Damaged Goods

by Heather Sharfeddin

  Silvie found Hershel in the cashier’s booth the following morning, poring over receipts. She’d wandered every square inch of the warehouse the previous day as she’d awaited the return of her car, and had discovered a back hallway leading to the room where they cataloged merchandise. She had pawed through boxes of weird and incongruent things like hair dryers next to poultry feeders. There was a life-size cardboard cutout of John Wayne leaning against the wall next to the women’s bathroom, and its realness unnerved her every time she passed it, giving her the sense that she should say “Excuse me” as she went by. She kept up her energy with small cups of Coca-Cola from the fountain in the concession stand. But hunger never found her.

  Hershel looked up when she appeared at the window, as if she were a customer waiting to receive a bidding number. “Hello,” he said. “How did you sleep?”

  She shook her head. “When do you think he’s going to bring my car?”

  Hershel picked up his phone, scanned through, and held it to his ear. “Kyrellis. Swift.” He listened a moment. “Silvie is wanting her car back. How about you let me come get it?” Another long pause. “Okay, but if it’s not here in an hour I’m coming over. She needs her things.”

  He hung up and looked at Silvie. She tried to smile, but the expression eluded her.

  “He says he’s on his way shortly. Give him an hour.”

  “Did he go through it?”

  “Let me buy you breakfast,” he said. “I know you haven’t eaten. You have to eat something.”

  She shook her head and glanced around at the mostly empty warehouse. “How does this work? Your business.”

  Hershel lumbered up from the chair and came around to stand next to her. “It’s simple,” he said. “People bring in anything they don’t want anymore and I sell it for them. I take thirty percent of the sale price as my commission. That’s it.”

  “How do you remember whose stuff it is? Was everything you sold Tuesday from one person?”

  He laughed. “That was about twelve different consigners. We track it with lot numbers. A lot number is assigned to each seller.” He picked up a cordless drill set that had come in that morning and pointed at the “22” scrawled onto a piece of masking tape stuck to the plastic case. “Twenty-two is Greg Westerman—at least this week it is.”

  “How much money will you make on that?”

  He glanced over it briefly. “It’s worth about fifty bucks. Probably sell for around thirty. I’ll make ten.”

  “How do you make a living on that?”

  “Three hundred items a week, give or take. Some big, some small like this. The trick is to never lay out your own cash. Bring it in and get it out within a few days. Volume.”

  “What if it doesn’t sell?”

  “The seller takes it back. It’s in the contract.”

  She studied him, watched his eyes survey his kingdom. “It’s the perfect business. Really,” he said. “When times are hard, people sell. They also buy used instead of new. Business booms. When times are good, people have extra cash. And business booms.”

  She tipped her head back and let her eyes roam the drab warehouse with its open beams, adorned in dusty cobwebs. He wandered down to the merchandise room at the other end of the building, and she followed. He called out the value of items they passed: seventy-five dollars for a chrome dinette set from the fifties, twenty for the darkroom supplies, eighty for large tractor tires that were taller than she was.

  In the catacombs under the bleachers, she asked, “Don’t you ever buy anything for yourself?”

  He pulled a yo-yo from the box she’d found the previous day and threaded it clumsily over his finger. “Only if I know it can bring several times more than anyone bidding is willing to pay. Then sometimes I pick it up and resell it later.” He released the yo-yo and it twirled down smoothly to the top of his shoe and back up again, causing him to grin. “It’s simple. Anyone can do it. But to do it well you have to be able to tap into people’s greed.”

  She turned abruptly and looked at him.

  “Seriously,” he said, watching the yo-yo spin. “They call it a bidding contest for a reason. There’s a winner and a loser. A good auctioneer keeps that war going as long as possible. We pit bidder against bidder like fighting cocks.”

  “You’re proud of this?”

  “I’m not ashamed of it. I don’t force anyone to buy anything. I simply leverage what’s already there.” He tossed the yo-yo back into the box. “C’mon, let’s get breakfast. We’ll go down to the South Store. It’s close, and we have time.”

