Page 4 of The Sign for Home

“No problem,” I said, trying to match the kilowatts of her smile.

“I’m a bit flustered. I just spent the morning at the Social Security office with one of our clients. The workers there can be so frustratingly insensitive, but I’m sure they have their own battles they’re fighting, right?”

“I totally get it,” I said, nodding my head empathetically. “Social work is the hardest job out there. I have the utmost respect—”

“I don’t know about that,” Clara volleyed, touching her heart. “Whatyoudo is…” She searched for the word. “Remarkable.”

“Oh, yeah, right,” I muttered. “It’s good.”

Nothing annoyed me more than hearing people getting all gooey about the sign language interpreter thing. Sure, it was a cool gig. But I wasn’t an ASL interpreter because of some innate goodness. I did it because interpreting was fun, it paid decently, and I really liked most Deaf people.

“Don’t be modest,” Clara said, pulling the student’s file from her desk. And then, just like that, her demeanor shifted toall business.

“The DeafBlind student’s name is Arlo Dilly. Twenty-three years old. Lives with his guardian, an uncle… or rather a great-uncle. Arlo has Usher syndrome 1. I’m sure you’re familiar with the condition.”

I was, but only barely, which apparently showed on my face, since Clara started to explain.

“In Arlo’s case, he was born deaf, followed by night blindness as a child, balance issues, and then a progressive loss of peripheral vision. Lost the sight in his right eye completely, and the left is on its way out. He uses two-hand Tactile. Angela says you have experience?”

“Um… a little.”

“I see. Well, Arlo will be interviewing you and the other applicant, and he’ll make the final decision quickly since the job starts Tuesday. He’s a nice young man. Very bright. But this will be the first time he’s in a classroom setting since he left high school. He needs someone comfortable with Tactile ASL.”

“Of course!” I said, feeling myself being overly eager. “It’s important that he find the right match.”

Clara looked me over, stopping her gaze at my hairline, smiling curiously, then continuing as if I hadn’t said anything.

“You would be teaming with his regular interpreter, Molly Clinch. Do you know her? She’s been with him since he was thirteen.”

Working with a team interpreter was never my favorite thing, but anytime you have a gig that goes over an hour, and where there will be incessant talking, a team is a necessary evil. The brain starts to miss things after just twenty minutes of nonstop interpreting, and sign language interpreters are at risk of repetitive stress injuries, so we’d switch on and off every twenty minutes to keep the brain fresh, the body safe, and the message accurate.

“Molly Clinch?” I repeated the name. “Is she new to the area? I thought I knew almost every terp north of Yonkers.”

“Ah,” Clara said. “Interesting. Well, as far as I know, she mostly just works with Arlo. It’s important to know that he comes from a strict Jehovah’s Witness family so has lived a fairly sheltered life. There’s also been some trauma in his past, but, well, if he wants to explain that I’m sure he will.”

Trauma?I thought. More than being raised Jehovah’s Witness?

“Hmm,” I said, nodding my head.

“Now, I need to run and make sure the other applicant is on her way.” Clara stood and made her way to the door of the conference room. “Arlo should be here any minute. I’ll be right back.”

And there I was, left alone to stare at the walls again. Opposite the inspirational posters were a series of vintage photos of former students of the Abilities Institute. By the cut of their bell-bottoms and David Cassidy feathered mullets I’d say they were taken back in the 1970s or early ’80s. Some were in wheelchairs, some had crutches, a few had white canes, and two were teenagers with Down syndrome. Each had a gigantic smile as if the photographer had tickled them into a state of euphoria.

Where are they now?I thought. Would this Arlo Dilly’s photo be up there someday? Where did the students go after here? Were they stuck in Poughkeepsie like me? Holed up in some state-run facility? Dickensian lite? Or were they able to actually get out and have a life?

I wanted a life. I needed this job.

A moment later the door pushed open and in popped the head of an old yellow service dog, followed by her slow lumbering body, and then, finally, at the other end of the harness, the DeafBlind consumer himself.So this is Arlo Dilly?He was taller than me, six foot at least, and could have been mistaken for any other twentysomething on the streets of Poughkeepsie. I mean, if you ignored his bad haircut, his uncertain and wobbly walk, his giant BluBlocker sunglasses, his dirty backpack the size of a small island, his shirt nerd-buttoned up to his neck, and his saucer-sized yellow button that proclaimed (for safety reasons),I’M DEAFBLIND.

He certainly didn’t look as scary as the DeafBlind octopus my mind had created.

Arlo’s guide dog, with her gray muzzle, pink nose, and intensely languid eyes, stared up at me almost witheringly, like she was the canine equivalent of a beleaguered and bored secretary portrayed by Agnes Moorehead. As the dog led Arlo farther into the room, he slapped his feet on the floor with loud determination, as if he was killing a bug with every step. When he accidentally sideswiped the arm of one of the conference-room chairs with his leg, he groaned in pain and angrily grabbed the offending chair as if it had tried to hit him on purpose. But then, just as quickly, he started feeling the chair, memorizing its size, shape, and place in the room.

A wave of guilt flooded over me. With any regular client, I would have immediately introduced myself and chatted. Besides being polite, it was the way I could study how the consumer signed and adjust my interpreting accordingly. But the memory of my failure with DeafBlind Shirley still haunted me. So, instead of engaging, I just sat there watching, as though Arlo were some criminal suspect behind a one-way mirror of blindness.

Arlo snapped his fingers, signingsitto his dog. The old dog obeyed and looked up at her DeafBlind boss adoringly, as if Arlo were the perfect combination of God and a raw bloody steak. Then Arlo removed his gargantuan backpack, placed it at his feet, and unzipped it. Then, step-by-step, he began transferring things between his backpack and his various pockets. A small notebook and black Sharpie were placed in the front right pocket of his khakis. He pulled a folded white cane from his back pocket and transferred it to the front pouch of the bag. His baseball cap he placed in the main compartment. He checked the contents of his wallet and replaced it in his front left pants pocket.

Finally, after everything was in its place, Arlo pulled out a bottle of eyedrops and removed his gigantic sunglasses. I could finally see his entire face. Despite the hair, despite the awful clothes, despite his whole awkward manner, he was a nice-looking young man with a firm jaw and blue eyesthat were slightly crossed. He squeezed the drops in each eye and then let them adjust. A moment later he appeared to look around the room until his eyes settled on me.

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