Proof of Angels (18 page)

Yes, love indeed is light from heaven;

A spark of that immortal fire with angels shared . . .

—Lord Byron

T
HE FLIGHT TO
F
LORENCE DAMN NEAR KILLED
S
EAN
. His legs throbbed. The pain in his back was excruciating. He knew he should have sprung for first class. But when he got to the counter and saw how much the tickets cost, he couldn't bring himself to do it. He needed to stretch his cash in case things worked out and he would need to stay longer.

The pain had gotten so bad, Sean began eyeing the small bottles of vodka and whiskey on the beverage cart the flight attendant had pushed past him earlier.

It took everything he had not to raise his hand and order. It would be so easy. One bottle and the pain might disappear. He would be able to stop, he told himself. It was just for the pain.
Just this one time. A self-administered dosage. I could taper. I did it before
.

He fought the urge. He circled back to his meetings. The Big Book. The mantras. If he could get through this five minutes
of pain, he could get through the next five minutes. And the next. And the next after that. And it would all add up. It was better not to think of the entire flight, the endless hours, the stifling cabin, the fact that nothing was holding the plane up, nothing but thirty thousand feet of air and miles of water below that. It was better not to think of the snoring passenger beside him, the overwhelming cologne barely covering the putrid body odor of the man sitting in front of him, whose chair was reclined and resting on Sean's knees.
His knees
. It was better not to think of them, and the femurs that were attached to them and that ached.

Sweat poured down Sean's back. His forehead glistened. His pants were soaked through.

He eyed the drinks cart again.
Just one. It would only be one
.

His teeth had formed a solid wall behind his open lips when a flight attendant approached him and asked, “Sir, is everything okay? Can I get you anything?”

He began to raise a finger to point at the small bottle of vodka he saw on an open tray table across the aisle, but he caught himself.
I
didn't come this far. I didn't make it this far to fall off the wagon now. To screw up now. Screw the pain. You've been through worse, Magee. Pull your shit together
. Panic seized him.
What if he Tom, James, and Libby were right, what if he wasn't ready? What if something terrible were to happen to him up here?
He couldn't take it any more so he did what his meetings taught him to do: talk.

“I broke my legs. I broke my back, too, and burned my arms and face,” Sean said, lifting his arms up and unaware of why he felt compelled to talk, to tell someone this, but he knew it was coming from somewhere deep within him. If he
didn't, he knew he would ask for a drink. “I'm an alcoholic. I can't drink. I can't take anything for my nerves. For my pain. I can't take pills. I don't know how I am going to make it through the next few hours. This is hell. Hell. I can't take it,” Sean said breathlessly. Panting out the last few words,
I can't take it
.

The flight attendant leaned over and in a stage whisper asked, “Sir, do you think you can stand up?”

“Yes, I think I can,” Sean whispered back.

“Follow me,” she whispered, quietly this time, putting a finger in front of her lips.

Sean braced himself and pushed out of the minuscule chair that had pinned his hips. “Ahhhh,” he cried out, briefly waking the snoring passenger, who gave a final snort and flopped her head over in the opposite direction.

Sean limped slowly behind the flight attendant, using each row of seats as support down the long row and through the curtains to first class.

“We have one available. I was supposed to sit here, but you can take it,” the flight attendant said, pointing to what appeared to be a wide fold-out bed. “It's a recumbent chair, folds out like a bed so you can stretch your legs and sleep.”

“But where will you sit?”

“Back in your seat during landing. I'll be okay.”

“Why? You don't know me.”

“It's okay. You need this more than me. Get some rest. Sooner you sleep, sooner you'll be where you want to be.”

“Thank you,” Sean whispered. “You have no idea what you just did for me.”

“I just gave you my chair.”

Sean wanted to say,
You just saved an old drunk from possibly blowing everything he spent the past eleven years trying to fix
. But instead he said, “What you did was huge. Huge.”

“Come on,” the flight attendant said, swatting him. “It was nothing.”

“Nothing to one person can mean the world to another,” Sean said, shaking her hand before falling into a deep, fast sleep that took him exactly where he wanted to go.

