Hand In Hand
By Shotzette, Old Time Fan and Missy

Episode Eighteen
By Missy

Thank You To Chesh For Tireless Hours of Betaing!
Squiggy leaned heavily against the door frame of Rhonda's trailer. They were both suffering in the extremity of the heat.

Lousy luck, he thought to himself, we trek out to the damn desert in the middle of summer and they don't need Rhonda.

"Squiggles? Could you close the door?"

He glanced at his wife; ever since that night, she had been unusually solicitous toward him. They tactfully avoided talking about their passion together, a rarity in of itself. Neither of them came into the world armed with caution.

And so, they were good at avoidance, too.

It didn't feel right to Squiggy, refusing to talk about what had happened. Well, if she wanted to be ashamed of him that was fine. Let her be ashamed! He didn't care.

Sure. Of course not.

"I wanna watch the stunt. Since they won't let me use my cred-things to get near the blast site."

Rhonda felt shame creep up her neck; after Sonny had okayed Carmine and Laverne's presence on the set, a chain reaction had gone down; Laverne wouldn't come without Lenny, and they couldn't leave Shirley alone. Carmine needed to bring Amy. With the dangerous stunt, which had been planned, having a bunch of people on-set wouldn't be wise.

He watched in silence as the explosions went off. Excitement coursed through him; it looked really good. He remembered feeling a similar excitement back when he was just an eager moviegoer back in Milwaukee. It was different now, and if he had the power to put it correctly into words, he would tell the world that it was far less satisfying to be a participant in the movie biz than a consumer. But Squiggy just praised the orange-red flames with his eyes.

An awful noise followed a shout of 'cut'; a bustle of people on the ground. He tried to squint at the mass of people below him, nearly losing his balance again.

"What's happening?" Rhonda asked, pressing herself against his back.

Trying valiantly not to react to her presence, he whispered, "Somethin's wrong. Real wrong."

***

Carmine followed his first instinct once the blast ended; he began shouting obscenities at the director.

"What?" a director shouted through his bullhorn.

"You idiot!" he bellowed, "An innocent woman was on that blast site!! You MAY HAVE KILLED HER!"

"Shit! That means this footage has to be struck!"

"You sunuva...." he shouted every name in the book, every filthy name he knew at the back of the retreating man until he turned around. Then his own eyes widened; he had seen the pink satin ribbon Amy had been wearing in her hair. He began screaming, too; for an ambulance. Carmine didn't let up his invocation.

He felt like a failure; unable to protect Amy. Coated by the stench of death. He focused in desperately on what his doctor had told him. Driving away the depression with constructive thoughts, he began barking orders he had no right to give to the other staffers.

And not dealing with the present.

***

The very moment the director had screamed for a cut, Lenny and Shirley had raced onto the set. The very end of that reel of film would immortalize them in the stock department of Powder Keg Films.

"He's not breathing, Len."

Lenny had gone instinctively for Amy, his instinctive chivalry kicking in. The blonde girl had a large bruise over her right temple, and a gash where Sonny's nail had scratched her forehead. Otherwise, she was untouched.

Sonny was another story. His entire back was charred, and the nauseating smell of roasted flesh announced third-degree burns. His hair had been singed off. Three ribs had been broken in the fall.

And, if they had turned him over, they would have noticed that he had a massive wound upon the back of his head.

"Lenny! Do you know mouth-to-mouth?!"

"I..." He swallowed, gently laying Amy on the ground before returning to Carmine. "I learned from Randy Carpenter." He placed his hands over Sonny's chest, pumping each beat carefully. And watching Shirley as she carefully exhaled into Sonny's mouth.

They got a rhythm going, occasionally barking out a request for an ambulance. Lenny couldn't believe how fortuitous Shirley's knowing CPR had turned out to be. Ten minutes passed. Sonny's heart kept beating, but they provided his every breath.

One sound pierced the air.

Amy's scream.

***

"Sonny!! SONNY!" Screeched Amy, trying to crawl to him.

"Laverne!" Lenny ordered his wife. She comprehended his meaning instantly.

"Come on, Amy." She gently took the girl by her wrists, pulling her to her feet.

"No!" she shouted, pulling away from Laverne's grip.

"Amy, you can't-"

"I'm not a baby! I can help myself!"

"COME ON!" She yanked the girl away from the blast scene, while she struggled.

"NO!!" Screeched Amy, "I hate you! You took Lenny away from me, and now you're taking Sonny!"

Laverne then did something she would be eternally ashamed of herself for. She slapped Amy across the face.

"Calm. Down. Now."

Amy stood, breathing heavily, staring at Laverne in disbelief. No one had ever smacked her, ever.

She burst into tears, collapsing against Laverne's chest. "I'm so sorry!" she blurted out. "I'm bad, I'm sorry!"

And Laverne, acting on mothering instincts she wasn't even aware she had, embraced the girl in silence.

***

The paramedics arrived four minutes later. Lenny and Carmine, suddenly divorced from the action, stood back while they bagged Sonny and loaded him onto the ambulance. There was no discussion; they simply piled into Lenny's rusting car and followed to Cedars.

Cedars; they all hated the place by now. Resented its cheerfulness, the false, cloying scent of pine that surrounded them.

Oh, they were a miserable bunch; Laverne, clinging to Lenny in silence (in fact, curled up in his lap). Amy, isolating herself in her misery, punishing herself for being naughty. Shirley, intentionally distancing herself for Carmine, wanting to stay as far away from him as possible. Two hours into their waiting period, Amy had crawled into Carmine's lap, as well. Shirley's lack of jealousy appalled him.

