Philip Hawley Jr
Stigma
FOR MOM AND DAD
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
During the writing of this novel there were many who came along at just the right moment, like stepping stones appearing suddenly and unexpectedly just as the literary quagmire threatened to swallow me whole. They include:
My wife, Janelle, who read the early drafts without giggling (well, most of the time) and offered insights that allowed me to understand more fully the characters in this story. She doggedly sifted through a great many words to help me find those that should remain, encouraged me through the difficult times, and remained ever hopeful, even when I doubted myself.
My son, Ned, and my daughter, Sara, for their patience and love. I am truly blessed.
Paul Guyot and his wonderful wife, Kelly, who were to my creative efforts like rainfall on parched soil.
My teachers, most notably Bill Barnett, who aptly nicknamed me “Neb,” for my nebulous and evasive answers while a high-school student in his English literature class; and Shelley Singer, who taught me the importance of precision in both thought and word.
The many readers who suffered through early drafts, including: Will and Brenda Langdon, friends in the truest sense; my brother George, who knows more about arcane subjects than I would have ever imagined; my brother Ned, who revealed to me his considerable literary talent; my brother Victor, who has a peculiar affection for really nasty villains; my sister, Erin, who has a keen literary eye and also offers great family discounts for her cleaning services; Bruce Johnson, who can shoot the stem off an apple at three hundred yards; Bob and Maryann Hussey; Edgar Hussey; Tammy Sparks; John and Marilyn Maher; and Gayle Robertson.
Ed Stackler, the enormously talented editor who taught me the finer points of storytelling and showed me how to turn a rough draft into a finished novel.
Lyssa Keusch and the entire staff at HarperCollins, who worked so tirelessly supporting this book. Also, Rob McMahon and Erin Brown, who were its earliest champions.
Mega-talented authors Robert Browne, who designed the cover for this e-book edition, and Brett Battles, who generously shared his knowledge about e-book publishing. Gifted editor and Ninja, Elyse Dinh-McCrillis, who copyedited this e-book edition.
My agent and friend, Simon Lipskar, who has one of the most challenging jobs in the world and performs it with equal measures of insight, tenacity, patience, and kindness.
Elmer Crehan, MD, and John Thom, MD, two pediatricians who set a high and noble example for those who follow them.
1
Calderon figured that, on this night, he had to be the only chauffeur at Los Angeles International Airport who was picking up a dying boy.
A TV monitor above one of the airport luggage carousels flashed, announcing the arrival of Flight 888 from Guatemala City. It was 6:18 P.M. The plane was a half hour late, but Calderon was on time and that’s what mattered. He’d never been late for a job.
He slid a finger down the lapel of his coat and surveyed his black uniform. Not a stray crease, not a single mark or stain — the boy and his mother deserved at least that much. He ignored the stench of spent diesel from a bus passing behind him as he stood outside the glassed-in baggage claim area and watched for his passengers. Inside, a swarm of travelers sluiced down the escalator and streamed around an eager clot of livery drivers who were jouncing like nervous puppies. No skill, no finesse.
Calderon was a professional. His passengers wouldn’t have to find him. He had their descriptions; he’d find them. When they emerged from the last Customs checkpoint, he would appear nearby — a respectful distance away, unobtrusive, but clearly visible to the persons in his charge. He’d immediately conform to their attitude and manner, gregarious if he needed to be, silent and inconspicuous if they preferred. He was especially good at his work, and he knew it. Recognizing the inescapable patterns that define people, anticipating their next thought — these things came naturally to him. He had a knack for this work.
And he usually enjoyed it, but not tonight.
For the young boy and his mother, this was probably their first-ever trip away from home, and almost certainly their first time on a plane. They’d be frightened after being locked away with strangers in a strange metal tube with wings, herded through narrow passageways, hammered with noisy directives, perhaps even stripped of a belonging or two along the way.
Weary and apprehensive, the mother would nevertheless hide behind a mask of stoicism when he greeted her. She would be surprised and pleased to discover that a Guatemalan driver, someone from her homeland, was waiting to welcome them to America, but she wouldn’t dare show her relief. He understood; it was their way.
Calderon would befriend her by telling stories about his own journey to America twenty-five years ago. He could still summon the memories of his illegal border crossing: he and his mother crammed into a crowded compartment under the bed of a box truck, the decrepit transmission assaulting his ears until he couldn’t hear anymore, the rancid odors of a dozen unwashed bodies, and his mother choked with fear.
Once he seated the boy and his mother in the town car, Calderon would smile warmly into the rearview mirror, lift his shoulders, give them a gentle laugh, and point out the similarities of their journeys. However you come to America, you’re certain to be crowded into a tight space with strangers.
The boy’s mother might not even smile, but she would appreciate the story. Perhaps her shoulders would relax as he distracted her from her worries for one brief moment.
Calderon imagined the mother’s dread. Her son was a sickly boy, a medical mystery. American doctors would try to unravel the diagnostic puzzle. America’s prodigious wealth and know-how were poised and standing ready, all for a four-year-old boy from a tiny village in the Guatemalan rain forests.
Only in America.
Josue Chaca and his mother had no idea that Calderon would be there to greet them. He would explain that it was a small welcoming gesture, another gift from the hospital waiting to receive them, University Children’s Hospital.
Josue was one of the chosen few, emblematic of American generosity, plucked in a seemingly random way from among millions of children around the globe who endure their deformities and ailments simply because that’s the only life they know.
A loud horn sounded inside the baggage claim area and a red light flashed atop one of the carousels as the machinery groaned to life.
When Calderon and his mother had arrived in America, flashing red lights were the enemy. Back then, America’s considerable resources had been a constant threat, fuel that fed his mother’s never-ending fear of deportation. They were happiest when they received no attention at all, wanting instead to be left alone to eke out their meager existence in rural Oklahoma. A strong and healthy twelve-year-old boy, Calderon had been tossed into an immigrant labor pool that casually discarded those who couldn’t keep up.
All of that had changed when he became an American citizen on his eighteenth birthday. It was the same day he enlisted in the Army. Life had begun on that day.
Seven years later his dreams had died when the U.S. military tossed him out like so much garbage. His stomach knotted as he remembered the night he returned home to his mother’s ramshackle apartment. He spent the entire night staring at her bedroom door, which was too rotted to hold in the muted sounds of her weeping. She was probably still thinking about her son’s disgrace when, a few months later, a tornado buried her under a two-story pile of rubble. The government bureaucrats could have saved her, but instead they let her suffocate to death.
Now, the same America that had for so many years hovered over Calderon and his mother like a storm cloud, the same America that had excreted them as if they were bilious waste, that same America was giving aid and comfort to this woman and her boy. Josue Chaca and his mother were tasting the American dream, if only for a short time.