  She shuffled her feet. “Can we drive?”

  “Of course. How else are we going to get there?”

  Finally, she relented and followed him outside to his truck. The interior had warmed, despite the lack of real sunlight, and for a fleeting moment all Silvie wanted in the world was to lie down there and rest.

  Hershel took a table at the front of the store, where Silvie could watch the road through the plate-glass window. He inspected the old building, trying to conjure up some memory of it, but he wasn’t sure he’d ever been inside. He knew its name from driving past on the road. He somehow knew that they served potato-pear soup with roasted hazelnuts and Parmesan cheese on Sundays, and he had a vague recollection that he liked it, but the interior of the building was as unfamiliar to him as any place he’d never been before.

  He pulled out the chair, scraping it loudly along the warped pine floor. A woman appeared with menus, chatting with Silvie as if the two were old friends.

  “Have you decided to give the job a try?” she asked.

  Silvie looked up at the woman as if coming out of a trance. “Uh … I haven’t decided. Can I think about it a little longer?”

  “Don’t wait too long, I’ve got swarms of people wanting to work here,” she teased.

  Silvie laughed, and Hershel smiled at the sound. He hadn’t heard her laugh since they’d discussed her uncommon form of navigation the afternoon he found her on the road. It seemed like weeks ago, but it had been only three days. Today was the day he had promised to take her to Lincoln City. The subject hadn’t come up.

  “I’m sorry I pried yesterday,” he said when the waitress had left. “If this guy comes looking for you, I won’t tell him you were here.”

  “Thanks.” Silvie pressed her lips together, turning them white. “I didn’t have a chance to thank you for letting me stay. It was really nice of you. You didn’t have to do that.”

  “Yeah, and then I sold your car.”

  “It was a mistake.”

  “I’m still sorry it happened.”

  She peered out the window at the road.

  “So you have a job offer? Are you going to take it?”

  “I should. Jobs don’t usually come along this easy.”

  “I think you should, too. You know, if there’s a guy following you it wouldn’t hurt to be somewhere that you know some people. I mean …” Hershel fidgeted with the salt shaker. “Between Carl and me, we could keep an eye out.”

  “Do you think this building is safe?”

  “Nope.”

  “So if my ex doesn’t get me the building will.”

  “Oh, it’s been here a hundred years. It’ll probably last one more.”

  Hershel mopped up the drippings from his fried eggs with a piece of whole-wheat toast. The food here was good; he’d be back. Silvie hadn’t touched her breakfast. She tilted her head, looking up the road toward Hillsboro, and leaned in toward each oncoming car, then pressed back against her chair with each disappointment. Finally, she jerked forward.

  “It’s him,” she said, and gathered up her coat. “It’s him. Let’s go.”

  Kyrellis drove past with the green Volkswagen on the back of his flatbed. Silvie was already standing with her backpack slung over her shoulder, waiting.

  “You want a go-box for that?” Hershel gestured toward the bacon-and-egg sandwich. She didn’t answer, and he scooped up the plate, unwilling to leave it
behind, untouched.

  Silvie was headed out the door.

  She drummed her fingers on the armrest, her entire body rigid. Her door was open before Hershel had parked, and she’d swung down and started toward Kyrellis, who was removing the straps from the vehicle. Hershel followed her at a distance, noticing the way Kyrellis paused and appraised Silvie. The man smiled to himself and went back to his task without saying a word. She walked around the flatbed, inspecting the car.

  Once he’d unloaded, Kyrellis turned to Hershel and said, “You have something for me?”

  The two men went inside, leaving Silvie with the hatchback open, digging through her belongings.

  In Hershel’s office, Kyrellis examined the Glock. “It’s not much. You led me to believe it was in better condition.”

  Hershel couldn’t recall that conversation about the gun; it had been before the accident. “It is what it is. You want it or not?”

