“Bring up that Fostoria crystal, boys. Let’s get that sold.”
Stuart cursed audibly as he squeezed down narrow passageways to find the requested stemware.
But Hershel hadn’t seen the KitchenAid mixer and didn’t call it out from its hiding place behind the refrigerator, and Carl was able to pick it up for five dollars late in the evening. It was when Hershel started auctioning off the vehicles that his concentration faltered. He stumbled with the combine, pausing three times and waiting for someone on the floor to holler out the last bid.
“We’ve got twelve hundred from bidder three ninety-eight, now,” Carl sang. He glanced at Stuart, whose face had gone hard, the blood coming up in his cheeks.
“Stupid fucker,” Stuart mouthed to Henry, the plumber. Henry just shrugged and rolled his eyes.
But the Charger was almost a non-sale for the number of times Hershel started over. Carl watched as the poor man shook his head and stared down at the microphone, apologizing twice and beginning again. His hands trembled, and silent tension rippled through the crowd as bidders waited with expressions of disgust and frustration. At last he sold it to Kyrellis for a mere two hundred dollars—almost what he’d paid to have it towed up here from Newberg. Carl moved rapidly on to the Volkswagen Rabbit, calling out to the crowd the details that Hershel would normally provide.
“It’s locked, but no one has the key. We don’t think it runs. As is, folks,” he shouted. “But, then, so are they all.” He smiled broadly at the crowd.
As Hershel started the bidding on the Rabbit, stumbling from fifty dollars to seventy-five, Carl eyed Kyrellis. Why would a gun dealer buy a wrecked Charger? He’d rarely known the man to buy anything but firearms, except for one antique mahogany bureau six or seven years back and a few other small odds and ends Carl could probably count on one hand. His purchases had been primarily guns in the ten years that Carl had worked at the auction. So it surprised him even more that Kyrellis picked up the Rabbit, too, for a hundred dollars.
Hershel stumbled through the filbert orchard toward home, his flashlight cutting a sharp yellow path ahead of him. The rain had stopped and the moon shone down now, but he took no notice. His mind wasn’t on the trees, or the mud that oozed beneath his feet, or the starlit sky above. He went back through the night, reliving the sale of the Charger and the embarrassment of forgetting his place. He didn’t care if people forgave him this because of the trauma he had suffered, though seeing their faces he didn’t believe that was the case. He could never forgive himself such a grotesque show of ineptitude.
Inside his century-old farmhouse, he went immediately to the kitchen and poured himself a brandy without removing his coat. He slumped against the counter and sipped the liquid.
You’re so fucked up, Hershel, he said to himself. You’re like a child. A pathetic little boy. Incapable of doing a man’s work. You’re worthless.
He swallowed the whole of the glass and poured another. “You shouldn’t have lived,” he said quietly.
7
“Where is my car?”
Carl flinched as Silvie rushed past him, nearly knocking him over. He’d forgotten that she was staying in the apartment. He hadn’t seen her at the sale. Carl lugged one end of a sofa-sleeper out of the warehouse to a waiting pickup truck. The man on the other end grunted under the strain of it. He was younger than Carl, by ten years at least. “Hold on,” he called to her. “Let me get this gentleman taken care of and I’ll be right with you.”
“Where is it?” she shrieked, rushing out into the parking lot.
He found her turning circles in the gravel lot where the Charger had been.
“It’s gone,” she cried. Her cheeks were flushed, and Carl could see the telltale signs of tears coming. He braced against them. “What have they done with it?”
“What car?” he asked.
“Rabbit. It’s gone.”
“The little green one?”
“Yes!” She looked hopeful. “Yes, the green one.”
“We sold it. Last night.”
“You what?” She stepped toward him as if she might punch him. “You have to get it back! It has everything—everything in it.”
“Okay,” he said, patting the air between them as if that might calm her. “It’s just a mistake. I’m sure we can fix it.”
