A Little Ray Of Sunshine

by Lani Diane Rich

  A Little Ray of Sunshine

  Copyright © 2008, 2011 by Lani Diane Rich

  All rights reserved.

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, places, events, business establishments or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Second Edition

  Cover design copyright © 2011 by Lani Diane Rich

  Storywonk House

  PO Box 61

  New Richmond, OH 45157

  www.storywonk.com

  A Little Ray of Sunshine

  by Lani Diane Rich

  One

  The night the angel found me was pretty much like every other night at the Quik ‘n Go. The air smelled like moist cardboard beer boxes, lemon-scented Lysol, and cinnamon-tainted coffee; the National Enquirer I attempted to read under the humming fluorescent lights was full of crap and yet, still oddly fascinating; and the customers were few, far between, and uncharacteristically inclined to talk to me. Case in point: Middle Eastern Guy, who I blame for starting this whole thing, because it was he who jerked his head toward the plate-glass window and asked, “Are you going to go help her or what?”

  I flipped down one corner of my National Enquirer to find him raising an expectant eyebrow at me. This was highly unusual behavior for Middle Eastern Guy (mid-thirties, five foot eleven, short hair, blue windbreaker jacket; you work in a convenience store for a while, you start to see people in police description-ese) who had never spoken to me directly before, and I wasn’t a fan of the sudden switch. His eyes flickered toward the front window, then landed back on me.

  “You should go help her.”

  He had no accent. No accent on a Middle Eastern Guy in northern New Jersey. Forget that he was probably raised in America, I got that, but he this was northern New Jersey. Even the crickets had accents. I’d only been there for two months and was already pronouncing the word coffee as though I had a mouth full of marbles. I put the tabloid down and glanced at the register.

  “Pump number 4, right?”

  His eyebrows did that little twitchy thing that happens when someone’s not sure if you’re socially challenged or just being rude. I didn’t fault him the wondering. People skills have never been my strong point.

  “You should go help her,” he said again, but slower this time.

  I followed his eyeline. Outside, there was a blonde - late-twenties, five foot six, short denim jacket, khaki pants, medium-length hair shooting out from behind her ears in two girlish ponytails - staring at the hood of a beat-up white Toyota. About five minutes prior, I had rung her up for a bottle of Snaffle Diet Raspberry Iced Tea and a box of Whoppers.

  I looked back at Middle Eastern Guy. “Your total comes to $27.84. Will that be cash or are you going to put this on your Quik ‘n Go card?”

  We were supposed to do that - presume that everyone has a Quik ‘n Go card, make them feel like they’re missing out if they don’t have one. It’s in the manual. You can check - page thirteen. We were supposed to use their names, too, if we got a credit card or check, so that the customer would feel like they were in a chummy, personable locale rather than a cold, lifeless turnpike convenience pit.

  Next time, I thought to myself, I’m getting a job that doesn’t make me deal with the public.

  Of course, I knew I probably wouldn’t, as those kinds of jobs usually require skills, or a degree in something other than Beer Bongs 101. No one with aspirations wants to work with the public for seven bucks an hour, so it’s nomads like me that usually get stuck doing it.

  “She needs your help,” he said, motioning toward the blonde with one hand as he gave me his cash with the other. “Go help her.”

  I opened my mouth, but nothing came out, because I didn’t want to say what I was thinking, which was that I couldn’t help her if I wanted to. She was staring at her car, which meant her car wasn’t working, and I didn’t know squat about cars. Plus, her legs appeared to be in working order. If she needed help, she could come in and ask to use the phone. Tap on the glass. Wave me over. Whatever. But because explaining all this seemed like too much trouble for too little payoff, I just said, “I can’t leave customers alone in the store.”

  “What customers?” he asked, looking around. “There’s just me.”

  I cleared my throat to indicate my annoyance. “Here’s a thought. Why don’t you go help her?”

  “Because I’m a guy,” he said. “She’s stranded and alone at a convenience store at midnight. I don’t want to freak her out. Just go and I’ll go with you.” His eyes locked on my name tag, and his eyebrows knit. “What does that stand for? EJ?”

