Damaged Goods (37 page)

Mr. Pane touched her shoulder.

“Am I going to jail?”

He drew a long breath and considered this. “I think we can probably avoid that. I know these pictures are going to help us.
But you’ll need to see the doctor right away. He’ll take more pictures … of your bruises and your injuries. We’re going to need them for evidence. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Silvie, where did you get the poison?”

“It’s a common pesticide,” she said. “Most people use it to kill bugs on their roses. I only knew about it because my mom poisoned our dog once.” She committed the statement to memory. That was all that she would ever say about it. She would never tell about Oregon, Hershel, Carl, or Kyrellis. If they pieced it together, she would claim that Jacob killed Kyrellis. But she wouldn’t bring it up. If Jacob lived, he would never tell anyone about Oregon, either; she was certain of that. The gun he’d handed her, the one she’d used to kill Kyrellis, was Jacob’s.

Chehalem View Cemetery was packed with mourners, despite the rain. Even the Channel 6 news had shown up for the graveside service of Carl Abernathy. He was being hailed as a modern-day saint among some in the migrant community, and word of his extraordinary generosity had spread to the cultural center in Hillsboro and outward into the rest of the community. When Hershel had told Yolanda about the service barely a day ago, he had expected a handful of people from Campo Rojo. The funeral notice in the
Oregonian
that morning had been small, and he didn’t think it would garner much attention. But this crowd of several hundred—not only Mexican migrants but farmers and auction-goers and people in professional attire—had shocked and humbled him. Some had driven down from Seattle to attend. Both sides of Highway 219 were jammed with cars, trucks, and vans. A pyramid of handmade and store-bought bouquets at the foot of the grave site offered the only color on that misty morning near the summit of Chehalem Mountain.

Hershel had prepared a few words, but, looking out at the faces, he felt his knees go rubbery. Who was he to eulogize Carl Abernathy? As the minister finished his prayer, the faces turned to Hershel. He shook his head, wanting to retreat and knowing that he couldn’t.

“There are no words that can describe the man that Carl was,” he began. “Loyal, generous, unselfish. These are mere impressions of a deeper, more complex person. Carl worked for me for ten years. It has taken this loss for me to understand that he didn’t work
for
me but
with
me. Side by side, he was a partner in all that I did.”

A soft rain had begun to fall, and a few umbrellas popped up. Some of the migrant workers pulled their hoods up, but no one left. What more could he say? The people waited for Hershel to continue.

“I suffered a serious brain injury earlier this year. Had it not been for Carl, I might have had nothing to return home for. He took care of my business, my home, and, more important, me. See … the truth is … I wasn’t a very nice man. Carl deserved better than to work for someone like me. But that’s just it, I guess—he didn’t
have
to work for me. He chose to so that he could help others. What little he made, he spent at my sales. He bought small things no one else wanted, or had left behind. Like coats, old appliances, hand tools—damaged goods, mostly. I was a man consumed by money, incapable of understanding a man like Carl. I didn’t know or care what he did with these things. I assumed that he was selling them, but I never guessed that he was giving them away.” Hershel paused for a much-needed breath. “Carl Abernathy taught me what was important in life. He taught me what it means to be a human being.”

Hershel stepped back, an enormous lump taking over his airway.

One by one, people stepped forward, migrants mostly, and recounted the gifts they had received from Carl. A pair of rubber
boots in the heart of February for a man who worked in the vineyards. A used carburetor for another man’s broken-down van. A set of almost-new roller skates for one woman’s little girl, three days before Christmas. They went on for several minutes as the onlookers dabbed at their eyes. Then it fell quiet, and after a minute or two everyone began to file out of the cemetery, leaving Hershel standing in the pouring rain. He stared down at the casket, ready to be sealed away. A simple wooden capsule of polished pine. Carl would have said it was too much. Hershel believed it wasn’t enough.

When he got home, he changed his clothes, pulled on his raincoat, and went outside. There he used a crowbar to pry open Floyd’s trunk. The carpeting was stained dark, and smeared with dried mud. He felt around inside, but it was empty. Then his eye caught the glint of a brass shell casing lodged in the crease near the wheel well. He picked it up and rolled it in his palm. A shell casing from Kyrellis’s gun. He remembered now. Kyrellis had insisted that Hershel take the body in the trunk of his car because he’d driven a pickup and it could be easily seen. Hershel had wanted to dump the body in the river, not risk contaminating his car with evidence. But Kyrellis was insistent, saying they would dredge the river when they found Darling’s car at the remote park near St. Paul. It was used mostly by fishermen, and they’d chosen the place because they knew no one would be around. Too far from anywhere to draw attention. Kyrellis had arrived early and scouted the best location. He was to cover Hershel in case things didn’t go as planned. Darling believed he was meeting Hershel alone.

“Why did you kill him?” Hershel had asked, standing over Darling’s crumpled body.

Kyrellis hadn’t allowed the man to say a single word, but had shot him three times as he walked up to Hershel.

“We agreed not to kill him.”

“Don’t be stupid, Swift. Do you really think we could’ve bribed this guy to leave us alone?”

Kyrellis had left immediately after they loaded the body into the trunk and agreed on what Hershel planned to do with it. He said that he didn’t want anyone to see them together, and that suited Hershel just fine. He stayed at the park for ten minutes after Kyrellis left, and he used the time to retrieve the shells. He disposed of the body the way he disposed of his poached elk carcasses, by feeding Darling to the hogs at French Prairie Farm.