She seemed unable to stop her tears now, sniffing hard. “I have to get it back,” she said with her face tipped skyward, as if speaking to God himself. “Oh, please please please get it back.”
Carl put a hand on her shoulder and guided her back into the building and to the door of Hershel’s office. As he unlocked it, he thought of the Glock. Hershel had been so distracted with the sale of the Charger that Carl doubted he’d done anything with the gun. “Wait right here,” he told Silvie. Inside, he found the gun exactly where he’d left it and slipped it into the top desk drawer, then went back for her. “You just wait here while I call Hershel. He’ll get this straightened out.”
“How could he sell it when it wasn’t his?” She ignored Carl’s instructions and sat down across from him in Hershel’s office, her brows pressed together.
“We have twenty-four hours to convey title.” Carl picked up the desk phone and punched in Hershel’s home number, keeping a wary eye on the girl. “That means whoever bought it will be back today.”
She nodded, sinking her teeth into her lip and staring at the floor.
“Boss, it’s Carl,” he said. “We have a situation down here. That green Rabbit we sold last night—”
The receiver was loud enough for Hershel’s disembodied voice to carry into the office. “I didn’t sell that Rabbit. It belongs to Sophie.”
“Silvie.”
“Yeah, yeah. Silvie.”
“Uh … actually, we did sell it.” Carl waited for Hershel’s response, going back through the sequence of events and realizing it was his own mistake—he’d put the Rabbit up as Hershel struggled to get his bearings. “Boss?”
“Shit.”
“I’ll look up the buyer,” Carl said. “You maybe wanna come down here and let Silvie know that we’re gonna get her car back. She’s pretty upset.”
“Fuck!” Hershel said.
“Boss?”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes. Get the buyer’s name and phone number for me.” Hershel hung up before Carl could respond.
“He’s on his way,” Carl said to Silvie. “He’ll get this straightened out. Don’t you worry.”
She lurched forward out of her chair. “Oh God, please get my car back. You have no idea how important this is.”
To Carl, that seemed like the truest statement ever spoken.
Silvie shivered as she waited in Hershel’s office. She rocked out of nervousness, telling herself the car would be returned. She pictured strangers digging through her things, finding the box and spreading its contents across the hood. There was no way to know what they would do with their find. They could keep the car, she didn’t care, but the box … She closed her eyes, tears slipping through the lids and blazing down her cheeks. “Oh God, please,” she repeated.
Hershel came into the office, flinging the door so wide it banged against the wall. “How did this happen?” he asked Carl, who followed close on his heels.
“I … well, you were …” Carl’s voice trailed off as he regrouped. “It was my fault. You seemed a little off after selling the Charger. I put the Rabbit up to keep the sale moving. It was in the lot. I assumed—” He handed Hershel a piece of paper. “Kyrellis. Here’s his number.”
“Kyrellis what?” Hershel glared at Carl.
“Kyrellis bought the car.” Carl blinked several times, but kept his gaze on Hershel. “Bought the Charger, too.”
Hershel took the note. He stared down at the number as if confused. Finally he glanced up. “Are you sure?”
Carl nodded.
Hershel turned to Silvie with an apologetic expression. “I’m really sorry about this,” he said. “We’ll get it back.”<
br />
“Oh God, you have to,” she said. “You have to.”
“If we can’t get it back, I’ll pay you for it. I’m—”
“No! You don’t understand. I need to get it back. You have to get it back.”
Hershel eyed her, then picked up the phone and dialed the number. After what seemed ages, he spoke to leave a message. “Kyrellis, this is Swift. There seems to have been a mistake last night. My floor man—” He turned to Carl, who stared down at his worn leather boots. “My floor man put up a car that wasn’t for sale. The little green Rabbit you bought … we need it back. It belongs to someone else. Wasn’t for sale. Call my cell so we can arrange to come get it.”
