Free Proof of Angels by Mary Curran Hackett

pink sun, of rows of silk floss and jacaranda trees in full bloom lining suburban streets, of skaters with odd haircuts and brightly colored and intricate tattoos, and of beauties spilling out of bathing suits and wearing large, expensive, bedazzling sunglasses. Sean had somehow saturated the colors, Gaspar guessed, so they appeared more vibrant than they would in real life. He accentuated the details and the contrast, so the pictures had an element of texture, too. It was as if Gaspar could feel the fabric on surfers’ wet suits and the sand in their hair; touch the soft petals of the blooming jacarandas. Gaspar was incredulous. He’d never taken Sean for an artist. Not in a million years. There was nothing familiar about this new Sean.
    He remembered something Cathleen had said to him many years earlier. “He has a way of changing, Gaspar, only you can’t see it happening because it is so gradual. And just whenyou get used to one version of him, he emerges as someone entirely new, like a phoenix rising from the ashes over and over. He was a wild kid who wanted to be a pilot back then but ended up this studious philosopher type, then a seminarian, then a drunk, then a firefighter, then a drunk again. It took him so long to find his place. I used to worry all the time that he wouldn’t find his way, but now, I know he’ll be okay. No matter what happens, I know he’ll be okay.” Gaspar couldn’t wait to tell Cathleen, You won’t believe this, hon. He takes pictures. He’s quite good. He even surfs now. You don’t have to worry. He’ll find something new again . . .
    Gaspar scanned the room and took it all in as if for the first time, as if he hadn’t been there for an hour cleaning it. Two custom surfboards—one long, one short—hung on metal wall racks. Books filled a series of well-made, though worn, oak barrister bookcases. Gaspar saw no television or radio, and let out a small laugh at the realization: without Yankees games, neither the radio or TV would be of much use to Sean. Gaspar took a mental inventory. He knew his wife would ask, “What’s his place like? Does he need anything? Has he got enough clean towels? Good pots and pans? What’s his couch like?” Gaspar noted the midcentury maple table and its lacquered surface. It had all the markings of a secondhand-store purchase. Four faux-antiqued and French Provincial–painted chairs surrounded it. An overstuffed, eighties-era leather love seat was so worn that the deep espresso-colored leather faded into beige splotches where the cushions met and flattened in the middle. None of the furnishings seemed to match the other. The entire place was a hodgepodge of decorating stylesthat would make the interior designer in his wife cringe. It was utilitarian at best, institutional at worst. But totally Sean. Gaspar knew that Sean simply never cared about stuff .
    Gaspar walked into Sean’s bedroom. His bed was made with military precision, the corners tucked tautly. The top sheet folded crisply over the navy blue blanket. A pile of surfing and oceanography books covered with cellophane dust jackets and Dewey decimal labels were stacked neatly on his bedside table. Gaspar turned and looked in the mirror above the dresser. Stuck up in the seam of wood trim was one photo. Gaspar inhaled, put his hand up, and touched it, closing his eyes and remembering the Santa Monica Pier. Three years earlier. The night before they took the boy, who hoped to see his father, to the hill with an observatory overlooking Los Angeles. Gaspar could see the moment on the pier in real time. Sean was smiling wildly, happier than he had been in years. Colm was alight with hope and anticipation for what was to come the next day. Sean was holding the boy after a ride with Gaspar on the Ferris wheel; Colm’s head was resting in the crook of his uncle’s neck. Gaspar snapped the photo just as Sean leaned in and