Damaged Goods

by Heather Sharfeddin

  “You okay, boss?”

  Hershel jerked his hand away. “Yeah. Fine.” He busied himself straightening boxes and picking through items, looking for treasures to sell early in the night. He stepped up to the lectern, looking for a pen and some paper, but found that someone had already listed the best items for him. He turned to Carl, who had followed him but turned away when he saw the page.

  Carl said in a low voice, “I put that Glock on your desk in the back office. I see you didn’t have it in the ad this week.”

  Hershel vainly searched his spotty memory. He stared at Carl as if seeing him for the first time. “What Glock?”

  “Came in right before your—” Carl lifted a shoulder in a half shrug, as if that filled in the missing words. He scribbled numbers on boxes, making himself too busy to look at his employer.

  “Thanks,” Hershel said.

  He stood outside the office door at the rear of the building and fumbled with his wad of keys, looking for the right one. Irritated, he studied them. He needed to spend an afternoon identifying and labeling each key. The sixth key fit the lock and snapped the latch open. He glanced over his shoulder, but Carl was nowhere in sight, and the men browsing the floor were too busy picking through the sale merchandise to pay attention to him.

  Just as Carl had said, the gun lay in the middle of Hershel’s wide oak desk. Hershel picked it up and inspected it. It wasn’t in top condition. The metal was pocked and dull; it had seen some hard use. But that didn’t matter. It would bring a nice price, and Hershel knew it. Out of the haze of his past life, the ritual connected to this and many other firearms came back to him. He stared down at the cold gray steel of the German pistol and finally remembered something. Carl had scanned the ad in the Hillsboro Argus, and the conspicuously missing reference to such an easy-to-sell weapon served as his instructions to leave it on Hershel’s desk.

  He’d been selling guns through his auctions since he opened his doors. Though he couldn’t recall their names or faces, his sales drew a wide network of buyers. Hershel would collect his commission and pay the consigner with a single check and a vague receipt that failed to specifically list the gun. This gun would have to be part of a larger lot that included the mundane articles of daily life. Furniture, farm equipment perhaps, tools, whatever. And because Hershel hadn’t advertised this gun the buyers would understand that he had no intention of filing the paperwork stating that it had been sold through his business. If it was ever traced, it would be traced back to the consigner, not to the buyer. And, if questioned, Hershel would shrug and state that a lot of things came through his auction business. But if there was no paperwork on a Glock, a Glock had never been here. He kept deliberately careful records of other items, antiques and appliances, and especially the guns he advertised. His business was credible in all the ways it needed to be. If a single gun was consigned, or a group of guns without the usual junk that accompanied them, he advertised them in the paper and publicly notified bidders that he would file the paperwork. No official could look through Hershel’s records and prove dishonesty. He had followed the letter of the law enough times to make sure of it.

  He laid the gun down in the mess of papers that had accumulated over the months. Carl was the only one with a key to the office; Hershel realized that he trusted his hippie employee that much. Carl collected the mail, sorted the financial stuff out for the accountant, and stacked the remainder here in this chilly, dim room. Carl, it seemed now, was like a loyal servant caretaking business as Hershel struggled first to survive, then to regain some recognition of his own life. It was Carl who had given him the forecasted tonnage for the filbert crop that year. Carl was the one who had reported the number of delinquent units at the mini-storage Hershel owned over in Sherwood. Hershel picked up the diagram of merchandise he’d found on the auctioneer’s lectern. The backward-slanted script familiar. It was Carl who had gone out to Hershel’s house to check the locks, cut the grass, pick up the newspapers. And paste notes to the refrigerator with simple information like garbage day. He let the paper float back to his desk.

  The gun, however, had snapped a more significant puzzle piece into place, and it left Hershel with a new and uneasy sense about himself. He lifted the piece again, let it settle into his palm, snug and comfortable. An icy pall had settled over the dusty room like a specter. On its surface, the practice was simple enough. Not harmless, but also not the worst thing a man in his line of work could be involved in. An uncomfortable indication of his character at worst. But the gun put a bad taste in Hershel’s mouth, an ominous clue, just beyond his reach, to the night he could not remember.

