His Frozen Heart (3 page)

I walked up behind her, reached around
her into the cabinet, and held up the cellophane that had held the
case of noodles, “Yeah, they’re gone, too.”

“
All right. Let’s go to the
store.” She walked up to the stove and grabbed the coffee can where
she hid her money. “I’ve got twelve bucks.” Twelve dollars. Was she
kidding? That wouldn’t even cover a gallon of milk, a case of
macaroni and cheese, and bottle of vitamins. We’d both proven that
those three staples were enough to survive on. I was sick of just
surviving: I was hungry for real food.

I could usually count on a meal at the
restaurant during my shift: something a customer had sent back or a
special that got cold, something – not today. The new manager
backed my hours off at the restaurant, too, so that meant even
fewer meals with real meat. I’d been late twice this month, both
because of school, so all of the sudden I was no longer reliable
enough to be scheduled for the weekday lunch crowd. I’d been
tempted to slash his tires, but I couldn’t afford to lose my job,
at least not the one that I could count on to get tips to keep gas
in my car and a hot meal when the cupboards were bare.

“
Twelve bucks isn’t going
to cut it. Didn’t you just get paid?”

Her cheeks flushed, and I didn’t need
to hear her say it. Dammit. This happened every time I was working
and she had money. She’d invite some friends over, order pizza, get
some beers, then wings: the next thing our cupboards were empty,
she was broke, and rent was due. If it wasn’t rent it was the
electric bill, the gas bill, the water bill, or the trash bill –
this had to stop.

Unapologetically she said, “Go throw
on a skirt.”

“
Shit, no frickin’ way!
Your check’s gone, isn’t it?” I accused.

“
Don’t worry about my
check. Get a skirt on, and we can go to the grocery store
afterwards.”

“
No. Find someone else.
I’ve got a test tomorrow I haven’t studied for, and I have to be at
the gas station at midnight.”

She looked at the clock on the stove.
“It’s only six. That’s plenty of time.”

“
Are you deaf? I have to
work tonight, all night. I have to study, and I haven’t slept yet
today.”

“
Do you want to eat or not?
You know I hate taking anyone else. Get a skirt and wear the black
sweater you wore last time.”

Unbelievable. I didn’t try to mask any
of my contempt at her suggestion of the short black sweater, “It’s
like twenty below out!”

“
Okay, fine. Wear what you
want, but the less skin showing, the less food in the
pantry.”

My stomach let out a furious rumble.
Mrs. Bavcock across the street probably heard it. “It’s a Tuesday
night. Where are you going to find a chump on a Tuesday night?” I
asked incredulously.

Libby was as sympathetic as a
paperclip. “Dammit, Candy, stop bitching and get
dressed!”

She stalked out of the room and up the
stairs. I hated this. I hated that my wellbeing was tied to someone
who wasn’t responsible enough to adopt a puppy from the pound. I
went back to the cabinet, begrudgingly pulling the rice and soy
sauce from it. The shower turned on upstairs as my water started to
boil on the stove. I shook my head to no one in particular. She
couldn’t be serious. No one would be at the bars on a Tuesday night
in the bitter cold beyond the alcoholics and the regulars. She
couldn’t get money from either of those two groups – they all knew
her.

Five minutes later my instant rice was
ready. I took a seat in front of the television, grabbed my notes
for my test tomorrow, and eyed my pathetic meal as enthusiastically
as I could. The bowl nearly emptied itself. It wasn’t great, but
the sharp pains in my stomach eased. Libby’s hair dryer blared to
life upstairs – if she thought I was going with her, she was
insane.

Trying to decipher the scribbles in my
notebook, I tuned out everything else. School sucked, but no way
was I going to live like this the rest of my life: three jobs,
full-time school, and no boyfriend.

