It all hinged on his passport. Shawn came here in the mid Eighties on a work visa, which he overstayed. A kindly bureaucracy might overlook that, if he could establish the legality of his entry. But his passport had vanished, he thought in a long-ago burglary of his home safe. In its absence the efforts of a series of (predatory?) immigration lawyers were in vain. Last year, though, his wife found it — in the depths of a closet, stuffed into a cookbook. His permanent-residency card came through this winter, and he could now go home.
He made arrangements immediately, booking flights and renting a beach house. His first plan was to show up by surprise. I thought this was a bad idea. He and his mother, to whom he is devoted, have stayed in touch by regular phone calls and occasional meetings in Miami. But she is 75 years old, and a woman of ardent emotions. If he appeared suddenly on her doorstep, the consequences could be medical. He was spared from making the experiment by his inability to deceive her. She said, in one of their phone calls, that she was planning to go to a funeral on one of the out islands during the time he was to be home. “Do you have to go?” he asked. “Why are you asking?” she asked in turn. The truth came out; she dropped the phone, weeping. When she picked it back up they agreed that she would tell no one else, so an element of surprise remained.
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