Happiness Hollow

Chapter One

Helen stood, fists on her hips, glaring at the eyesore, the beacon of shame before her. Right there, on the front of her 1955 brick ranch, a piece of speckled plywood bordered by silver tape patched her shattered picture window.
She hadn’t heard the crash. The rock had been stopped by the heavy drapes, and the glass fragments had fallen on the carpet. She had felt sick on discovering the horror on Friday. She and her house had been vulnerable the entire weekend while waiting for Mr. Vargas to come.
Now Mr. Vargas coughed and shuffled his feet, impatient for his pay. When Helen took the envelope from her pocket and gave it to him, he grunted. That was all he ever did, grunt and bark out a price. Even though she had told him exactly what to do, this tacky patch-job was like all the other repairs he made. His cure for any and everything was a liberal application of duct tape.
She watched as he jammed on his battered hat, lifted his battered toolbox, and slung it into his battered truck. Same hat, same toolbox, same truck for the last—how long had it been? Ten years? Fifteen? When and how had he come to mow her grass, rake leaves, and make repairs? She had no idea, he was just there. Sometimes he was the only live human companionship she had for weeks.
Mr. Vargas’ truck chugged away amid the blare of car horns echoing in the strip mall across the street. A mail truck was coming along, its stops causing chaos in the traffic. After the mail truck passed, Helen went to her mailbox at the edge of the street. Cautiously, she opened the flap from the side and waited for a break in the traffic, then leaned in front of the box. She looked in and pulled out a handful of glossy ads. It took another grab to remove a large white envelope. Holding the papers and envelope away from her, she slammed the flap shut.
On her way back to the porch, she looked at her house both with fondness and dismay. She had been so proud when she, all by herself, had become owner of the brand new house, but now it had become an expensive island of charm in a sea of ugly urban sprawl. Around her, family homes had gone commercial. Parking lots had replaced lawns. The street was lined with gas stations, food joints, and bars with flashing neon signs. And now her lovely picture window was boarded up as if the place were abandoned. She pulled herself up the two steps by means of the handrail and rested. Next, drug addicts would be camping right here on the porch.
Back inside, she locked the screen and front door, picked up the shoebox of glass shards, and made her way along a narrow path in the living room between shrouded furniture, a patio set, and a birdbath. The path led to a hall, past a bath, and into the dining room. Behind a barricade of books, a narrow sofa was made up as a bed. Passing through the dining room, she entered the kitchen where bars of sunlight fell on the yellowed linoleum and chrome dinette table.
She tossed the mail into the sink and set the box beside the wheezing refrigerator. Lifting the white envelope, she studied her name and address which were correctly printed on the label and read aloud the return address. What a strange name, Happiness Hollow. Holding the envelope low in the sink in case it might explode or contain ominous white powder, she cut it open with a plastic knife. Slowly, she drew out a brightly colored brochure and, holding it by one corner, transferred it to the top of the washing machine by the back door. If it acted up, she’d throw it out the door although it would take several minutes to open all the locks.
Unexpected mail could be dangerous—it could change your life in an instant.
Having disposed of the junk mail in the garbage can and having washed her hands thoroughly, she clicked on the radio on the counter, then made herself some tea. A siren screamed as a woman tearfully told a news reporter, “She was gentle as a lamb. Why would anybody do this to an eighty-year-old lady?” The reporter went on to explain that the woman lived alone in a transitional neighborhood and—
“Same old story,” Helen said to the radio. “She’d been living in the same house fifty years, no problems, then BAM! Murdering robbers get you, or the thieving devil developers cheat you out of everything. Well, they won’t run me out. I’ll fight back—bet your last dollar on that!”
She sat down at the table with her chipped mug of tea and the brochure, and began flipping through the pages.