D
ESPITE THE ABILITY TO STRETCH OUT, THE PAIN
never left Sean's legs, even after he stepped off the plane. Even after he walked through the gates and out of the airport, a throbbing, tight sensation wrapped his left calf. No matter how he stretched, he couldn't kick it. The pain radiated up his legs and his chest. He felt anxious, afraid. His old
I can't
s and self-doubts crept in. He was standing on the ledge of a window all over again.

Jump, dammit. Jump
.

Sean stood motionless at the curb outside the airport in Florence for several minutes, contemplating his next move.
This was so stupid
. Every instinct in him was telling him to turn around, get back on the next plane, and go home.
The entire trip was a terrible idea
. Everyone had been right to warn him, to try to stop him. He stood with his back to the road and looked up at the airport, deciding whether or not to go back inside and forget this foolhardy decision. Just as he was about to step
forward and return through the doors, a large woman with a rolling suitcase knocked Sean's cane from beneath him and threw him off balance. When he regained his composure, he was facing a taxi that had pulled up alongside him.

Sean fought the instinct to retreat and stepped off the curb.

“Duomo,” Sean instructed the driver curtly.

“
Si, si
. Do you speak English?” the cabdriver asked in a thick accent.

“
Si
,” Sean said.

“Lucky for you, I speak it. First time in Firenze?”

“No, I lived here many years ago,” Sean said while fumbling with his bag and handing it to the driver to put in the trunk.

“I can help you, sir. Please, sit. Sit.” The driver held Sean's arm and instructed him to get in the car.

“You don't look so good. Are you sick, sir?” the driver said, leaning in before shutting the door.

“No. Yes. I don't know,” Sean mumbled in confusion.

The driver dropped the bag in the trunk, ran around the car, jumped in the driver's seat, and adjusted the mirror in Sean's direction. “I will take you to the doctor? Hospital?”

“No, no. The Duomo
per favore
.”

“I know sick. You are sick. Very sick. Your face has no color. You are sweating. I must take you.”

“I had a long night and a long flight. I came from California. My legs . . . they were cramped for so long. That is all.”

“You should go for a walk. You might feel better.” The taxi driver looked at Sean in the rearview mirror again. “Why are you back in Firenze? That's a long trip to just see the
David
, no?”

“I came back for a woman.”

“Ah, always a woman.
Si, si
. She is
bellisima
?”

“
Si
.”

“What is your plan? Stay here? Take her back to America and buy her a big house? Fancy white sneakers?”

Sean laughed and shook his head. “I just hope she'll want to talk to me.”

“Ah, ah.
Il mio consiglio
. . .”

“Your advice?”

“
Si, si
, my advice.”

“I don't need any more advice,” Sean said, shaking his head.

“No, no. You must take this. You must. I can see you need it.”

“First you said I looked sick and now you say you see that I need advice?” Sean laughed again

“Maybe your heart is sick? Eh? Maybe this old man can teach you some things?”

“You don't know me,” Sean said, staring back at the driver's eyes in the mirror.

“I know love.”

“Oh no, here we go,” Sean said, rolling his eyes. “Another human, another opinion. Shoot.”

“It is very, very simple,” the driver said, holding up his pointer finger for emphasis,
“Ascolta,”
the driver started.

“I am listening,” Sean said, adjusting his legs again in the backseat.

“No, that is my advice.
Listen
. Everyone needs to shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Just listen. You think you have so much to say. You probably flew all this way, and I wager this: I wager
that you thought about all the things you wanted to say to the girl. You thought,
I will say this
,
and then she will say that
. But life never goes like you think it will. If you think it, then it does not happen. That is just the way. It is God's way to show us who is the boss. Our minds don't control what others will say and do. So shut up. Believe me. You listen and you will hear. You stop talking and you will see. You be still, and you will know,” the driver said emphatically.

“Do I have to tip you more for the
consiglio
?” Sean asked with a smirk.

“No charge. I give my genius away for free. It's an added bonus for ride with me.” The driver smiled and winked in the mirror back at Sean.