  “We’ll call it even for the car.”

  “You paid a hundred dollars for the car. The gun’s worth more.”

  “Consider it compensation for my trouble. I could’ve made your life difficult over the car and I didn’t.”

  “It was a simple mistake.”

  Kyrellis assessed Hershel with deep-set eyes, as if appraising a piece of merchandise. The man was short and stout. As stubborn-looking as Hershel instinctively knew he could be. He wore a gray wool coat with large black buttons, and dark jeans. “I’m surprised you sold that Charger.”

  “You said that before.”

  Kyrellis waited for further explanation, his dark gaze unwavering.

  “You think an auctioneer is going to let an opportunity to make a little money pass him by?”

  “Looking at that car, it’s amazing to see you standing here, conducting business.” Kyrellis took a handkerchief from his pocket and blotted his nose. “You’re a survivor, Swift.” He carefully folded the cloth into a precise square and slipped it back into his coat. “I never asked you where you were coming from the night you wrecked that car. Do you remember?”

  Hershel’s cheeks burned like coals. “Does it matter?”

  “Never know.”

  “I was coming up from around St. Paul. On 219.”

  “So you don’t recall what, exactly, you were coming from?” Kyrellis stepped forward, looking into Hershel’s eyes.

  Hershel turned away. “Are we square on the gun and the car?”

  “Sure,” Kyrellis said, and put the gun into his pocket.

  As they walked toward the door, Silvie rushed in. “You went through my stuff,” she blurted.

  Kyrellis paused with his eyebrows raised. He looked at Silvie in a way that could have been interpreted as kindness or sympathy. “No. I went through the car I bought, before I found out it wasn’t mine.”

  “You’ve taken a box. It was on the floor in the backseat.”

  “You must be mistaken.”

  “I’m not. You know what I’m talking about.”

  Kyrellis moved past her, and she grabbed his arm.

  “Give it back!”

  “Please, dear. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He patted her hand.

  Silvie followed him into the parking lot, where her things were scattered about on the rain-soaked ground. She shouted at him to return what he’d taken, but Kyrellis ignored her, climbing into his truck and pulling away with all the urgency of a toad. She turned to Hershel, her eyes wild, then collapsed on the ground sobbing.

  9

  “He’s lying,” she said for the twentieth time. “He has it.”

  “Are you sure you didn’t just misplace this box?” Hershel said, holding up a bath towel and picking gravel out of it.

  “I didn’t misplace it! He took it.”

  “Why would he take it? What was in it?”

  She began to cry again, and he wanted to shake her, slap some sense into her. She was being completely irrational.

  “You can buy something new. Everything has a value.” He stood back again and folded the towel. He stared down at the other things, clothing mostly, smeared with dirt. “You need to wash these. You can’t use them like this, they’re filthy.”

  She didn’t answer, and for a moment he thought she was having a seizure the way she rocked back and convulsed, unable to get her breath. He recoiled, then realized that she was crying so hard she was gasping.

  “Whoa,” he said, crouching beside the sofa where she sat. “It can’t be that bad.”

  “It … is,” she sputtered. “You … don’t … know.”

  “You can say that again,” he whispered. “Was it some kind of family heirloom?”

  “It’s just … I can’t say. But it’s important. It’s—” She looked at him through tears, her eyes pleading. “It’s personal.”

  Hershel went downstairs to see if Carl had come in. Carl had a softer touch and had guided many of Hershel’s past consigners through the illogic of material attachment when they regretted the decision after their treasures were gone. He would know just what to say in this situation. But the place was deserted. No one was due to return here until tomorrow, when a new lot was coming in from Vancouver, Washington. He stood in the quiet warehouse, wondering how the hell he got himself into this situation and what he should do to get out of it.

  Upstairs he found Silvie nearly recovered, but her eyes were swollen and red and her nose was running. When she saw him, she turned away. He paused at the door and considered leaving her alone for a while, but that didn’t seem like the right thing to do, either.