She stared at him through tears, his image a dancing blur. He handed her a neatly folded handkerchief from his jeans pocket. It smelled faintly of bleach, and she held it against her face a long time, letting it soak up her tears.
Carl disappeared out the door.
“I’m sorry about this,” Hershel said again. “Why don’t you let me buy you breakfast? There’s nothing we can do but wait for him to call back, anyway.”
She opened her mouth in protest, but he put a hand up to stop her.
Something about his gesture reminded her of Jacob. The car had been a gift he never let her forget, as if accepting it had somehow enslaved her for life.
“You can’t buy me like that,” she snapped.
“Buy you?” Hershel looked confused.
“I’m sorry. You don’t know how important it is that I get that car back.”
“It doesn’t run. Why not let him have it? I can look up the sale price. I won’t take a commission. Just let him have it. I’m sure he’ll give you your personal belongings back.”
“I don’t want anyone going through my stuff!”
Hershel sighed heavily. “This is my fault. I was off my game last night. I’m sorry. I don’t remember selling your car.”
“Carl told me about”—she immediately regretted starting down this path—“the car. The Charger.” She looked down at her hands, feeling self-conscious. “It was a bad wreck, huh?”
Hershel nodded and looked out the window, as if to escape the conversation. “Yup. Pretty bad.”
They sat in awkward silence for several moments; then the phone rang, startling them both.
Hershel swiped it up in his fist. “Swift.” He held it away from his head as the man at the other end shouted.
“I’ll reimburse you for your trouble. It was a mistake. C’mon, don’t be an ass.”
Silvie studied Hershel’s face, but he wouldn’t look at her.
“Is this because I didn’t sell—” Hershel glanced at Silvie, then away. He lowered his voice. “Is this because of that other item you were after last night?” He rubbed his eyes. “Fine. It’s yours,” he said in a hushed tone. “Just bring the fucking car back.” After an extended pause, he set the phone down. “I guess he agreed; he hung up.”
Silvie felt no sense of ease at the news. Now she waited with mounting anxiety about whether the angry man on the phone had ransacked her things and gotten his hands on Jacob’s box.
“Please, let me buy you something to eat,” Hershel said. “To make up for all this. Please.”
Silvie shook her head. “How soon do you think he’ll bring it?”
“What’s in your car that’s so important?” he asked.
She looked away.
“I should fire Carl for this.”
“He’s a nice man,” she said. “I don’t think you should fire him.”
“No, you’re probably right.”
“Has he worked for you long?”
“A couple of years. Tell me again why you’re going to Lincoln City. Are you going after a job?”
Silvie bit at her lower lip. “I’m just … I just want to be near the ocean, that’s all.”
He studied her. “So what’s all the fuss about the ocean?” he asked.
“I’ve never been.”
“You don’t have to move to the coast to see it for the first time.”
She kept her eyes on the floor, her mouth now set in a hard line.
“You’re not from Montana. Not with Wyoming plates on your car. You should take the money. It’s more than you’ll get for it anywhere else.” He sat back in his chair, looking suddenly confident. “So why would a girl who can’t even afford a motel room prefer a dead car over a little extra cash?”
“I’m running from an abusive man.”
He blinked.
“It doesn’t matter,” she went on with venom. “Now that I’ve been here and you know my name and what I look like, I’ll have to find some other place to go. It won’t be Lincoln City. It won’t be anywhere that you can tell him about, that much is for sure.”
Hershel opened his mouth to speak but didn’t.
“If—when he shows up looking for me, just tell him you never saw me. Okay? Tell him you found my car somewhere in Washington. Tell him—” She began to cry. “Tell him whatever you want.” Her narrow shoulders shuddered violently and she buried her head in her lap.