For the rest of the ride through Florence, Sean shut up. He listened to the taxi driver talk about his wife and children, his long hours in the cab, his mother suffering from Alzheimer's, the cost of gas, the economic crisis, and the rising crackdown on counterfeit wares. “Don't buy a cheap purse for your girl. You will get arrested.
Si?
” Sean nodded and tried to do as the man instructed; he tried as hard as he could to not create scenarios in his head of what would be, how it would all turn out. He tried to stay present. He tried to do what James had said and wait for the moment. Wait for the right time to rise and soar.

When the taxi came to a halt at a stoplight a few blocks from the Duomo, Sean tapped the driver's shoulder. “I'll get out here. I'll walk the rest of the way.”

“Did I talk too much? Did I bother you?”

“No, you've been very entertaining. I just have to walk. My legs,” Sean said, tapping them with his cane.

“
Si, si
. Are you going to meet
la
bella
here?”

“No, she doesn't even know I am here.”

“Ah, you Americans. Too many movies. Too much hope. Happy endings. You all think life is a Sandra Bullock movie? Eh? But in real life there is only one ending. In the ground. And it's not so happy. Not so much a Sandra Bullock movie.”

Sean laughed, pulled out his thick wallet, and counted out one hundred euros. “Keep the change, doc. Take your
bella
out to dinner.” Sean was always so tight with money when it came to himself, but never thought twice about giving it away for another's benefit.

After stuffing the money in his jeans, the driver leaped out of the car and grabbed Sean's bag. “Here is my card. If things don't work out with the girl, you call me. Just me. I'll pick you up anywhere and I can drive you anywhere. I have a lot of advice I can give.”

“Thanks, I am sure you do,” Sean said, taking the bag and the card.

Sean turned slowly, adjusting his cane to the cobblestones, and crossed through the piazza, pulling his bag, which bumped along loudly behind him. When he reached the Baptistery across from the Duomo, he stood and stared at it for a long time. The driver was right. He had played the scene over and over in his head. He imagined running into her as she came walking past him. He imagined all the things he would say to her.
Dammit
. He was a fool to think he could come here, just show up, and everything would go as he had imagined, as he had planned and dreamed, simply because he had some dumb hallucination on the night of the fire.

Sean fought another urge to turn around and tell the driver to stop, but instead walked toward the entrance of the church.

T
HERE IS AN UPRUSH WHEN ONE WALKS THROUGH THE
door of the Basilica di Santa Maria del Fiore. One half-expects to be assaulted by an opulent interior, one at least befitting its over-the-top exterior. But walking through the doors, Sean felt exactly how he had over eleven years ago, when he first set foot inside the gargantuan, stark nave. He felt swallowed. Infinitesimal. Insignificant. And yet, he felt connected . . . connected to everyone and everything. The vast open space filled with light and people made him feel that he was intimately connected to the divine architect, and all the men who'd made it, too, who worked for centuries to build the structure. It took thousands of men and women to build the structure, brick by brick, and none of them knew the lives they'd touch. Few of them probably knew that the magnificent structure would stand for centuries, long after they lived. Invisible to him now, the spirits of those people reached out and touched Sean as he walked. He just knew it. He'd felt them with him eleven years
earlier and he felt them now. As he walked through it again, he felt like a maverick wave was hitting him and taking him to the cold depths of the ocean floor. A weight heavier than he'd ever felt pressed on his chest. He inhaled deeply and tried to catch his breath. He reached for a mask that was not there to pull off.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe
.

