Got a Light?

2020

Art sat on the curb outside the tavern with his elbows resting on his splayed knees, coughing up a lung. Another late bar patron observed Art and stepped forward to offer him a smoke. He accepted a cigarette.

"Got a light?" asked Art. He eschewed those cheap plastic lighters and was forever running out of matches. The other man lit him up. "Thanks, man," said Art. "I appreciate it." He had never been a heavy smoker--just 2 or 3 packs of unfiltered Camels per day--but after 50 years, it was adding up. Dr. Patel had diagnosed him on the spot with COPD and suggested a bewildering array of arcane assessment procedures.

"I want to do a preliminary X-ray, Mr. Felson," said Patel at their first encounter.

A half hour later, after the procedure was done, Art asked, "What did it tell you, Doc?"

"There are some shaded areas on your lungs," replied Patel.

"What does that mean?"

Patel smiled tightly. "Maybe nothing. The shaded areas could indicate harmless lung nodules; on the other hand, they could be tumorous."

Art nodded a little uncertainly.

What I want to do now is a series of additional imaging tests: Computed Tomography..."

"Um?" asked Art.

"CT scan," explained the doctor.

Art nodded again. Yes, he'd heard of that.

"And then there's a Magnetic Resonance Imaging..."

"MRI?" suggested the patient, recognizing the term.

Patel smiled again. "Yes. And we might as well do an ultrasound," he went on, and Art tuned him out.

1967

His dad had given him his first cigarette. Two days before he was to report for his deployment to Vietnam, after high school, back in the day.

"If you're gonna be a soldier, you got to learn to smoke," the old man had said gruffly. Art, an athlete in school, had eschewed cigarettes as a part of his training regimen. But hell, in 1967, everyone smoked, particularly the guys. He later recalled that at Hue City, on the darkest day of the war, the warriors did nothing but kill and die and smoke. It had been a tenuous but real connection to the world, to home. When he returned home and had trouble with, well, life, he was eventually diagnosed with PTSD. By then, it was too late, and smoking was the only constant in his life. Art had most of all wanted to fit in, but the odds seemed increasingly to be against him.

He thought about his first date following his discharge, 3 years later.

"Those clothes are, like, old, Art," chirped Dorothy, his date, a cashier at a new restaurant called McDonald's. "Haven't you bought any clothes recently?" she asked good-naturedly.

"I ain't had the time," said Art.

"Why, what you been up to?" she asked. "Goin' to school?" She was keen to lasso a college man.

"Been in the Army," answered Art with a quiet dignity. He had always been proud to be a soldier, as had his father before him.

Dorothy stopped in her tracks. "Army?" she hissed. "Were you in Vietnam?" She leveled the question like an accusation.

Art nodded. "Two tours."

She released his arm and took a step back. "Baby killer!" she screamed and shoved him hard. She ran off down the street back to her car, leaving him stranded miles from home.

2020

Sitting hunched over in the gutter, Art slapped his pockets for another cigarette but turned up nothing, then remembered. He had closed down the tavern, in the company of a bunch of other old timers. There had been a live band, a raggedy group who played tunes from Led Zeppelin and Blind Faith and Jethro Tull and other rock groups who were popular a half century ago, when Art was young. A slinky, spiked-hair girl had even asked him to dance, but he quitted the dance floor at once when he observed the girl's friends laughing at him. It had been a set-up, he decided, and he felt disappointed.

Art hadn't drunk this much beer in decades. He lost count at a dozen. The girl with the funny hair approached him later and bought him a drink. She apologized for her behavior earlier. He told her he forgave her and drank her beer.

Art inhaled deeply. He wasn't short of breath; he couldn't have lung cancer. When he saw his MD several months before, it was his constant congestion that had prompted the visit. He had been hoping to score a script for a decongestant or something, but his doc double-crossed him and immediately arranged for a consult with Patel, the oncologist. And the rest, he thought, was history.