  “C’mon,” he said, picking up the laundry basket and gathering up the soiled items. “Come with me.”

  She shook her head.

  “It’s not a request.”

  She looked at him, alarmed, then got to her feet and pulled on her jacket. “Are you kicking me out? I don’t have any place to go.”

  He sighed. That would be a good idea. “No, I’m taking you to my house, where you can get yourself together. Use the washer. Get warm.” Hershel grabbed her few things that were strewn around the room. “You can eat the breakfast that you didn’t eat this morning.”

  After turning onto an unmarked dirt road a half mile north of his auction barn, Hershel wound deep into an orchard of gray, dormant trees. The truck bounced over ruts and potholes along his driveway, and Silvie clung to the handle above the door for stability. He noticed and slowed.

  “I need to have the road graded,” he explained.

  She peered down the quiet tunnels formed beneath the trees where their canopies touched, searching for the other end. But they simply disappeared into a haze of branches. The orchard seemed to go on forever. She struggled between the sense of protection it provided, away from the road to a place where Jacob was less likely to find her, and her apprehension of Hershel. Now he was taking her somewhere that no one could find her. Was that good or bad?

  “The mud in the winter just swallows up the gravel. I need to put down some road fabric,” Hershel elaborated, mostly to himself.

  At last they approached a house tucked along the foothills and flanked by two wide, symmetrical oak trees. His home sat atop a knoll, with a sweeping view of the orchard and a green sliver of wetlands to the north. To the east, Mount Hood’s white volcanic peak loomed over a bank of clouds as if floating there in the sky. But Silvie preferred the view of the lower-slung coastal mountains to the west. They receded in layers of blue, one behind the other, eventually merging into the blank sky.

  “It’s not much,” Hershel said, as he parked in front of a detached garage too small to hold the truck.

  Silvie’s eyes skimmed every corner and angle of the farmhouse as she dropped out of the truck onto the mossy ground, her backpack in her hand. The place was meticulously maintained. The gutters straight and even. The windows true. He should see some of the places she’d lived in.

  “How old is this place?” It sounded rude the moment she spoke it. “I mean, it looks nice.”

  “This?�
�� He glanced up at the pale-yellow building, with its overly tall, slender windows and Italianate cornices. “I don’t know, exactly. A hundred years. Maybe older.”

  “Was it your family’s house?”

  Hershel’s expression darkened and he shook his head. “Bought it a while ago from a guy whose wife had passed.”

  He pulled the laundry basket down from where he’d stashed it behind his seat, and Silvie grabbed it from him, dragging a towel out of the pile and covering the jumble of shirts and underthings, now muddy. He pointed at a trail that led past a small brick outbuilding and into the orchard.

  “That’s the trail to the auction barn. It’s a hike, but I prefer it over driving, unless the weather is really bad. Just remember where the well house is and you’ll find the trail.”

  She wondered how long he expected her to stay here.

  He led her inside, through a door at the back of the house, and paused in the small mudroom. “There’s the”—he seemed to search for the word—“the machine to clean your clothes. Soap is in the cupboard. I’m gonna heat up this food you didn’t eat, and after you’ve finished your breakfast you’re going to tell me what Kyrellis took out of your car that’s so damn important.”

  Silvie stared at Hershel in disbelief.

  He stared back. “I’ll be in the kitchen,” he said.

  She watched him lumber away, his head barely clearing the door frame between the two rooms, and her blood came up hot and fierce. Her hands shook as she emptied the basket into the washer. If he thought she was going to tell him what was in that box, he was out of his mind. Once the wash cycle was under way, she leaned against the machine and listened to Hershel clank around in the kitchen, wondering what she was going to do. The room was decorated with yellow notes. One on the back door, another above the washer, and a third over the utility sink. She squinted at the page nearest her. Did he really need to write himself a note that he’d turned off the water to the outside spigots or replaced the battery in his pump heater?