  I glanced down. “It’s my name.”

  “It doesn’t stand for anything? You’re just EJ?”

  “Yep.” And since turnaround is fair play, I added, “Where are you from, anyway?”

  He looked surprised. I kept my expression flat and expectant.

  “Springfield,” he said finally.

  “New Jersey, Illinois or Missouri?”

  “Ohio.”

  I pulled his change from the till. “Too damn many Springfields.”

  He snorted, and I gave him the money and picked up my National Enquirer. He didn’t leave, though, just stood there watching me with a look that told me our interaction wasn’t over. I sighed and looked out the window.

  Ponytails still hadn’t moved. She just stared at the hood of her car, which left me with two choices. I could be stubborn and stare Springfield down until Edgar came in to take over at midnight, which was exactly seventeen minutes away by the official Quik ‘n Go clock. But, the way it looked, Ponytails was still going to be standing there staring at her car when I got off my shift, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to ignore her just out of spite. I was a lot of unflattering things, but spiteful hadn’t made the cut up from the jayvee team.

  Which left me with door number two. I could take thirty seconds, get both Springfield and Ponytails out of my hair, and spend the last quarter hour of my shift reading the tabloids, the way God intended.

  “Okay,” I said finally. I glanced up at the store security camera and gave the hand signal for, “All is well, assisting customer in need.” This was so that if my boss reviewed the tapes the following morning, I wouldn’t lose my job. Not that it was a great job, but it was mine, and I wanted it until I didn’t want it anymore.

  I pulled out my keys with a flourish so that the camera would catch me dutifully locking the door, and I followed Springfield out to Ponytails and her car. Springfield stopped a few feet away from her and motioned for me to go on ahead. I stepped forward.

  “Everything okay out here? You need me to call for a tow?”

  She looked up at me with an expression so perplexed you would think the car hood was a calculus textbook.

  “My car broke down,” she said simply, her voice surprising me with its lightness and lack of frustration. Had it been me, I would have expressed that sentiment with a few strategically placed expletives and maybe a kick to the tire. Ponytails just looked around as though trying to solve a puzzle in her head.

  “Why here? What’s here?” she mumbled to herself. Her focus shifted from the car to Springfield, locking on him with a hopeful expression. “Oooh. Maybe it’s you. Can I help you?”

  “Um, no. Thank you.” He glanced at me, and then when I remained silent, sighed and looked back at her. “Do you need help?”

  She ignored him and looked at me. “Is anyone here in trouble?”

  �
��Think so,” I said, glancing pointedly at her car. “Do you need a tow?”

  “No, I mean...” She paused, her face scrunched up in thought for a moment. “I mean, it was fine until I pulled up here and then it just died. There has to be a reason, right?”

  “Well...,” I said slowly, coming to the conclusion that Ponytails wasn’t firing on all cylinders, so possibly neither was the car. “Did you put gas in it?”

  “Pffft,” she said with a giggle. “Of course. No, it was fine. Then I pulled in here, and it just... stopped.”

  Springfield stepped closer and held out his hand, palm up. “Would you like me to try?”

  “Thank you, but I doubt you’ll be able to do anything,” she said. “It won’t start until I do what I’m supposed to do.”

  He smiled at her. “Well, then it can’t hurt if I try, right?”

  She shrugged and handed him her keys.

  “Do you know anything about cars?” I asked, but Springfield shook his head in my direction; I could tell his radar had detected some crazy, too. He slid into the front seat and stuck the keys in the ignition. Ponytails’s eyes drifted down to my name tag.

  “EJ,” she said softly, a light smile on her face. “That’s nice. It’s funny how names like that can be ironically feminine, isn’t it?”

  “Sure.” I shuffled to the left a bit, putting a few more inches between us. Springfield pushed himself up out of the car.

  “Didn’t even click,” he said. “My guess is the battery. Maybe your alternator.”