1968

Art, dressed in camo, dashed into a village hut to escape the hell that was going on all around him. He walked in with his M16 clutched in his hands, an unlit Camel clenched between his teeth. A rustling sound drew his startled attention. He looked down into the frightened face of a Viet Cong soldier, lying on the floor of the hut in a pool of blood. God, thought Art, he was no more than 13 years old.

The soldier/child was speaking. Art turned his head to listen.

"can co the giup toi duoc khong?" Art knew a little rudimentary Vietnamese. "Can you help?" He peered closely, saw no weapon. He leaned far over the boy, and suddenly, everything went black.

Seconds later, when he came to, Rocco was shaking him by the shoulder. "C'mon, A-hole, we're buggin' out." Art remembered the boy and stared down, saw a bloody smear where a face had once been. "Ain't you learned, the only good gook is a dead one?" shouted Rocco over the gunfire from outside the hut. "Let's go!"

Taking a last look at the Viet Cong, Art followed his friend out of the hut and into the jungle.

1970

Eventually, Art found a girl who didn't treat him like a war criminal. After a whirlwind courtship, they were married at the courthouse in a civil ceremony. Art couldn't wait to quit the courthouse to have a smoke.

Sadie and Art's daughter was born 7 1/2 months later. Sadie told him, "Get a job."

He did.

Fourteen months later, their second daughter was born, and Sadie said, "Get a better job."

Again, he did.

When Princess was 3 and Annie 2, Sadie once more became pregnant, but it was a difficult pregnancy. As he had for the two previous deliveries, Art bided his time in the expectant fathers' lounge, smoking one cigarette after another. He also popped the anti-anxiety pills from the VA doc he'd seen to get rid of the buzzing in his ears. Every vet that Art knew gobbled them like jelly beans.

When Sadie hemorrhaged, she lost the baby and, an hour later, her own life. For her widowed husband, it was all downhill from there. When Sadie's OB-GYN delivered the tragic news, Art was barely awake, and in the weeks and months and long years to follow, he found it hard to focus. He had always thought he loved Sadie, but he knew deep down that with her, he'd merely found somewhere to bide his time, to fit in. Years later, Art would recall that he had shed no tears at Sadie's passing. She was a good girl, he would remember.

2019

"I'm sorry for your loss, Mr. Felson, the policewoman murmured indifferently. He looked in her face, but her expression was inscrutable, and he guessed that made sense. She hadn't known Princess; this was only her job. Art received the same insincere expressions of sympathy when he attended the funeral and when he went to the bank to close out her account, and when the super let him into Princess's apartment to recover her effects.

When he walked in, he was jarred by the eerie, absolute quiet and the emptiness he found. His other daughter, Annie, had instantly vanished when she graduated from high school. She hadn't even taken her clothes. Whenever Art asked Princess if she'd heard from her sister, she was purposely vague and would tell him only that she was alright and not to worry. But he did worry. He wanted to be close to his kids, but he didn't seem to know how. His mom and dad, hardscrabble survivors of WWII and the Great Depression, had always seemed hardworking and serious persons, though distant as parents.

One time, Art insisted that Princess give him his younger daughter's phone number and address, and she told him flat out that "Annie doesn't want to see or hear from you."

"But why?" he asked, spreading wide his arms.

"She blames you," Princess replied.

"For what?" he asked.

Princess suddenly teared up, the first time Art had seen her cry since she was a child. "For the way that I turned out." Princess sobbed for a moment and then took a deep breath and got herself together.

"Annie called it bad genes, and she blames you." She stared at her father's anguished expression and threw her arms around him. "But, what does she know?" She hugged him tightly.

Among the residue of Princess's life, Art found one thing he'd long sought: a link to Annie.

That was 6 months before Princess died, only days before her 48th birthday. The coroner's inquest announced that Princess Betty Felson, 47, had died without issue, unemployed and with no visible means of support. She was rumored to deal narcotics. Her death was not the result of foul play. The cause was an unintended fentanyl overdose. Art glanced at the newspaper: Dec. 18, 2019. "President Trump Impeached." Which meant less than nothing to Art. He had never voted.

