Thomas Walsh was no stranger to the odd job. It was the sort of thing one stumbled into in the gap between high school and college. The previous winter, he’d spent the chilly Massachusetts months shoveling driveways until his arms were numb. Spent his mornings laying down salt, his afternoons learning to work a plow. In the spring, after everyone had largely stopped asking why he hadn’t returned to school, he’d taken a part-time gig with his uncle, stapling shingles onto hot rooftops until the skin on the back of his neck turned lobster red.
He mowed lawns. He mucked stalls. He shoveled horse shit into wheelbarrows and dumped it into reeking compost gardens. He sat for two betta fish that seemed determined to go belly-up, an ancient cockatoo that wouldn’t quit wolf-whistling at him, and seven geriatric cats.
He scoopeda lotof cat shit.
It still wasn’t enough. The stack of bills on his mother’s counter piled higher. Red past-due notices slid in through the mail slot. Upstairs in her bed, his mom watched her soaps and took her medicines and assured him that things were fine, just fine.
But his mom was a liar.
And so, Thomas cleaned kitty litter without complaining. He unclogged public toilets and he counted every penny. He took whatever job came his way.
This one was going to be no different.
That was what he told himself as he sat in the silence of the Farrow family’s sitting room and clung to a highball glass of expensive cognac. He was only eighteen—hardly legal drinking age—but he supposed that sort of thing didn’t matter to people like Philip Farrow, self-made millionaire and managing partner of Farrow & Goldman Litigation.
Across from him sat Philip Farrow himself, a veritable king of the castle in a custom-tailored three-piece. Stuffed into his father’s old funeral suit, Thomas felt deeply out of place. He wondered if Philip Farrow would think differently of him if he knew how much time Thomas had spent shoveling kitty litter in the past week alone.
A man like Farrow was liable to expect applicants with sterling references and an Ivy League background. Not college dropouts with a less-than-impressive disciplinary record.
And yet here Thomas sat.
“We expect your discretion, of course,” Philip said. “That’s first and foremost. Our family is very private. Anything you see or hear while on the job is considered a family matter and, as such, should be kept strictly within the family.”
Thomas held tight to his sweating glass. “Understood.”
“We’ve interviewed a number of interpreters. None of them were quite suited to the specific demands of the job. But you are, aren’t you?”
“I hope so, sir.”
That had been the first requirement listed in the letter he’d received, typed up on the Farrow & Goldman Litigation stationery:A fluent understanding of signed language is a necessary prerequisite for the position.
As the hearing child of a deaf mother, Thomas had learned to speak with his hands well before he said his first words. It was second nature to him now, born out of years of habit, but that was all it was.
“Like I told you over the phone,” he said, “I’m not a certified interpreter.”
“Ahh.” Philip waved him off. “I’m not worried about that. What’s a certification but a piece of paper? I’m more interested inexperience.”
Thomas considered telling him that was exactly the problem—hedidn’thave experience. Not in a professional capacity, anyway. He watched Philip Farrow take a large swallow of cognac and wondered if he should do the same. If it was rude to keep clutching at his glass this way, without ever taking a taste.
“Vivi can be extremely particular,” slid a voice from the curtains. Philip’s wife, Amelia, stood twisted in the drapes, peering out at the driveway. “Don’t forget to tell him that.”
Philip undid the top button on his jacket and carried on as though his wife hadn’t spoken at all. “Other than on special occasions, Vivienne is expected to observe a strict curfew. The sun sets at eight thirty. She knows she’s expected home no later than eight fifteen, although she sometimes needs a bit of a nudge, if you catch my meaning.”
“I understand,” said Thomas, though it occurred to him that it wasn’t normally the job of an interpreter tonudgea client one way or another. He refrained from saying so. He’d been in Philip’s presence for all of ten minutes, and already he could tell the man wasn’t the sort of person who took kindly to being contradicted. Thomas had spent the last of his gas money for the drive to Greenwich that morning. He wasn’t about to do or say anything that might get him sent home.
As it was, Philip was beaming across the room at him. He looked deeply pleased with himself, as though he’d personally dug Thomas out of the earth like a red, ripe ruby.
“You’re a good kid,” he said, and raised his glass in a toast. “Responsible. Dedicated. Loyal to your core. I’ve got a good sense for these sorts of things.”
At the window, Amelia let out a sound that—on someone less refined—might have been mistaken for a scoff. The twitch in Philip’s left eye was nearly imperceptible.
“Between summer classes and her numerous social engagements, Vivienne has a packed schedule. You’ll accompany her whenever she leaves the house. We’ve had the maid bring your things into one of the guest rooms.”
That was the letter’s second requirement:The offer stands on the new hire’s ability to live on site for the duration of the contract.
That stipulation had nearly caused Thomas to turn down the offer outright. He hadn’t wanted to leave his mother’s side. Not these days, when—though she pretended otherwise—she was too sick to get out of bed. He’d wanted to stay close, and yet the debt collectors kept calling the house and the mortgage company kept stuffing letters under the door. Little by little, their health savings account ran dry.
In the end, the promise of a steady paycheck had been too good to pass up.