  Ponytails released a sigh of resignation. “No, it’s fine. It’s me. Thanks anyway.” She smiled at him as she took back her keys. “So, then it’s down to you two. Sir, are you sure you don’t need any help with anything? Nothing I can do for you?”

  Springfield and I exchanged a look and he said, “No, but maybe I can drive you somewhere. Like, maybe, to a hospital... or something?”

  “Oh, no,” she said, not seeming to take the slightest offense at the fact that he basically has just called her crazy to her face. “Thank you. I’m fine.” She crossed her arms over her chest and stared at Springfield hard for a minute, then gave a brief nod and turned to me. “I don’t think he needs me. It must be you, then.”

  I’ll admit, this took me by surprise. “What must be me, then?”

  She held out her hand to me to shake, and I reflexively took it.

  “My name is Jess. I’m an angel.” She said it as though she was telling me she’s a Pisces, or a paralegal. “And when things like this happen to me, it’s because I have a job to do. EJ, I think you’re it.”

  Springfield patted my shoulder. “Okay. If you’ve got this under control, I’ll just be going.”

  “Thanks so much for the help,” I said with a bite in my voice, then turned back to Jess. “Let’s go call you that tow.”

  I pulled my keys out of my pocket and headed back for the store. Jess followed, chattering at me the whole way.

  “So, you need to tell me everything about yourself, even if you don’t think it matters. You’d be amazed how many of these things are resolved when I find out something that my assignment thinks is unimportant.”

  Assignment? Hmmm. I yanked the yellow pages out and let them thunk on the counter with the heavy weight of purpose.

  “I’ll call you a tow and have them bring it to Busey Brothers. It’s on the edge of town, but they’ll do a good job and probably won’t rip you off too bad.”

  “Do you have a husband or a boyfriend? Are you fighting? That’s usually my specialty.” She grinned. “I’m something of a cosmic relationship mender.”

  “If you stay at the Super 8, that’s within walking distance of Busey’s.” I picked up the phone. She took the receiver from my hand and replaced it in the cradle. I’d never seen anyone actually do that in real life, so instead of smacking her hand and picking it up again, I just stared at her, my head cocked to the side, making me feel like a curious dog whose owner had just done a jig in the middle of the sidewalk.

  “Oh, no,” she said. “I really should stay with you. I need to see how you live, get to know your family and your friends. I can’t help you if I’m staying at a motel.”

  “I don’t need any help,” I said. She just watched me, a beatific smile on her expectant face, as though she was waiting for more. I decided to speak clearly and slowly, much the way Springfield spoke to me earlier. “You cannot stay with me.”

  “Oh, don’t worry. I’ll earn my keep. I make these blueberry yogurt pancakes that are truly amazing, if I do say so myself. Oh—and I also have a lot of basic carpentry skills. Does anything in your house need fixing? I can make you a bookshelf.”

  “I live in an Airstream,” I said. “You know, the motor homes?”

  Her face lit up. “The ones that look like the big silver hot dogs? I love those!”

  I didn’t know how to respond to that. What I was thinking was that even the stray cats that eat out of the garbage cans at the RV park don’t want to come home with me, that I’m not the kind of person people attach themselves to. Even crazy people. I was also thinking that I didn’t want to be killed in my sleep, and while Jess didn’t seem violent at the moment, it wasn’t really a chance I cared to take.

  Instead I said, “I’m just gonna call Busey’s.”

  She watched me, her eyes narrowing in thought, then she finally nodded toward the phone. I picked up the receiver and dialed Busey’s. I waited the five rings for the answering machine, then punched in “9” for emergency so it would transfer me to Vince Busey’s cell. As I arranged for Vince to come and tow her car, Jess fiddled absently with my National Enquirer, then leaned forward after I hung up the phone.

  “You don’t believe I’m an angel, do you?”

  I stared at her. I wanted to tell her that no, as a matter of fact, I didn’t believe in angels at all, because angels weren’t real and she was obviously in dire need of some sort of medication. I wanted to tell her that even if angels were real, which they weren’t, they certainly wouldn’t come find me. I was no George Bailey. I was just plain old Emmy James, and I lived in a trailer and I worked in a convenience store and I was simply not the type of girl that drew angels to her.