---

When Art got back from the war, he was at first ignored, like most vets; but, after Sadie's passing, at a time when so many vets started acting out, PTSD came into vogue and it seemed that everyone who had so much as scrubbed out a military garbage can was declared to have the condition. As a result, Art found himself in the welcoming arms of military shrinks as often as 3 times per week. He was even an in-patient a number of times, much to his personal disgrace. He had to leave his daughters in the care of his father, who had already taken disability following a stroke at an unbearably young age. He would be dead before his 50th birthday; Art's mom would likewise perish at an early age.

Now, however, with cutbacks to veterans' programs, Art felt lucky to see his doctor twice per month. The sessions helped a lot. Art drew relief from their conversations; besides, Enman was known throughout the veterans' facility as Dr. Feelgood. He kept his patients supplied with candy. Moreover, Art could smoke in Enman's office. It was just weeks following the tragic death of Princess, and Art had already eaten through all his sedatives. He had been seeing his new psychiatrist for about six months, and they were still getting to know one another, to trust the other.

"I keep thinking there was something I could have done to save my baby," Art lamented.

"I know it's cliche," replied Enman, "but you can't help someone unless they are willing to be helped.

Unless they want the help."

Art said nothing.

"You told me prior to her passing that she was addicted."

Art nodded.

"And she drank heavily."

"Yes."

"A troublesome combination," observed Enman. "What action do you suppose you might have taken to forestall her death?"

"I...I don't know," said Art. "Shown her a better example?" He took a drag on his cigarette, crushed it out in the ashtray, and pulled out another.

"Got a light?" he asked. The doctor, used to Art's habits, tossed him a book of matches.

"Perhaps," allowed Enman. "But you've been living with demons of your own, dating back to Southeast Asia."

Art, his head down, murmured, "Yes."

"If Veteran's Affairs had been more proactive, it is possible your own situation during Princess's formative years would have been much different."

"I guess," said Art.

"There is in psychology a concept known as nature vs. nurture. Have you ever heard of it?" asked Enman.

Art shook his head no.

"Fundamentally," said the doctor, "it holds there are two principal bodies of traits which contribute to a person's behavior: one stems from nature; that is, genes, inheritable factors. Examples would include intelligence, height, weight, athleticism, addictive propensities, and so forth. The other are those resulting from nurture: the way a person is brought up. Environment. Socio-economic class. Climate.

Whether a parent reads to her child when she is young. Do you begin to understand, Art?"

"I read to both my daughters when they were little!" said Art with feeling. Suddenly, he seemed to wilt.

"But then Sadie died," he said dully.

"You have faults as a parent, as a human being, but so do we all. What made you the man you became was a product of both your genes and your environment."

"You mean my parents and the war?" asked Art.

"Yes."

"Which one counts the most, Dr. Enman?" asked Art with almost pathetic eagerness.

"We'll discuss that next time, Art," he said with a smile. "Do you need another script?" Enman inquired brightly.

1974

"God, where is Annie?" wondered Art aloud. He had only left her moments ago, in the front yard, in her wading pool. He streaked through his hovel, calling her name desperately. Sweating profusely, he ran from neighbor to neighbor, beseeching them for some word of his precious child.

At the sound of a siren, he looked up with a start. It was the police. He ran to their cruiser. He must look like a wild man, he thought, but he didn't care.

"Help me!" he cried. "Annie, my daughter Annie, is gone. She's missing! You've got to help me!"

"Take it easy, Mr. Felson," said a heavyset cop, exiting the vehicle and holding his palms up in front of him.

How did he know my name? Art wondered.

"We know where your daughter is, sir," said the cop.

"You do? Where is she?"

A woman in a severe-looking suit got out of the back of the police car and walked his way. She was holding Annie's tiny hand.

"Who...who are you?" Art asked the woman.

"I'm Marilyn Thresher, Mr. Felson. I represent Children's Protective Services."

"What are you doing with my daughter?" he asked next.

"One of your neighbors reported anonymously that your daughter had been abandoned."