Hershel had driven back toward Newberg with an odd sense of lightness, as if released from a binding contract. He’d marveled at his own genius, because he had deposited the shells in Darling’s shirt pocket. The evidence would point to Kyrellis if it came down to that.

He closed the trunk. “Some fucking genius.”

The question now was what to do about this mess. Darling was dead. Kyrellis was dead. He hadn’t killed either of them. Not technically, anyway. He could turn himself in. He’d go to prison, he guessed, but there was no way to know for how long. He thought of Silvie. He was in too deep. If he told anything, he’d have to tell everything, and that would put her at risk.

He walked to the edge of the filbert orchard and threw the shell casing as hard as he could into the trees. Silvie had voluntarily returned with Castor. Said she loved him, even. There was nothing Hershel could do to save her. Kyrellis had been right about one thing: he couldn’t undo the damage that another man had done. They were both irreparably damaged people.

Inside, Hershel’s house was mournfully silent. He’d spent the next several hours reviewing his finances and drawing up instructions for his accountant to set up a fund for the migrant families in Carl Abernathy’s name. It would provide simple things like school supplies and clothing. Household items. It would serve as an emergency fund for people who were behind on their utilities or in need of minor medical assistance. He had an idea for a vocational-training scholarship, too. Something he’d look into. It gave him some comfort, but it didn’t feel like enough. It was something he should have done years ago.

The phone rang early, and Hershel stumbled downstairs to reach it. He could scarcely remember the last time someone had called him at home.

“Hello?” he said. It was just past seven in the morning.

“Hershel?”

A hot spark raced through him. “Silvie? Is that you?”

“Yes. Hershel—”

“Are you okay? Do you need me to come get you?”

“I’m … I’m—”

“What is it? Are you hurt?”

“I’m going to be here awhile. I—I poisoned Jacob.”

“You what?”

“He’s okay. I called an ambulance in time, and he’s going to be okay. But … I turned him in for all the other stuff. The district attorney is pressing charges against him. I have to testify.”

“My God, Silvie. I’m proud of you.”

She was quiet.

“Did you hear me? I’m so proud of you.”

“Hershel,” she said, and he could hear that she was crying. “I didn’t mean what I said. About loving him. I just didn’t want you to shoot him.”

It was all he needed to hear.

“I miss you,” she said.

“Do you want me to come be with you?”

“I can do this. I’m okay.” She paused. “Yes, please come. I need you.”

Hershel held his breath as he dialed the phone number that was still in his memory. It had been months since he’d last called, and he believed that he could do this only once more. His heart was breaking a little more each time.

“Hello,” she answered. She sounded as if she’d been laughing.

“Mom?”

She went silent, the joy he’d felt from her having evaporated like mist. But she didn’t hang up.

“I’ve met a woman and … I would like you to meet her, too.”

She made a strange sound, almost like a hard little “Huh.”

“She’s seen some rough life. Kind of like me, only she didn’t bring it on herself like I did.” He looked out the front window at the coming spring. The herons were flocking to the river by the dozens as the leaves were starting to come on. The wetlands were a vibrant green, and the magnolia in his front yard held hundreds of purple blossoms still conically tight. Silvie was heading down the driveway in the Porsche, kicking up dust from the recent dry spell, headed for her shift at the South Store. “I think you’d like her.”

“I promised myself that I would never give you another chance
to hurt me, Hershel. Can you understand how much you’ve hurt me?”

The words stung, but they also felt good. He let them wash over him like icy water. He knew he’d hurt her, but he still didn’t remember the details.

“One more time and you’ll kill me. I can’t have my heart broken again. One more time and you
will
kill me. I’d have been better off if God had ripped my heart from my chest the moment you were born.”

“I’m different now. I promise I am.”

She sucked in air and remained quiet for a long time.

“Please forgive me. Give me a chance to prove that I’m different.”

“Oh, Hershel … I don’t know.”

He waited for her to hang up, his heart sinking.

“What is her name?”

Special thanks to Holli Mason, MD, my dear sister, who tirelessly provides the medical details of trauma, various diseases and conditions, as well as the effects and treatments of poisons. This book would not be what it is without her.

During the final draft of
Damaged Goods
I was fortunate to work with Jess Row at Vermont College of Fine Arts. His critical eye and strong teaching helped clear away the unnecessary debris that inevitably piles up during the writing process.

My editor Randall Klein’s keen perception and brilliant editing have improved this work exponentially. I am grateful for the privilege to work with such a thoughtful and patient professional.

Others who contributed to the shaping of this work are Jason Clark, Tina Ricks, and Anita Gutierrez. Thank you each for the ongoing support and repeated readings. Thank you also to my family, without whose help this could not be possible.

H
EATHER
S
HARFEDDIN
is the acclaimed author of
Sweetwater Burning
(originally released as
Blackbelly
), proclaimed one of the top novels of 2005 by New Hampshire’s
Portsmouth Herald
. It has also been honored by the Eric Hoffer Awards and the San Francisco Book Festival. It was named a “Best of the Northwest” title by the Pacific Northwest Booksellers Association. Her other books include
Mineral Spirits
, which also received a “Best of the Northwest” title, and
Windless Summer
, honored at the 2010 New York Book Festival.

Sharfeddin holds an MFA in writing from Vermont College of Fine Arts. Raised in Idaho and western Montana, she now lives near Portland in Oregon’s Yamhill Valley.