8
Carl pulled his jacket collar up to keep the morning rain off his neck as he stood on Yolanda’s step. The siding was rotting away, and he could see where water had seeped down into the seam and buckled the plywood. Mold covered the entire structure. All the cabins had been painted bright turquoise three summers back. The landlord had offered a week of free rent to tenants who painted their own, and everyone took him up on the offer. They complained bitterly about the color, though, saying it was “omosekswal.” The landlord had gotten a deal on the paint down at Columbia. An order that was never picked up—probably because the customer had come to his senses at the last minute.
“It’s too much,” Yolanda said, her face alight with surprise. Yellow light glowed through Yolanda’s open door, and the smell of fried tortillas wafted out into the damp Oregon morning. “It’s too much. I can’t take it.” Her frame took up the entire doorway as she clutched the KitchenAid to her chest with her doughy fingers. Her dark eyes twinkled with delight, and she held it out again to inspect it.
“You can. It’s for you.” Carl’s voice was strong, stern even. He had to work to hold back the smile that was fighting its way up from his center.
“No, no,” she said in her heavy Mexican accent. “I can’t pay you.”
“Have I ever asked you for money?”
“Carlos,” she said, resigning herself to the fact that he would agree to nothing but total acceptance. “Santa Carlos.”
“Make some cookies or something,” he said, throwing his hand up and stepping off the stoop. She would, whether he supplied her with a used mixer or not.
“You are so kind,” she called after him. “I will make you wedding cakes.”
Carl trudged through the muddy yard between the cabins, scattering large spotted hens and gaining the attention of an enormous gray rooster. They eyed each other balefully for a moment, the rooster’s guard feathers rising in preparation for attack. But Carl rushed the bird and sent it retreating behind one of the shacks before it could make its move.
A small boy was huddled on the step of the same shack with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders against the cold morning. He watched apprehensively as Carl intimidated the rooster.
When Carl noticed the boy he said, “That one’s mean. Don’t let it get the upper hand. Chase it off before it thinks it can take you.”
The boy stared, and Carl knew that he didn’t speak English. His face was dirty and his jeans were torn at the knees. The warmth Carl had carried from Yolanda’s porch dissolved as he was reminded of the overwhelming need in this place.
He nodded at where the bird had gone and flapped his hands, making the child smile. The door came open suddenly and a short, work-worn man with a hard expression stepped into the light behind the boy.
“Adentro,” he said, and the boy rapidly scuttled past him into the dark interior. The man leaned against the doorjamb and lit a
cigarette, appraising Carl.
Carl nodded a greeting. When the man didn’t respond, he turned toward his own shack, just past the picnic table, across the small yard.
“Cabrón,” the man said in a barely audible tone.
Carl walked on without looking back. A new crew had arrived the previous day while he was working. The ten shacks at Campo Rojo were full again, and a handful of tents were set up in the adjacent field. Fresh from who knew where. California? Arizona? Straight from Mexico? They were here for the fall pruning of fruit trees and vineyards. It was always this way when a new bunch of workers arrived. Suspicious stares and muttered racial slurs. They assumed that he worked for Arndt, the landlord. They believed Carl was stationed there to keep an eye on the goings-on in camp. Yolanda would fill them in. They wouldn’t believe her at first, thinking she’d been duped, but over time things would bear out and they’d see that he was just a resident, the same as themselves. Then they’d move on and a new crew would arrive, and it would begin again.
Inside his one-room house, Carl shook the rain off his jacket and hung it on a peg next to the door. A small potbellied woodstove put out a generous heat, and he kicked off his muddy boots and warmed his fingers.
He craved. Today it was severe—worse than most.
He tried to shut the thoughts out of his mind, turning them to Silvie. She’d been constant on his mind since he discovered the terrible mistake he’d made in selling her car. But it wasn’t his screwup that weighed on him, though he harbored a strong desire to somehow make it up to her. No, it was her fear that bothered him. Kept him up most of the night thinking about it, in fact. He could understand her frustration, anger even. But the overriding emotion she’d shown upon discovering that her car was missing, a car that Hershel told him didn’t even run, was terror. And that, Carl could not shake.
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