"Abandoned?" said Art. "I was only gone for a second..."

"We received the Code Blue at 12:05. When we finally arrived at 1:07, Annie was still alone in her pool. She's 3 years old?" she inquired.

Art nodded.

"Unattended, a child could easily drown in a pool of that depth," she said sharply. Why did you leave your daughter unattended for more than an hour, sir?" asked Thresher.

Art didn't have an answer. He couldn't tell her he was inside watching football and drinking beer.

With the sedatives he'd taken, he'd fallen fast asleep.

"Mr. Felson," she went on, "it's obvious to me that you've been drinking and are in no condition to care for a young child."

Art opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. He just stood there.

"Mr. Felson," said the fat cop, taking up the thread, "CPS is taking your daughter into protective custody for tonight. You get cleaned up and dry out and come to the police station in the morning,

9 am sharp, and we'll return her to your custody- this time- with just a warning. You have two children; where is the other girl?"

Art drew a blank for a moment, then replied, "With my parents. I was just spending the day with Annie..." His voice trailed off. He looked at his daughter, but Annie hid behind Mrs. Thresher. Her expression was one that Art would observe many times over the next 15 years.

"Don't be late," advised the cop, and they soon sped off.

1989

"Annie," boomed Art, calling down the basement stairs where his youngest daughter stayed to combat the summer heat. The Felson household didn't have A/C. The heat and humidity never seemed to bother him or Princess. "There's a fella here," he bellowed.

Annie danced up the stairs, winced as she walked through the blue haze of her father's ever-present smoke, and greeted her visitor. God, she thought, it's the same shit every time. She was so embarrassed to have guests over. If it wasn't Princess's bizarre behavior after taking who knew what, it was her father's addictions. Just now, he looked like he could hardly stand.

Annie joined her friend, and Art said, too loud, "Ain't you gonna introduce me to your guy?" Smoke was billowing off him like he was on fire.

Annie rolled her eyes. "This is Sanford, Dad," she said.

"Hey," said Art, "you ever watch 'Sanford and Son' onna' TV? I get a kick outta' that old colored guy!"

He slapped his thigh.

"Dad," wailed Annie. To her friend, she mouthed, "I'm sorry!"

But Sanford was unaffected. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Felson," he said agreeably, offering his hand.

They shook.

"That's a manly handshake, Sandy," said Art. "Better than that last guy Annie brought over here; he acted like a faggot. You know what I mean?" he asked.

Annie merely stood there with her eyes closed and shook her head.

"Yessir, I do," replied Sanford with a grin.

"We have to go," said Annie desperately, and virtually dragged the young man through the door and onto the pavement.

Once on the street, Sanford turned to Annie. "Your dad is...colorful," he remarked with a grin.

"He's a huge embarrassment. I blame him for Princess always getting high and for dropping out of school."

"Don't be so hard on him," coaxed Sanford. "He calls them like he sees them."

"Like when he congratulated you on not being a faggot?"

He grinned.

"I wonder what he'd say if he knew you were gay?" she said.

"Let's go back inside and tell him," suggested Sanford playfully.

Laughing, Annie dragged him away.

---

Annie, 17 just today, visited her sister at her communal home in the low-rent section of the distressed town. Princess, born only 14 months before her sister, had always seemed so much older to Annie, although she seemed to have profited by her greater maturity not at all. She remained deeply immersed in the drug subculture, which was rife in the wake of the tumultuous 1960s, the Vietnam War, and then Watergate and its aftermath. Princess had dropped out of school at 16, to the apparent disinterest of their father. The old man was forever preoccupied with his own addictions and couldn't spare a thought for either child. Annie pounded on the door.

Almost instantly, the portal was swept open by Princess, who reached out and embraced her sister warmly. Unlike previous greetings, this one seemed to go on and on.

"Annie," said Princess dreamily. She was lit up again, thought Annie.

"How's it going, Sis?" asked Annie, gripping her only sib by the shoulders and staring hard at her.

"You want a drink?" inquired Princess, always the attentive host.

Annie shook her head.

