotion that had boiled inside his child’s body for the past six years. He sobbed and wept for fifteen minutes.
Everyone else on the boat was silent and awestruck by the sight of a little boy in such deep grief. He seemed to be weeping
for himself and for James Huston—and for all the world of woe that he had ever seen or felt.

Finally, he recovered. He took the bouquet. The boat was rocking, and he pitched the flowers into the harbor. His nose was
running, and his face was streaked with tears, and he said in a broken voice, “Good-bye, James M. Huston. I’ll never forget
you.”

He stood up straight and saluted. Then he put his head back in his mother’s lap and cried some more.

It was, Bruce concluded, a completed circle. The soul of James Huston was unable to rest until the mission was completed—not
the fliers’ mission over Chichi-Jima, but the telling of his tale.

The story, Bruce is convinced, is a gift to those who need some tangible proof that there is something beyond death, that
life has meaning beyond the bare mathematics of a person’s lifetime. It reaffirmed his religious convictions, revived (rather
than challenged) his faith, and gave him something rare and wonderful: hope.

Andrea didn’t need convincing. Her faith and convictions rested on something simpler than proof: plain acceptance. She believed
the story because she always believed the possibility of a soul speaking beyond the grave. The proof, however, was welcome,
and glorious to see.

On the way home, when the Leininger family stopped in San Francisco, James drew another picture. It was another ocean scene,
but with a twist. There was a Japanese boat anchored in the water. The sea was filled with dolphins leaping into the air.
Airplanes flew peacefully overhead.

There was no more gunfire.

It was signed “James.”