As irresponsible and carefree as Libby
could be, there was no one I was closer to in the world. It drove
me crazy, because for every time I was ready to kick her out in
favor of a roommate who I could count on, she would do something
amazingly selfless and remind me why she had been my best friend
since grade school. She had an enormous heart. Blowing her paycheck
the night she got it and having friends over who cleaned out what
little food we had in our cabinets sucked, but it wouldn’t have
been in her nature to tell someone “no.”

As I zoned out over my notes, I
noticed her standing at the entryway to the living room.

My eyes about popped out of my head.
She wore two scraps of fabric: an emerald green halter top and a
short black skirt. Black leather boots with sky-high heels went up
over her knees, letting little of her muscular legs peek through.
Her blonde hair stretched half-way down her back and was smoothed
straight. She must have been hungrier than she was letting on; in
an outfit like that, no one would stand a chance against her. In a
voice normally reserved for drill instructors, she barked, “Get
dressed.”

Absently I answered, “I told you, I
have a test tomorrow, and I have to be at work in a few
hours.”

She looked at the clock. “You said
midnight. That’s almost six hours from now. Get
dressed.”

“
Barely five hours, and I
haven’t slept yet today,” I growled.

“
You can nap at the gas
station tonight. C’mon, I can’t do this tomorrow night, and we
don’t have enough food to make it until then anyway.”

My eyes took in her scant
clothes. Instead of agreeing to wear a short skirt and half a top,
I simply said, “Julia Roberts called. She wants her
Pretty Woman
outfit
back.”

“
Shut up and get
dressed.”

Decisively I looked her square in the
eye and told her one last time, “I’m not going. Call someone else.
But rent’s due next week, so if it doesn’t work out at the bar, you
may want to stop by lower Third Street. You’ll fit right
in.”

My insult, “lower Third Street” where
all the prostitutes hung out, was ignored. Instead she hurled a
low-blow in my direction, “If you go with me, I’ll make manicotti
tonight.”

My stomach lurched at the offer.
Libby’s manicotti was my favorite, and she knew it. I shook my
head, trying to keep from taking the bait. “You say that now, but
five hours from now you’ll be sleeping, and I’ll be going to
work.”

She held her pinky up in the air, “I
swear. Two hours tops at the bar. I’ll go to the grocery store
after, you take a nap, and it’ll be ready before you have to go to
work.”

Arguing was a waste of time. She had
me. I would do all the chores around here she didn’t want to do at
the mere hint that she would make a pan of it. Throwing on a skirt
and helping her find a chump in a bar was a lot less work than what
I would have been willing to do for her manicotti. Dammit. I tossed
my illegible notes on the floor, put my empty rice bowl in the
sink, and was in my room changing before I could convince myself
that I was an idiot.

We rolled into Bank Shot at the end of
happy hour. The aroma of the happy hour food, the stale alcohol
smell which permeated the air, and the loud music blaring through
the sound system was a familiar welcome. The sad remains of free
chicken wings were lined up on the bar. I started for them like a
toddler to chocolate.

Libby’s hand grabbed my arm when she
reminded me, “We’re not here to eat.” If my stomach could have
controlled my hands, they would have slapped her for that comment.
Was she for real? We were here to get money for food, and there
were dried up, cold chicken wings just a few feet away.

Libby’s eyes roved over the room:
there were ten pool tables, all with players – a surprising crowd
for a Tuesday night. She studied each table, cautiously sizing up
each player. Libby could have been a professional – she and I
hadn’t played pool for fun in years. Her eyes stopped on table
four, where a tall slender guy with a bad case of acne was racking.
He was probably about our age. The one getting ready to break was
shorter, muscular, and was at least early thirties. Both had
raven-colored hair.

The two she picked were average Joes,
nothing special about either one. Neither was overly attractive,
nor were they painful on the eyes. They didn’t wear designer
clothes, but both had brought their own pool cues with them. Sizing
them up, I shook my head, “No, not needy enough.”

Libby shook her head, and said, “I’ve
never seen them here before. It’d be easy.”