When he reached the front of the church, and stood beneath the colossal dome, he suddenly remembered something he'd forgotten. A found memory, the kind that happens only when looking through old boxes in cobwebbed basements, where suddenly a long-forgotten and unseen picture conjures it all up and worms its way through one's subconscious. Like a few months ago when he'd come upon a photo of Cathleen and himself at the Bronx Zoo back when they were kids. He could have been no more than nine or ten years old. He could smell the camel they were riding. He could see their mother waving at them. It had been a day lost until found decades later in a box. And just like when he saw that picture and remembered, he saw the dome and could see Chiara stop him, take his hand, and say to him in impeccable English, “Do you know how they built that giant dome, Sean? It had never been done before. Nothing this magnificent had ever been created. The closest thing was the Pantheon in Rome, but the architects of the Pantheon didn't leave instructions, of course, so no one knew just how they created it. The people of Florence felt hopeless. They didn't think that their church, which took centuries to build, would ever get the promised dome. But eventually the genius architect Brunelleschi solved the problem of building a dome on such a gargantuan scale. It is still somewhat of a mystery and argued about in certain circles,
but the gist is that by creating an intricate web of chains and iron rods, he was able to build a somewhat flexible but strong structure that would eventually form the bones of the dome. He made a series of them and formed them in the shape of an octagon to hold the shape,” Chiara said, pulling Sean's arms with hers and interlocking them to demonstrate how the chains were pulled taut. “It took eight sides to create the strength to support it,” Chiara explained further. “Masons reinforced the structure
as
they built it with an ingenious bricklaying method—interlocking them in a herringbone pattern. The cross ties of the iron chains and rails were woven together and then were covered with the bricks and mortar of the inner dome. The bottom chains can be seen protruding from the drum at the base of the dome. The others are hidden. Can you see?” Chiara asked, breaking their taut circle of arms and pointing up.

Sean nodded, but he didn't see.

“They never even needed scaffolding. They just stood on the web of chains and built from the inside out.”

“So there are iron rods and chains still up there?” Sean asked.

“Yes, the clay bricks were formed in fire, Sean, and then formed the body of the dome. And the inside was reinforced with metal.”

Formed in fire and reinforced with metal
. Sean dropped his cane with the memory and looked up toward the small windows cut into the dome.

“And all of it was created so that at the top of the dome, a circle of windows could be installed, to let the light in. So that through the fire, the hard metal, and the heavy stuff of this
world, the light could come shining through,” Sean remembered Chiara saying and pointing.

“All that for a little bit of light,” Sean said, looking up at the dome and then back at Chiara in disbelief.

“Yes, Sean. A little bit of light makes all the difference. How else would we be able to see the angels?” Chiara's head fell back and she pointed up to the frescoes painted on the interior of the dome.

“How do you know so much? So much about the light?” Sean asked her, taking her by the hands and looking deep in her eyes.

“I was named after it. Sort of. My father . . . he brought me here as a child and he told me the same story I just told you. He came here every day and prayed under that light for a daughter. My mother was old like him and they wanted a child. And he made a promise to the angels and the light above that if he was granted this request, he would name me after the light they pointed to. He would spend his life in service to it.”

“Wait, I thought Chiara meant Clare?” Sean asked.

“
Chiara
means
clear
—so light may pass, so that it may enter,” she said, smiling and pointing.

“All this for a little light.” Sean laughed and hugged her close. “Little Chiara,” he said, kissing the top of her head.

Sean, overcome by the memory, caught his breath and looked up at Vasari's, Zuccari's, and Cresti's frescoes, painted over the course of eleven years. Each building upon each other's work, where one left off another began. One informed the other, making each consecutive fresco more beautiful, more alive. Each added their own version of light to the entire dome, covering the fire-burned bricks, chains, and metal
with beauty, essence, and spirit. Each interpretation wholly different than the other but together working to tell a complete story of the world, creation, judgment, hell, earth, and heaven. Each used their divine talents to fill the giant, empty white dome with beauty and light.

Sean saw Cresti's
Choirs of Angels
, which encircled the dome. Their wings spread wide, and their arms pointing to both the light above and the people below. He thought of Chiara, the light, and the eight sides that helped strengthen and reinforce the dome.
Eight
.

He looked at the angels above and then started another mental list, slowly whispering each of their names aloud:

                
Mom

                
Cathleen

                
Colm

                
Gaspar

                
James

                
Libby

                
Tom

                
Chiara

He envisioned each of their faces in the faces of the angels above him. And he was overcome by the thought of the eight people who held him up, pushed him into the light.

Sean fell to his knees.