Heather Sharfeddin - Damaged Goods

Praise for the novels of Heather Sharfeddin
SWEETWATER BURNING

(originally published as Blackbelly)

Sharfeddin has captured the family-like entanglements in a small communityby showing us what happens when those relationships begin to come apart.

The Philadelphia Inquirer

Superbly crafted Characters are wonderfully drawn. Explores a wide range of themes related to sin and guilt, personal integrity, and the destructive power of prejudice. Essentially, however, this is a story about the miracle of love blossoming in unlikely places. Highly recommended.

Library Journal (starred review)

Comparisons will be made to Kent Haruf. Sharfeddins eye for detail and her unsentimental compassion for her characters will entrance readers. The stark terrain is beautifully rendered.

Kirkus Reviews (starred review)

Striking A deceptively simple contemporary western about two loners who have learned from their mistakes and flaws, but not overcome them.

The Portsmouth Herald (New Hampshire), in selecting Blackbelly as one of the top novels of 2005

WINDLESS SUMMER

Heather Sharfeddins characters are so complex and well-meaning and so frequently wrong youll want to step in and hug the one you just slapped around. The woman can write. Imagine Annie Proulx taking on the Salem witch trials.

Robin Cody, author of Ricochet River

Windless Summer

Mineral Spirits

Sweetwater Burning

(originally published as Blackbelly)

Damaged Goods is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

2011 Bantam Books Trade Paperback Original

Copyright 2011 by Heather Sharfeddin

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Bantam Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

B ANTAM B OOKS and the rooster colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

L IBRARY OF C ONGRESS C ATALOGING-IN -P UBLICATION D ATA
Sharfeddin, Heather.
Damaged goods : a novel / Heather Sharfeddin.
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-0-440-33955-7
1. AuctioneersFiction. 2. OregonFiction. I. Title.
PS3619.H35635D36 2011
813.6dc22 2010 046235

www.bantamdell.com

Cover design: Beverly Leung
Cover image: Alan Ayers

v3.1

For Holli; thank you
for becoming a doctor.

A Tom Petty song seeped from the car radio, static-riddled on the vintage speaker. Hershel Swift punched the dash lighter in his Dodge Charger and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. He bobbed his head in time with the music.

Dont come around here no more, he sang quietly.

The car hummed over the bridge as he crossed the Willamette River, the dark Oregon countryside falling away behind him and the amber lights of Newberg winking into view. Another twenty minutes over Chehalem Mountain and down into Scholls and hed be home. An empty house. A quiet retreat. A welcome bed.

Hed take care not to draw attention as he passed through Newberg; leave no witness to point out his car to a jury in some unimaginable courtroom in the distant future. No, hed travel with caution.

Im a fucking genius, he said. He wondered if thinking that was a sign that he was actually crazy. He rubbed a dark stain on his jeans, still wet, and inspected his finger to see if it was blood. Too dark to tell.

The lighter snapped up hot and he touched it to the tip of his cigarette, drawing the woody smoke into his lungs and holding it there for a long moment. He rarely lit up anymorethe toll on his vocal cords too costly to business. But tonight he needed the nicotine rush. It would calm his nerves.

He was keenly aware that the events of the evening had affected him far less than they ought to have. Perhaps another sign that he was crazy. He blew a thin streak of smoke against the windshield and leaned over to replace the lighter. His arms and shoulders ached deep down through the muscles. He straightened to relieve the pain, dragging the mud-caked sole of his boot across the floor mat, and rubbed his eyes.

Hed closed them for only a moment. He tried to make sense of the object in the road. Black and white. Huge. The impact flipped it onto the hood of the car, shattered the windshield, and then crumpled the roof. The car careened to the right and rolled as Hershel fought for control. Dirt flew into his mouth and up his nose. The ceiling cracked across his head with staggering force. His thoughts flickered, random images that made no sense, then went out.

I cant believe all these people waited for him to open his doors again, Linda whispered. It cant be because they missed him.

Theyre here for the deals. Stuart scouted the cramped booth and plucked up grease pens. There aint no one here tonight that gives a damn about that asshole.

Hershel paused outside the door, listening as his staff gossiped. His stomach tightened at their words. Tonight would be the first auction Hershel had conducted since the accident, and his chest and hands tingled with nerves. A sensation hed never known before, even when he was young and just starting out. What if he forgot the numbers? What if he couldnt remember the names of the things he would sell that evening? Lawn mowers and washers and hydraulic lifts.

A line of fifteen or so people snaked out of the building, into the weedy parking lot and the late-October chill. Bidders signed in and collected their numbers, glancing curiously in Hershels direction. None smiling. Swift Consignment Auction was a Tuesday-night institution in the farming community of Scholls, and it appeared that people had missed the weekly event, if not him, these past three months.

He decided not to ask if Linda needed anything, but left the two employees alone before they saw him standing near the door. He poured himself a Coke from the concession stand and didnt bother to say hello to the teenage girlanother unfamiliar facewho was setting up for the evening. He thought he should know her. Was certain he should. There were only eight employees, and hed hired each one personally. The smell of popcorn was rapidly overtaking the aroma of axle grease in the hulking warehouse building. The girl poured hot water into the coffeemaker without looking up. She was diligent in her duties, but seemed self-conscious in his presence. He assessed her more carefully. She was thin and wore a leather thong around her neck with a bear claw dangling at her throat. Red hair, long. Freckles, of course. A modern hippie or a greeny. She wore Birkenstocks with thick wool socks against the chill of the cement floor.

Have everything you need? he asked.

Yes, Mr. Swift. Thanks. She was polite and soft-spoken. Wouldnt make eye contact, though.

What did she think of him? Are you the runner tonight?

Now she looked up, pale eyes catching the last of the sunlight through the cloudy window behind him. I cant run tickets and do the concessions at the same time. I usually have a line.

Hershel grunted. I thought you were just helping out the regular girl tonight.