Westvale

I

Westvale

I

Westvale, in the desolate, northern United States had always been a quiet and tranquil, pint-sized town. It was encompassed by a range of mountains, with a lake bordering the town. The mountains were always a pale green, and a little far from town, separated by a dozen of mild plains. With a local pawn shop, clinic, elementary school, high school, and other commerce, Westvale was what one would call, normal. The only type of infrastructure that kept this town connected to the rest of the world were three narrow roads that ran from East to West, North to South and connected the interstate a few kilometers out of town zig-zagging through the mountains. They also connected the miniscule airport not two kilometers from the center of town. On average, four planes landed there every week. Either private planes or amateur pilots, or the only charter flight that flew to Billings every other week with a plane holding a capacity of maximum twelve passengers. Cars on the interstate not too far from town passed by Westvale just like any other small town; it didn't even show up on most maps. What made this location unique was the two hundred and thirty-seven-year-old observatory on the closest mountain. The view from up there was splendid, something pulled out of a fairy tale. The observatory only attracted twenty-five tourists a year on average, something significant for the isolated geography of the town.

It was an hour past noon, the sky covered with light gray clouds. The air was surprisingly chilly, and smelt of trees, bushes and freshly cut grass, a luscious forest. On one particular Saturday, Westvale's one thousand three hundred citizens were enjoying their weekends. They ran in parks, flew kites, devoured lakeside picnics and did whatever else you could do on a Saturday in a small town. Main Street, an avenue that crossed the town and a place where most of the shops were, was filled with noises of people chatting, walking, and shopping. Something usual for the wide street with parking spaces on either side that was encumbered with people's cars. Some went to the pale blue lake to fish, some stayed home, others went on a seventy-mile journey south to Missoula to enjoy their friends' company. The ambiance on Main Street was hectic and festive. On the right side of the street were petite shoppes and a variety of services, on the left were medium-sized houses, all built of either white, grey, or beige colored planks. Main Street was the only street in town that had something other than just houses. The school, post office, clinic, gas station, etc... were all located on Main Street.

Clara figured she would go home as she felt a little ill. Despite the immense profit she could've been making that day, she had been drained of her energy already throughout the early hours and could no longer maintain friendly customer service with ease. Clara, a dirty blonde with hazel eyes and long legs but short torso, was always trying to look the best she could. She didn't have anyone to impress, it was for herself, and liking the way she dressed. Her hair had a few curls here and there, with slight natural discolorations in certain spots. The skin was pale and very tight on her face. That day, she was wearing some grey jeans, a white top that showed her shoulders and shook around viciously whenever the wind blew, accompanied by a pair of white sneakers. Clara was in her early thirties, and having grown up with only her mom, brother, and sister that had once owned the shop she was just about to close for the day, that business was everything she had. Her family had never been rich, and being poor western European immigrants, the cozy, welcoming, and intermediate grocery shop was their only source of profit. They had lived in the northern part of the United States for more than three generations, so their original family traditions were dissipated by the new culture they were accustomed to. None of her family members lived with her anymore, therefore Clara had a variety of friends in town, and knew about half of it. She lived in a two-bedroom house, with a miniscule bathroom, and a kitchen that could only house the appliances she really needed. She was content with her life and loved maintaining the grocery shop her family members once had full control of. It was all given to her after her brother and mother furiously left town a peaceful Sunday afternoon, never to be seen again. Her sister worked with law enforcement. She wasn't in a high or valuable position, but her work was well appreciated and well accomplished. She earned her life quite well, visiting Clara quite often too. Clara didn't miss her family all that much and was glad she was living alone. Again, as Clara walked across the crowded Main Street, she was almost hit by a group of kids running. As she turned left on Sunshine Avenue, a yellow car passed. Clara noticed Melanie, her neighbor, bringing her kids home from the soccer game the elementary school organized. Clara lived not ten minutes from her shop, so being in the possession of a car wouldn't necessarily be of much use to her. She depended on her friend Ronald for a ride whenever she needed to go somewhere. As Clara stepped on her front lawn, she saw the pathetic stage of her roses right in front of the house. She loved gardening, hence her harmonious and majestic garden that covered her front and backyard with flowers of all colors, trees of all shapes and sizes, a small stone statue she had received for winning third place at a gardening festival, beautifully arranged dirt walkways, and last but not least, hedges that separated every single magnificent section of her spacious backyard. In the right-hand corner stood a lengthy shed which housed her tools. Her house was the second one on the left as you turned right onto 3rd Street, her glorious garden more conspicuous than the Sun on a perfectly cloud free day. She was proud of her talent and spent most of her free days outdoors relaxing on her only sunbed at the very back of her garden. Due to the fact she was a great gardener, she had already been hired or asked by several people to apply her magic to their gardens and turn them into royal-looking places like Clara's. She was also paid a couple grand for a special project the mayor of Westvale asked her to accomplish, that was, redesigning the entire lawn around the town hall. She volunteered, and given twenty people to work with, turned the front yard of the town hall into the front lawn of a palace in under two weeks. Many of the people she worked with were still very close friends. She entered her house, crashing on her couch in hopes of falling asleep. Already planning ahead for the next day, she ringed Ben, one of the firefighters at the Westvale Fire Department, as well as her college friend. He sure loved his job despite the dozens of fake or non-urgent calls every day, and a real, major incident every three months or so. He was lofty but quite skinny. Ben answered the call and started listening to Clara's soft and almost inaudible voice. "Hey Ben", said Clara, already playing and tangling with the telephone cord.