  6

  Silvie sat at a tavern table in the old South Store, running her toe up the barley-twist leg and staring out at the Berry Barn across the road. The two buildings had charmed her. The Berry Barn truly was a barn as advertised, surrounded by neat rows of berry canes now devoid of foliage, carefully labeled with hand-painted signs: BLACKBERRIES, RASPBERRIES, MARIONBERRIES, and the like. Painted red on the outside, the building had had its interior gutted, leaving only the worn wood floor and weathered walls. Instead of animal stalls there were shelves of gourmet jams, jellies, candied nuts, and regional sauces on one side; a potpourri of soaps and lotions on the other. The soft but pervasive smell of lavender greeted visitors. In the back stood a deli case with exotic cheeses made from sheep’s or yak’s milk, with herbs folded in. Silvie had stood on the front porch admiring the superb produce until she saw the prices. Inside, she made a quick meander through, feeling as though she didn’t belong. She couldn’t fathom having the means to pay twelve dollars for a three-ounce bottle of sweet pepper sauce.

  She decided to try the South Store, on the other side of Scholls Ferry, but spent an eternity standing on the shoulder as BMWs, Acuras, and luxury SUVs raced down the hill, tailing one another impatiently. The average speed on Scholls Ferry seemed well over sixty, despite its tightly curving topography. Hillsboro Highway, which came in from the west, ended at the South Store, further complicating her crossing. During a pause in traffic on Scholls Ferry, Silvie had stepped out and nearly been run down as a driver darted out from behind the stop sign. It didn’t seem that he had even noticed her as he sped off. Silvie moved up the road to stand directly across from the next car, where she could make eye contact with the driver. Then she tore across at the first lull. When she reached the store, her heart was racing double time and her breath was short.

  She stood outside the South Store, peering through the window. The building reminded her of an old photo of the Hanley Hotel, with its tall, narrow structure and white clapboard siding. The front doors sat so close to the road that any of the drivers she’d just encountered could easily take out a patron or two. But the interior looked warm, with yellow walls and a buttery pine floor. She entered to the welcoming smell of roasted coffee beans and pastries. It enveloped her, and she wanted to sit down and never leave. As she gazed out the large front windows onto Scholls Ferry, she realized that the entire building was askew. The door frame was so far off true, a minor quake would bring the second floor down on her head.

  A robust woman wearing a flour-sack skirt set a menu and a glass of water down in front of Silvie and smiled. “You must be thirsty after that run.”

  “Did you know that your building is crooked?” Silvie asked, pointing at the front door.

  The woman nodded and joined Silvie in admiring the tilted structure. “It’s a great building, but I had a hell of a time getting the county to grant me a business permit. I finally just sweet-talked the inspector with a lot of double-caramel lattes and grilled cheese sandwiches. He lives around the corner and comes in on his way to work.”

  “Doesn’t it worry you?”

  She shrugged. “Not as much as Mount St. Helens or Mount Hood deciding to erupt and bury us in ash.”

  Silvie ordered a sandwich, and the woman ducked back into the kitchen for a moment. Silvie looked around at the empty dining room. It didn’t seem as though t
he locals frequented this place. When the woman came back Silvie asked her, “Have you ever been to the auction here?”

  The woman leaned against the table behind her and adjusted her ponytail. She had soft laugh lines around her eyes, and her hair was a deep chestnut with a sprinkling of gray. “I’m not from Scholls. I bought this place a few months ago, after coming out to the valley with friends on a wine-tasting tour. I just fell in love with it. The building, the valley, everything. That auction was closed until last week.”

  “So you don’t know the guy who owns it?”

  The woman shook her head, then added vaguely, “Heard he’s kind of a jerk. But I’ve never met him personally.” She shrugged, as if that was all she wanted to say about it. “Where are you from?”

  “Wyoming,” Silvie said, realizing that she ought to have lied, but it was too late. And glancing around the empty diner she began to wonder if this place was obscure enough that she might be able to hide out until she had a better plan.

