STIGMA

CHAPTER ONE

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 description; 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 Calderon 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 world 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. 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 and spent the 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, the Northridge earthquake trapped 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.

Calderon's assignment was simple: To make sure the boy never reached the hospital. Josue Chaca and his mother would be discovered later, perhaps in some dank alley—newly arrived visitors who fell victim to random gang violence. It was a distasteful assignment, made necessary only because of his client's lax attitudes about security.

His cell phone sounded. It was a unique ring tone assigned only to Mr. Kong, his "spotter" at the gate. "They here?" Calderon asked.

"We got a problem," Kong said. "Something's happening up here . . ."

© Philip Hawley, Jr.