Damaged Goods (14 page)

The idea of staying was too foreign to entertain, and unrealistic as well. There was no point in spending what little money she had on something as extraneous as an umbrella. She would never be able to stay in any one place with Jacob Castor looking for her.

It had been a long time since she’d thought about him the way he was the first time she met him. Jacob found her at a bar where Silvie was keeping her mother company and writing an essay for sixth-grade Wyoming history. It was late afternoon and the place was quiet yet. Silvie had taken up residence in the main lounge, in a booth along the back wall, because Charlie was chopping onions in the kitchen. He’d become disgusted when she wouldn’t stop sniffing back stinging tears and sent her into the dining room, where she’d never been allowed. After a time, he brought her a
Coke—a little truce to let her know that he wasn’t really mad. Her books and papers were spread across the wide corner booth, so rather than kick her back to the kitchen he let her stay where she was. She’d marveled at the coincidence of that single event, how it had changed everything. Was it her destiny or just shitty luck?

Jacob strode in with purpose, and Silvie was instantly polarized by his presence, though he didn’t notice her for a full twenty minutes. He wasn’t particularly tall, but he was rigid and tightly wound. He looked as if he could suddenly spring several stories into the sky without warning. She understood that he was an important man, even though he wasn’t in uniform at the time. She would later learn that he was the county sheriff. But that day he wore a cowboy hat and boots, jeans, and a western-style shirt. He looked like the other cattle ranchers who frequented Charlie’s bar. His face was set hard, and he was the first person she’d met who could smile without really smiling. He walked straight in and slapped the bar. Everyone scrambled. Charlie himself greeted the man, setting a draft beer on the counter before Jacob could ask for something different. Charlie poured drinks only when the bar was so busy that his staff couldn’t keep up. He preferred to do the cooking. The change of roles did not escape Silvie.

She tried to refocus on her essay, but the man had changed the air in the room. She was already certain that she didn’t want him to suddenly realize she was there. After he’d finished one beer he started on another, drinking alone while Silvie’s mother and Charlie buzzed in and out of the kitchen.

He turned. Silvie ducked back into the booth and fastened her eyes on her paper, but she could feel him staring. The setting sun made the opaque window behind him glow white, and his figure was silhouetted, his hat warped and large in the odd light. When she glanced up he was halfway across the room, coming toward her. She pretended not to notice and shuffled her papers. In her fluster, one slipped off the table and floated to the floor in slow motion. He bent and retrieved it for her, placing it on the table in
front of her. She stared at his large fingers and neatly trimmed nails.

“Thanks,” she said in a small voice.

“And who might you be, young lady?” His voice was smooth and warm.

“Silvie.”

“You don’t look old enough to be hanging out in a tavern.”

She flushed. Would Charlie get in trouble for this? Would her mother get fired? “My mom works here. I … I usually stay in the kitchen, but Charlie was chopping onions.”

“Mind if I join you?”

She shrugged, still afraid to look the man in the face.

He slid onto the red vinyl bench on the other side of the booth. “What are you working on?”

“An essay.”

“About what?”

“The Oregon Trail.”

“Ah, that’s a good topic. You must be what? Fifteen?”

Silvie blinked. “Twelve.”

“No way,” he said, letting his head roll back a little and showing her his long white teeth. He had blue eyes, and they seemed to scour her. “You look much older. Did you know that?”

She shook her head, not knowing what to say. She’d never been a very pretty girl. No one ever fawned over her the way they did other girls. The boys at school didn’t tease her or send her notes as they did her friend Laree.

“Hey,” he shouted toward the bar. “Someone bring this young lady a burger.”

“No! I don’t need anything,” Silvie said, certain now that her mother would be fired.

Charlie emerged from the kitchen and stood for a long, strange moment, as if he had no idea what a burger even was. He looked pained as he stared across the room at the two of them. Silvie shook her head, hoping he’d see that she didn’t need anything. She hadn’t asked.

“Coming up,” Charlie said, his voice quieter than usual.

“I don’t need one. Really,” she said to the man.

“Of course you do. A girl needs her energy for brainy work like this.”

When the burger arrived, it was her mother who served it. “Can I get you anything else, Sheriff?” She sent Silvie a withering glance.

“I’ll have another beer. And a Coke for this young lady.” He nodded at Silvie while keeping a level eye on Melody. “She’s yours, isn’t she?”

Melody nodded, but she gave no proud smile or compliment about Silvie the way she usually did when she was identified as her mother. “She should be at home working on that. Not here. Not in a bar.”

“Oh, she’s fine,” he said, waving Silvie’s mother away.

When Melody left, he leaned in and winked at Silvie. He had soft wrinkles around his eyes, and graying hair. He looked a little like her math teacher. “Don’t you worry,” he said. “You’re not in any trouble. I’ll make sure of it.”

In that simple exchange, Silvie had understood his authority. Her mother and Charlie never said a word about that strange evening when Sheriff Castor discovered her and lavished her with burgers, Coke, and ice cream. No one mentioned how unusual it was that a grown man would spend the entire evening in a booth chatting with a twelve-year-old. Silvie came to like him that evening. She hoped she’d have a chance to see him again.

Hershel rummaged through his desk drawers. Nothing here revealed itself as relevant to his past. He was looking in the wrong place. The clues, if they existed, were not on paper but in the objects he sold. How could he find anything relevant when nothing stayed? Things came in and things went out, but nothing stayed.