  The woman went back to the kitchen and returned with Silvie’s sandwich, presenting it to her with a flourish. Silvie admired the heaping Reuben, with its huge dill-pickle wedge—a luxury she knew she couldn’t afford. The woman caught her look but didn’t pry, taking a damp rag from the counter, which she used to wipe crumbs from the tables around Silvie.

  “Is business slow?” Silvie asked. She hadn’t realized how starved for company she’d become.

  “Always is on weekdays. Stop in Friday night. We’ve got the Chehalem Shockwave playing. It’s a Spanish guitar trio—no idea about that name other than they all live in the area. Then Saturday and Sunday we get the wine tasters. I do a good business for breakfast and lunch. It’s downright hopping this time of year.”

  Silvie considered the place again, trying to imagine it filled with people. It made her a little homesick for Hanley. She and her high school friend Laree spent lots of weekends at Rick’s Red Pies, the local pizzeria. Rick was relaxed about the drinking age there, and most of the high school kids, whom he knew by name, had had their first beer at his restaurant before they’d attended their junior prom. He metered it out carefully, though, and no one went home falling down drunk, but she’d caught a buzz there plenty of times.

  “You just move here?”

  “Uh … yeah. Well, I’m on my way through. Just stopped for a few days.”

  The woman glanced up, compelling Silvie to elaborate.

  “I haven’t decided, I guess. I might stay around the area awhile.”

  “Ever wait tables?”

  Was this woman offering her a job or looking for someone to commiserate with? “Well, not tables exactly. But I was a carhop at A&W for three years while I was in high school.”

  “With skates?” The woman’s eyes sparkled and she seemed to delight in that idea.

  “No. The asphalt was cracked and torn up.” Silvie smiled. “The whole place was kind of a dump, actually.”

  “Well, I could use a waitress for the lunch shift on Fridays and Saturdays if you might be interested. It could work into more hours if you were a good fit.”

  “How do you know I’m looking for a job?”

  “You got that look about you, hon. Like you could use something reliable. I could use some help. Just thought it might be something you’d be interested in.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind.” Silvie nodded as she finished half the sandwich and wrapped the other half in the waxed paper it had been served on. She slipped it into her backpack while suffering the urge to take the job on the spot. She’d spent enough time looking for work in her life to know that it wasn’t always available when she needed it. She’d once believed she would go on to college and study veterinary medicine, but Jacob wouldn’t hear of her leaving Hanley. She’d floated between poor-paying jobs where she could find them but mostly lived on the money he gave her.

  Hiding here for a while appealed to her. And she contemplated the idea that if someone could track her here they could track her to Lincoln City or Coos Bay or San Francisco. Perhaps this was, in its way, a good place. Off the beaten track. She studied the crooked windows at the front of the building and the way the floor sloped to the left. She ran her fingers over the worn walnut tabletop and noted that it didn’t match the others. Along the far wall was a long church pew with three oak tables shoved together to accommodate a large group. Mediocre oil paintings of historic buildings, slightly off in perspective, were carefully spaced along the walls, white price tags in the lower left corner of each canvas. Probably a local artist, a friend of the proprietor’s. It was such a small-town thing to do, Silvie thought.

  “How soon do you need someone?” she asked.

  The woman smiled warmly, as if she’d found her new employee. “Friday at the latest.”

  This is crazy, she told herself. “I’ve been thinking about staying a couple of days anyway. I’ll stop back if I decide to make it longer.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Silvie.” She thought again that she ought to have given a different name. How many Silvies were running around in the world? She wasn’t very good at hiding. She would need to get a lot better if she was going to survive.

  “I’m Karen Gibbs. Consider it. I know it doesn’t look like much now, but it’s a fun place on the weekend.”

  Hershel’s ringing cellphone startled him. He’d begun to wonder why he had one, because no one ever called it. He looked at the name: Kyrellis. Familiar, as so many things were, but not remembered.

  “Swift,” he said, picking up his keys and starting for the office door.

  “This is Kyrellis,” a man said. His voice was smooth and deep, but that did nothing to put the name in context for Hershel. “You’re selling that Charger.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I guess that’s one way to dispose of it.”