  Instead, I said, “Cab should be here in just a few minutes,” and waited out the rest of my shift in silence.

  You have to understand that by the time Jess found me, I was pretty set in my ways. I liked my Airstream. I liked living in RV parks and working temporary jobs. I liked the fact that at any time, I could decide that I’d had enough of one place and just pick up and go someplace else. In the six years I’d been nomading it, I had lived in over twelve places. Rolla, Missouri was my record shortest stop, clocking in at just over two days. Billings, Montana was my longest; I was there for almost a year. I had worked as a waitress in South Dakota, a car washer in San Diego, a dog walker in Fort Lauderdale, a seasonal customer service rep for a financial software company in Tucson, and an ice cream vendor on the board-walk in Atlantic City. It worked for me, and I liked it.

  What I didn’t like was the pity. Every now and again, I’d get to talking with someone, and when we got to any of the details of my life, the conversation would usually go a little something like this:

  Them: So, you live alone?

  Me: Yes.

  Them: In a trailer?

  Me: Yes.

  Them: And you just keep moving to different places whenever you want?

  Me: Yes.

  Them: Don’t you have family?

  Me: No.

  (That’s a lie. I have family, I just don’t like to talk about her.)

  Them: And you’re... happy?

  (There was always a pause before happy. Always. As though it was so unbelievable that I might actually like my life that it took extra effort to get the words out.)

  Me: Yes. I’m. Happy.

  That would pretty much kill the conversation every time, and then I’d end up feeling like there was something wrong with me. Which, well obviously,
there was, but still. I didn’t want to have it thrown in my face. I knew I was socially disabled, I didn’t need their looks of pity to remind me. So that night, as I sat in my trailer eating Strawberry Frosted Mini-Wheats for dinner and watching my DVD of North by Northwest, I gently fumed. Who was this Jess, anyway, to decide that I was the one who needed her help? She was the crazy one. If anyone needed help, it was her, okay? And how could she be so sure it wasn’t Springfield whose life was such a big fat mess that she had to be sent from Heaven above to come clean it up? I mean, he bought five packs of Doublemint and a tank of gas in cash every Tuesday night. If that wasn’t a cry for help, what was? And I liked my life. I was doing great. I was... okay, fine, I wasn’t exactly happy, but who’s happy?

  No one. That’s who. And who cared what one crazy angel thought anyway?

  Not me.

  I pushed myself up from the foldout table and continued to steam as I took the three steps to my kitchen. I washed out my bowl and spoon and stuck them in my tiny dish rack, then stared down into my tiny, tiny sink as the familiar wave of emotion slammed into me.

  Here we go.

  I closed my eyes and breathed slowly, trying to calm my heart rate as I rode out the episode. In one powerful whisper, I heard the voice, my own voice, tell me what I already knew.

  It’s time.

  When I opened my eyes, my lashes were wet with tears, which was weird, because I had no memory of actually crying. With a shaking hand, I reached up and swiped at my face. That one had been stronger than the last one, which had been stronger than the one before it. Seemed a bad trend. Not that it mattered much, though, because in the end, they all meant the same thing.

  Wearily, I made my way to the door of my trailer and stepped out into the balmy June night. I walked barefoot over the warm gravel to my truck, stuck my head through the open passenger window, and reached for the glove compartment.

  Minutes later, I was back in the Airstream, my AAA United States map tacked up on my corkboard, my trusty red dart at the ready. I closed my eyes, said my prayer, and hurled the dart. When I opened my eyes, I could see that the dart had landed somewhere in Colorado. It didn’t really matter where; I’d figure out the specifics later. Suddenly I felt overwhelmed with exhaustion, and my mind whirled with all the tasks I had before me. Give my notice at the Quik ‘n Go. Get a prorated rent refund from the RV park for the remainder of the month I wouldn’t be using. Unhook the Airstream and latch it onto my truck.