Chris shouted from behind the bar,
“Candy, you two better not be doing what I think you’re
doing!”

Libby flinched. She shot him one of
her perfect smiles then spoke to me through clenched teeth, telling
me, “Go talk to him. Give him a sob story so he doesn’t give us any
trouble. I’ll find a spot for our coats.”

I was a little surprised at Chris’
outburst. We’d been coming to Bank Shot since we were still in high
school; he’d never given us an ounce of grief. I shook my head,
“You do it. This was your idea.”

Libby’s bright smile diminished as she
confessed, “I took him for three hundred bucks the last time I was
here. You think he’ll listen to me?”

I hadn’t been with her that night.
Libby was the best pool hustler around. A few of the bars around
town had banned her, which was a pretty decent accomplishment for a
girl who was still shy of the legal drinking age. It wasn’t like
her to take money from a bar employee. That was the quickest way to
be shown the door, as we had both learned during our senior year of
high school when we were trying to get money to go on the senior
class trip. I was the decoy. In my own right, I wasn’t half-bad,
but I couldn’t shark on my own.

Begrudgingly, I strode up to the bar.
“Hey, Chris. I haven’t seen you around. Been working
much?”

He ignored my attempt at small talk
and pointed an accusing finger in Libby’s direction. “She better
not be sharking tonight.”

“
Oh, come on. She’s just
blowing off steam. It’s not her fault she’s better than most of
these guys.”

Chris looked me dead in the eye. “You
know she took me for more than a hundred dollars.”

She had just told me she had taken him
for significantly more than that, but letting on that I knew would
only bruise his ego further. I played it off, “Yeah, she was really
excited when she came home that night. Thanks, by the way. We were
able to pay the electric bill. I hate seeing my breath in my
bedroom.”

Chris had been glaring at her, but my
confession softened his stare. His voice changed when he prodded,
“For real?”

I rarely let anyone in on how dire our
circumstances were, but if I didn’t share the truth, there was a
good chance he’d toss us. If that happened, we were completely
screwed. “Yeah. You should see our pantry right now. The mice have
moved out and have applied for food stamps.”

His eyebrows rose. There was a
kindness showing through when he asked, “Why don’t you two get
regular jobs like everyone else?”

“
We have regular jobs. It’s
not enough to cover the bills. She only does this when we’re really
in a pinch.” I forced a smile and added, “I’m not exaggerating
about the mice.”

He shook his head. Without another
word he grabbed what was left of the chicken wings from happy hour
and put them all on a paper plate. He filled a big plastic glass
with ice water and placed both in front of me.

The smell of the wings did something
to me. I picked up the first one as my hand began shaking – I was
hungry in a big way. I didn’t care if Chris thought I was some kind
of animal. I devoured the whole thing, not setting it back down
until it was a naked bone.

I didn’t hear the music or
conversations around me, and I couldn’t feel Chris’s eyes – even
though I was sure he was staring. I had inhaled the first five
wings before Libby’s hand on my shoulder brought me out of my
eating ecstasy.

She reached around me and picked up a
wing off the plate. I felt like a feral dog ready to bite her hand,
but resisted the urge. Libby winked at Chris, no doubt trying to
make nice, “I love that shirt.”

I hadn’t paid attention before, but
she was right, he was wearing a nice shirt. Chris was okay to look
at – not an Adonis by any stretch of the imagination. He was
average height, average build, and usually wore an easy smile: the
kind of guy you wanted to leave a big tip for if moths weren’t
flying out of your wallet.

Chris forced a smile back at her. He
shouldn’t have bothered, because it looked like it was painful for
him. The shirt he wore was a black button down: the material had a
sheen to it with designs woven into the fabric. Something about the
shirt made him look more attractive than normal. Or maybe it was
that he had just fed me and somewhere deep within my primal being
that bumped him up on the attractiveness scale.

Chris warned Libby, “I already told
Candy, no bets tonight. If you’re playing, it better be for
fun.”