"You wanna do a line?" she asked next.

"No, thanks. Hey," she said, "I'm having my senior show at the community center in two weeks; come, right?" Unlike their father, Princess always took an acute interest in her sister's artistic talent and encouraged her.

"You know it," said Princess.

"Look, Sis," said Annie, "I know Art is kind of a slob—okay, he's a pig—but you can't keep living like this." She picked up underwear from the floor, gestured to dirty dishes strewn across the coffee table.

"Come home, Sis."

Princess's features grew rigid. "I can't," she said shortly.

"But, why?"

Annie could see the wheels turning round inside her sister's head, and finally, Princess said, "Art touched me, Annie."

"What?"

"When I was 16, he touched me; he came on to me and if he hadn't been wasted he would've raped me. That's why I dropped out of school and moved in here with Lin and Jack."

Annie didn't know what to say. She was stunned. She'd known that her father was unreliable, a misfit, a cretin, but this? She'd never expected it. She said, "But why?"

Princess shook her head. "It was on the anniversary of Mom's dying. He kept calling me Sadie."

So much made sense now, thought Annie. It was like a circle had been completed.

"You have to get out of there, Annie," said her sister.

2019

"Have you given more thought to your other daughter, Art?" asked Dr. Enman. They were seated in the subdued lighting of the psychiatrist's office at the VA hospital. Art sat in a government-issue gray metal chair. He had asked the doctor once and was told that Enman saw upwards of 12-14 patients per day. You would never know it, thought Art, since Enman was careful, thoughtful and and deliberative in all he said or did. He never seemed to rush his patient. Art wondered if he should raise the issue of his recent memory lapses, the broad, gray spaces in his recall that he hadn't experienced since the war.

He decided against it.

"I've thought of little else," revealed Art. "I told you I found out where she was livin' in San Francisco. I sent her several letters, but they all came back saying she'd moved. I don't even know if she knows her sister died." He folded and unfolded his hands nervously.

"Have you tried looking on the internet?" inquired the doctor.

"Doc, I don't even own no computer."

"They're very affordable nowadays," said Enman. "You could even buy a used one for a hundred dollars or less. It's not a big investment, Art."

"I ain't never learned how to operate them things. They wasn't invented till I been out of school for 20 years, ya' know? I'm what they call computer-illiterate." He smiled sadly.

"Go to your public library," suggested the psychiatrist. "Or to your senior center. Somebody will help you."

Art looked up, interested. "Yeah?" he asked.

Dr. Enman smiled. "Yeah," he said.

---

At his local senior center, Art took a beginner's tutorial on PC use and, in a matter of a week, had purchased a used machine from a local repair shop. It was awkward at first because Art had never learned to type, but over time, he became proficient at hunt and peck.

Tackling the web, uncertainly at first but then with greater confidence, he located his daughter. Annie

"Black Widow" lived in the hills of San Francisco and was a well-regarded illustrator, specializing in watercolors. Who'd a' thought it, mused Art. He couldn't remember Annie ever taking up so much as a piece of chalk to scribble on a sidewalk. But staring in wonder at the magical creations she had made filled him with awe and pride. Art so wanted to connect with his daughter. Princess was lost to him forever, but Annie was still available to him. There was no one else, he thought bleakly.

After much searching, he found an email address for "Black Widow" and fired off a message. Almost immediately, he received in return a form message from Annie's agent, offering a fanciful biography, further examples of her beautiful work, and a price list, which he said was negotiable. Art's email hadn't been read but was fed into an automatic answering service. Sort of like the spiel from the time/temperature lady you got when you called the weather number.

Spying a street address on the email, Art typed up a letter, printed it out, and sent it through snail mail. After a week, he got a response from a Mr. Treadway, professing to be Annie's business manager and asking Art to address all inquiries to a third party, Annie's assistant, who was named Melanie.

Art wrote the letter as fast as his stiffening fingers could type, at length composing an 8-page, single-spaced document. The next day, he posted it, feeling he'd done all he could. Time was running out, he knew. He wouldn't live forever.

