Read Online Damaged Goods by Heather Sharfeddin - Free Book Online
Authors: Heather Sharfeddin
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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.
“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 concentrationfaltered. 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
“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.
“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 concentrationfaltered. 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
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