  “How can I help you?”

  “Hope you’re also planning to part with that Glock tonight. Expected to hear from you last week.”

  A hot prickle skated across Hershel’s arms. He twisted and looked at the pistol sitting benignly on his desk. A gun dealer; Kyrellis was a gun dealer.

  “Haven’t decided,” he said. “Might put it through the sale.”

  “What’s the problem? I’ve got a guy who wants it.”

  “Maybe,” he said, stalling for time. “We’ll see how the crowd looks.”

  “You want a bigger cut or something?”

  Hershel’s head pounded. He was taking kickbacks.

  “You’re not exactly in a position to demand that, now are you, Swift?”

  “I said maybe.” And he hung up.

  He returned to his desk and picked up the gun again. His life seemed to belong to someone else. Who was this man who ran up bids, provided untraceable firearms to God knows what kind of people? Whoever he was, he was out of his league.

  Silvie sat alone in the upstairs apartment, listening to the din of Hershel’s auctioneering below. She’d returned to a packed auction house and a line of people winding out the door, into the cool rain, waiting to sign in and get their bidding numbers. The hippie was busy helping people preview merchandise. The room was lit up like a football stadium, with enormous fluorescent lights that cast an unforgiving scrutiny over the assembly of junk and bidders. Small groups stood around, snatches of their conversations coming at her like sound bites.

  “Joe’s after that set of tires for his truck.”

  “Cold snap coming. You get your water turned off?”

  “Hazelnuts were good this year. Better than expected.”

  Silvie drifted through, listening, but keeping a keen eye out for anyone who might be looking for her. She’d always be glancing over her shoulder. The reality of that was setting in like an infection, and crowded places were the worst.

  Smokers stood in the doorway near the back of the building, where a small awning provided a stingy shelter. Good-natured swearing seasoned the myriad discussions swirling around her.

  The smell of fresh bu
ttered popcorn gave the whole place a carnival atmosphere as the stands filled. Two middle-aged women in the front row squabbled over a seat that each claimed was hers and always had been.

  “Out of the way!” The stout man she’d seen in the parking lot that morning came through the narrow aisle lugging an ornately tooled western saddle. He leered at her on his way by.

  She slipped upstairs and locked the apartment door behind her. There was nothing Hershel would sell that could interest her, even if she could take it with her.

  As she sat alone on the sofa, the warmth of the sandwich shop and the woman she’d met there waned into nothingness. She was homesick for her mom’s tiny apartment. She could be making plans to drive into Casper with Laree right now. Silvie unlaced her shoes and tossed them into the corner, then dug through her backpack in search of a second pair of socks to put on. She wished that she had never found the box that was now snuggly tucked into the floorboards of her Volkswagen Rabbit. Failing to find a second pair of socks, she shoved the backpack into the crook of the sofa and used it as a pillow.

  She considered how she’d gotten here. It had happened so fast. She hadn’t paused to think it through. She’d been looking for cash while her boyfriend—if she could call him that—showered. He sometimes kept hundred-dollar bills in his underwear drawer, and on a few well-spaced occasions she’d taken a single bill out of the roll.

  Silvie pulled the blanket over her, knowing it was too early to sleep. The irony was that she didn’t need the money that badly—not this time, anyway. And he’d have given her the cash if she’d asked for it. That night he’d brought flowers. Some nights he took her to dinner. There were other occasions when he bought her new clothes or paid her mother’s electric bill when the power company threatened to shut the service off. There were many things about Jacob that were likable. He could be a very generous man.

  The rhythmic flow of Hershel’s auctioneering lulled her. She closed her eyes, trying to imagine that she was still in Wyoming. The cadence of Hershel’s song, which was punctuated by the whoop of bidding, was an unfamiliar barrier between this place and her home. Silvie sat up again and stared at the snowy television, present like a quiet cat. She’d thought the same thing of her mother not more than a week ago. A woman hiding in the shadows, never drawing attention. Silvie thought she should call, but her mother couldn’t be trusted with the knowledge that she was safe, let alone somewhere in Oregon.