2020

When next Art saw his oncologist, Patel informed him briskly that the CT Scan revealed that he did indeed have tumors on his lungs, but whether they were cancerous or merely benign could only be determined by more tests.

"So, what's next?" asked Art wearily. He was beginning to feel like a specimen on a microscopic slide.

"We'll perform an MRI next. And after that, another CT Scan or a PET Scan or perhaps a PET/CT Scan..."

Art looked closely at the doctor; his voice had assumed a sing-song cadence, and Art felt as though they were both in a cartoon. Over the next weeks, all these tests were conducted, and Art found himself once more in Patel's office. The oncologist, seated on a little stool with casters, wheeled rapidly in his direction.

"I am almost certain that you have a malignant tumor on your right lung," began the doctor without preamble.

"How long have I got, Dr. Patel?' asked Art in a quiet voice. In his heart of hearts, he'd long known this day was coming.

"No reason to be pessimistic, Mr. Felson," chided Patel, flashing another of his superior physician smiles.

"You mean it can be treated?" asked Art hopefully. "What do we need to do?"

"Well, first thing," said Patel, "I want to conduct some additional tests."

"Like what?"

"We have quite a selection," said Patel, rubbing his hands vigorously together like a maitre d' or a wine steward in an upscale restaurant. "Sputum cytology, lung biopsy, thoracentesis, fine needle aspiration, transthoracic needle biopsy, autofluorescence bronchoscopy, mediastinoscopy and mediastinotomy..."

Art felt his head spin. He held up his palm to stem the tide.

"Wait!" cried Patel. "Don't stop me now; you haven't heard yet about all the blood tests..."

"Doctor, how long will all these tests take?" Art asked.

"I'll spread them over the next several weeks, so you won't be too overwhelmed," said Patel kindly.

"Dr. Patel," said Art in a soft voice, "in your professional opinion as an oncologist of 30 years' experience, how long am I likely to continue to live?"

"Two to six months," replied the physician after a moment.

"Then, why would I want to spend the remainder of my days taking more tests?"

"Your insurance will pay for it—at least 80% of it." Patel chuckled merrily, then grew serious. "Listen, Mr. Felson, doing somthing is always better than doing nothing."

"I don't agree," said Art, thinking that so much of his life remained undone.

He never visited a doctor again.

Coda

"Is this all there is?" asked Annie disappointedly, standing in her father's living room, with the dusty, uncarpeted floor, the yellowed blinds, the shredded curtains, and the threadbare sofa.

The real estate agent shrugged. "He only died a week ago, Miss. I was gonna clean it up some, slap on a new coat of paint, get rid of this miserable furniture. I admit it, the guy lived like a slob..."

He stopped at Annie's icy glare. "The guy," she said sharply, "was my father."

The man nodded. "Sorry. Didn't know you were family. I thought you were interested in buyin'..."

"So I am," said Annie. "I'll give you $70 thousand. Cash. Today."

The agent paused. Normally, he'd never accept a first offer, but he knew that was clearly top dollar for this dump. "Sold!" he said with relish.

"Tell me," said Annie, "did you ever actually meet my father?"

"Just twice. When I showed the property and then at closing, when he bought this place, a coupla' years ago. You know," he remarked, remembering, "you're a lot like your dad."

"I am nothing like my father," she disagreed coldly. She had ignored Art's entreaties to make contact over the past months, but she had been following his exploits through local contacts and then saw on a local veterans' social media post that he had passed. She had no regrets, however; Art was poison. He'd killed Annie's sister and, given the chance, he would have killed her too. She was uncertain why she wanted to purchase his home; she shrugged the thought away.

"Whatever," he said. "Too bad we don't have a pint; we could toast the sale."

"I've got one," Annie said with an easy smile, pulling a small bottle from her purse.

"The agent grinned. "Cigarette?" he offered, turning up a pack of Marlboros.

"No thanks," said Annie, opening her purse again and shaking out an unfiltered Camel. She checked her matchbook; it was empty. "Got a light?" she asked.