He stood and wandered out into the corridor between the concession stand and the sold-merchandise area. The building was
full of strange little nooks and hideaways, all harboring their own intriguing things: boxes of old clothes, broken tools, ancient books. But these were simply the castoffs of his business. The left-behinds in the cycle of recycle. Valueless, but not so much so that he should round them up and take them to the dump. He picked up a tractor manual for a 1948 International. It wouldn’t bring two bits in the upcoming sale, but to the farmer out there looking for it, it was priceless. For the man with a disassembled machine in his barn and a nagging wife at his shoulder, it would easily be worth twenty dollars. Hershel tossed it back into its dusty tomb. Everything has its price, and he was the man who innately knew what that price was. But these forgotten pieces didn’t explain why he dealt in guns, why he needed to avoid the police, or why people hated him.

Back in his office, Hershel picked up the phone and dialed the manager of his storage facility in Sherwood. He’d spoken to him only twice in the past three months. His name was Woody McClintock. The first time Hershel called was to thank him for the get-well card with the looping handwriting too feminine to be Woody’s. Woody had sounded embarrassed, and said he’d pass that on to his wife. It had been a one-minute call. The second time was to get an accounting of delinquent units. Woody usually gave the renters ninety days before he locked them out. Another thirty days to come current. And, thirty days after that, he liquidated the contents. Generally, he hauled everything over to Hershel’s sale barn, because holding auctions on the premises wasn’t good for business. But they’d had occasion to liquidate multiple units before, and then it was more efficient to hold a special Saturday auction and simply start at one end and work down the rows.

“Hello,” Woody said, breathless. “Sherwood Mini Storage.”

“Woody, it’s Hershel Swift.”

“Afternoon, Hershel. What can I do for you?”

“You remember a guy by the name of Albert Darling?”

There was a long pause. “Yeah, I remember him.”

Hershel waited for Woody to continue, hating that everyone could remember things so effortlessly when he himself struggled to piece together the simplest information.

“We liquidated after a hundred and eighty days of nonpayment. Six months or so back.”

“You remember anything else about him?”

Another silence. “He was a mean one. Came round here threatening everybody. You don’t remember him?”

Hershel scowled. Why would he ask these questions if he did? “Vaguely.”

“He was doing time for armed robbery when he lapsed on his payments. We sold his stuff after repeated attempts to collect. It was all legal. He doesn’t have a leg to stand on. He knows that—we’ve been all through it.”

“What does he look like?” Hershel regretted asking the question. He’d only meant to think it.

“I don’t know … short. Long hair. Goatee. Tattoos on his arms.”

Hershel closed his eyes, remembering the tattoo now because it was unusual. It was the face of a child—a little girl with cherub wings. It looked like something from a Renaissance painting, and the peaceful face was out of character with the spitting, swearing man that Hershel could now see storming into the auction barn.

“We did it by the book,” Woody said. “He’s got no legal claim. I thought we’d gotten rid of him. He still coming over there harassing you?”

“No. No, I just came across his name and couldn’t remember the details, that’s all.”

“Hard man to forget, that one.” Woody’s comment sliced through Hershel with a sharp sting. “Haven’t seen him around, though. I’ll let you know if I do.”

“Thanks, that’s all I needed.”

“Anytime.” Woody hung up, and a splintering pain blossomed across Hershel’s forehead.

Silvie opened the door, an unexpected smile on her face. Her cheeks were rosy and her hair was damp from the rain.

“You should’ve called me. I could’ve picked you up. You didn’t have to walk.” He couldn’t take his eyes off her. She looked suddenly alive and vibrant.

“That’s okay,” she said. “I wasn’t sure if you were ready to go.”

“Yeah, I’m finishing up here.” He took his jacket from the coat-rack and picked up his keys. What was so different about her? “How did it go down at the South Store?”

“She hired me. I worked the lunch shift for a trial, and she wants me back tomorrow.” Silvie’s smile widened. “It was a good idea. I kind of enjoyed it.”

“Good.” He tossed her the keys. “I’ll be right out. I have something I want to show you.”

Hershel followed her out into the warehouse, and then located Carl in the cashier’s booth.

“Be a good sale this Tuesday,” Carl said. “We’ve got some nice stuff. It’ll draw a big crowd, but you need to get the ad in this afternoon.”

Hershel had forgotten about advertising. There was so much routine business that was anything but routine now.

Carl gauged Hershel, as if understanding. “Want me to call it in? I’ve made some notes: antiques, stained-glass windows, brass knockers, tin ceiling tiles. We’ll put the good stuff right at the top. Could do a headline in bold this week.”

“Thanks,” Hershel said. “Yeah, do what you think will draw the best crowd.”

“Will do, boss.” He turned back to his papers, but paused. “That gal Silvie looks like a million bucks today. All smiles.”

Hershel looked off toward the door where she’d gone. “Yeah, she does. I’m taking off. You’ll lock up?”

“Course.”

Silvie felt Hershel’s eyes on her as they pulled into the driveway. He’d glanced over at her repeatedly on the short trip from the sale barn. The sky was a patchwork of multicolored clouds and breaks of clear blue. The rain had stopped, but she could see a new storm building over the coastal mountains.

“The weather can’t make up its mind to rain or not,” she said, trying to break the growing tension.