"Squiggy!" Lenny blurted out.

Laverne turned to gallows humor. "I'm sittin' in your lap and you think of Squig?"

"No! Vernie, we left him and Rhonda in her trailer!"

"She probably heard the explosion," Laverne said against his shoulder. Exhaustion had filled her; as much as she liked Sonny, had tried to love him, the entire day had been draining.

Shirley was wired again. "I had life in my hands!" She said excitedly. "I think I understand...I remember being a candy striper and feeling so good about helping out people. I thought it was all about the single doctors, but..."

"Will you shut up, Shirl?" Carmine asked.

"Screw off, Carmine." She said lightly. "That's no way to talk about Shirley Feeney, RN...No, Doctor Miss Feeney!"

"Why the fuck does everything have to be about you?!" Carmine blurted.

"Yeah, why the f-." Amy started, but cut herself off in memory of Sonny, tears in her eyes.

"Maybe, Carmine, it's because my life is about me." She said primly. "Not about how miserable you feel!"

"Here we go," Lenny muttered in his wife's ear.

"How can you....Sonny's in there dying!! Does anyone else give a crap about that?" Amy let out a wail, and he coddled the girl, guilt swamping him completely.

Shirley's expression turned cool. "Carmine, you're being dramatic again." Realization swept over her; sure, she was being cold, distant, and self-absorbed. But Carmine kept staring at her with lust in his eyes. Nausea swept over her. This was an unworkable relationship, and it wasn't even worth fighting over. "I'm sorry." She said, simply, tiredly. And sat back down in her chair.

Suddenly, a bloodstained doctor stood at the door to the waiting room. He tucked off his surgical cap and said, very quietly, "You're waiting to hear about Mr. Pun-."

"Sonny," Laverne blushed, remembering the meaning of his last name in Italian. "Call him by his stage name, St. Jacques. He would have wanted that."

"I have some serious news for you, then."

***

It took fifteen minutes for Rhonda and Squiggy to coordinate themselves and walk to the blast site. When they arrived, nothing stood but a puddle of blood, some camera equipment, and a pack of reporters, brandishing equipment.

"Excuse me!" One shouted. "Do you know a Mr. Sonny Pun-."

"Sonny! You mean St. Jacques?" they nodded. "What happened to him?"

"You don't know? What kind of unit publicist are you?"

"Unit pub-." He stared at the random members of the crew left, who simply shrugged and turned away. "Uh; well, whatever happened to ol' Sonny doesn't change that he was a nice fellow. And Powder Keg Films accepts no responsibility in his, er, 'bloodening'."

"So Powder Keg Films accepts no responsibility in the injury of this Sonny and Miss Babbish?"

"Miss Babish? What happened to Amy?"

"Minor injuries to her, head injury for Mr. St. Jacques."

"Is Powder Keg Films planning on pressing charges against Miss Babish for ruining the stunt?"

He stared in disbelief at the press person.

"This interview is over."

Rhonda's gentle praise...and the sound of a studio head, telling him he was sensational only interrupted the roaring in Squiggy's ears.

He would think about that job offer during the very long ride to Cedars.

***

Edna Babbish rolled lazily out of bed, smiling to herself. Frank had been wonderful, without the worry of Amy somehow finding them together hanging over their heads.

She strolled to the television, turning it on while she made lunch. She decided to ignore the nagging feeling in her heart that something was wrong,

"....and that's the tragic scene in Simi Valley." Edna froze, panic setting in.

"Are there any survivors of the stunt, Kipp?"

"Mr. St. Jacques is currently in surgery, and Miss Babish was treated and released."

Edna screamed Frank's name, already throwing on a blouse.

"We heard comments from Mr. Andrew Squiggman, Powder Keg Films' new head of publicity..."

"What?!" Frank roared, his eyes going soft as they fell upon the television set. "Holy Mary..." he muttered beneath his breath.

There was too much blood on the ground. No one could ever survive that.

**

"What happened?" Lenny asked, his eyes pinning the doctor to the wall.

"Mr. St. Jacques is out of surgery, and he's now breathing on his own."

The room let out a collective sigh of relief.

"When's he gonna get out of here?" Carmine asked.

A look of sadness crossed the doctor's face, "I'm afraid that will be awhile. Mr. St. Jacques is in a coma. The trauma he underwent is rather significant."

"What does that mean?" Shirley asked.

"It means," he said very carefully, "that the patient may have brain damage. We won't be able to assess that until he comes out of the coma."

Amy's scream filled the air as the doctor retreated.

"I'm sorry." He murmured, as he retreated. "A councilor will be by to take you to him, one at a time, if you desire."

"Brain damage; I don't believe it." Shirley murmured. "This isn't happening."

"Who wants to be first?" Carmine asked.

Laverne looked to him. "I think he'd want to see you."

Carmine nodded. When the unit nurse appeared with a prepared speech, they were all rocked.

"I'm here for the family of Mr. St-." She laughed in disbelief. "Holy shit!"

"I don't believe it," Laverne murmured. "Whenever bad news comes around, there she is."

Rosie Greenbaum smiled playfully. "Same to you, DeFazio." She glanced at the miserable party before her and asked jocularly, "Okay, who wants to come and see the eggplant first?"

FIN






To Chapter 17

On To Chapter 19











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