Power Play

by Deirdre Martin

  Jimmy clutched the sides of his head, squeezing his forehead so hard it began wrinkling like a shar-pei’s. “Oh, no. Oh, Wallace. You bastard. Do not do this to me, man!” He looked around wildly. “Does anyone here know CPR?”

  “I do,” Eric volunteered, hustling toward the bed. “Call the paramedics. I’ll start working on him.”

  “Call 911!” Jimmy yelled to no one in particular.

  Monica stood frozen as Eric tore open the old actor’s hospital gown, pried open his mouth, and began administering CPR.

  “He’s dead,” Jimmy moaned to himself. “I know it. In the middle of a scene. I can’t believe this. He’s always been difficult to work with. Always. I can’t—”

  “Now isn’t the time, Jimmy!” Monica yelled. “Go take some aspirin!”

  A tense hush fell over the studio as Eric switched back and forth between puffing breath into Wallace’s mouth and giving his chest thirty short pumps at a time with the heel of his hand. Watching him, Monica felt an odd surge of pride that she knew she wasn’t entitled to. He wasn’t her boyfriend, after all. But there was something about the fact that Eric didn’t even hesitate to leap into action for someone he didn’t even know that made her proud to know him.

  Eric glanced up at Monica briefly, shaking his head no almost imperceptibly. Wallace was dead. Monica’s eyes began welling up. Eric kept working on him until the paramedics arrived. Wallace was pronounced dead on the scene. He’d had a massive coronary.

  Neither cast nor crew seemed to know what to do once Wallace’s body was wheeled away. Some sobbed outright; others huddled in groups, talking in low voices laced with disbelief. Some actors trudged like sleepwalkers back to their dressing rooms.

  Looking exhausted, Eric came to Monica’s side. One by one, the cast and crew remaining on the studio floor came over to thank him, including the executive producer, who declared the show “dark” for the rest of the day. The only one still present who didn’t come to thank Eric was Jimmy, who was holed up in the control booth, sobbing.

  “That was really something,” Monica murmured, touching Eric’s cheek.

  He glanced back at the empty hospital bed. “Poor bastard. At least he died doing what he loved.”

  “True. When did you learn CPR?”

  “Years ago.” Eric shrugged dismissively. “In the back of my mind, I’ve always toyed with the idea of being an EMT when my hockey career is over.”

  “That could be interesting.”

  “I guess. Hopefully, it’s a long way off.” Eric looked uncomfortable as he checked his watch. “Look, I’m going to take off. You going to be okay?”

  Monica nodded. “I’ll be fine. I’m going to stick around and help Jimmy pull it together.”

  “Okay.” Eric stuck his hands in the front pockets of his jeans, hunching his shoulders. “Well, if you feel like you need to talk or anything, you know where to reach me.”

  “Thanks,” said Monica, genuinely moved. “I’ll be in touch about—you know. Something over the weekend, probably.”

  “Yeah.” There were still lots of cast and crew milling around. “I guess I better make our good-bye look realistic,” Eric murmured.

  Taking his hands from his pockets, he gently cupped the back of Monica’s neck with one hand, pulling her to him. Monica’s heartbeat, which had just returned to normal after the adrenaline rush prompted by Wallace’s sudden death, surged again as Eric pressed his lips to hers. If he was acting now, he was doing a damn good job of it. There was real feeling there as his mouth generated heat against hers, until finally he gently parted her lips with his tongue. Was anyone watching? Monica didn’t care. In this moment, the rest of the world had burned away, and it was just her and this heroic man who’d tried to save another’s life, a man who didn’t pretend to be an intellectual when he wasn’t, a man who used his strong, muscled body to make his living. Monica gave herself over to the heated blue spark of their kiss, the thrill of it something she hadn’t experienced in a long, long time. When Eric slowly took his mouth from hers, Monica’s dramatic instincts immediately kicked in; she did not want him to see her disappointment, and so she hid it.

  “What do you think?” Eric asked, gently breaking their embrace.

  Monica nodded approvingly. “Very convincing.”

  “Think your coworkers believe we’re the real deal?”

  “How could they not?” Monica was glad she was still wearing the lab coat. It covered her still-rioting heart, which felt as though it might thump its way right out of her chest. She glanced up at the control booth. “I really should go see how Jimmy’s doing.”

  “Right.” Eric’s hands went back into his front pockets. “Well . . . see you.”

  “See you.”

  He gave her a small peck on the mouth and was off. Monica watched him go—her pretend boyfriend who, for a few seconds, had felt like a real one. Rattled, Monica went up to see her friend.

  Jimmy sat with his elbows resting on the control panel, his face in his hands. He didn’t move when Monica quietly came through the door.

  “Jimmy,” Monica said gently as she sat down next to him. “Talk to me.”

  Jimmy slowly lifted his head, his brown eyes reduced to swollen red slits. “I’ve worked with Wallace for thirty years, Monica. Can you believe that? Thirty years.”

  “I know.” Monica gave his shoulder a consoling squeeze. “I’m sorry I snapped at you down on the floor. It’s just that you weren’t helping things.”

  “I know.” Jimmy wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. “But I can’t believe he fuckin’ died in the middle of a scene, Monica. I mean, really.”

  Monica winced. “I’m sure the writers can work around it.”

  “I’m sure they can’t. This is a major story line we’re talking about here.”

  Monica paused. She might not know what lay far up the road for her character, but Jimmy did. Would it be crass to ask him in a moment of grief how much he knew about Roxie’s future? Oh, God, the temptation. But she couldn’t.

  “We’re back on our regular shooting schedule tomorrow,” Jimmy lamented. “What are we going to do? Put a dummy in the hospital bed?”

  “No.” An idea whispered itself in Monica’s ear. “I know someone we can get on really short notice to do the scene tomorrow,” she said carefully.

  “Who?”

  “Monty Kingman.”

  “What?” Jimmy’s expression went from despair to disbelieving. “That old theater queen? Are you nuts?”

  “Monty is not a queen,” Monica countered angrily. “He’s a metrosexual. One of the first.” Her expression turned pleading. “You know he’s got the chops, Jimmy. And he needs the money.”

  “How do you know he needs the money?”

  “He’s a friend of mine,” Monica said softly. “He was my acting teacher. He taught me everything I know.”

  Jimmy narrowed his eyes. “And you know for a fact he can be here first thing tomorrow for us to reshoot this scene? Know his lines?”

  “He can learn them in two minutes. Believe me.”

  Jimmy sighed as he hoisted himself out of his chair. “Let me talk to Michael. You get your metrosexual friend prepped and bring him in here at six a.m. sharp tomorrow.”

  “Thanks so much, Jimmy.”

  “Speaking of thanks, thank your boyfriend for doing the kiss of life on Wallace. That was . . .” Jimmy shook his head, choking up again. “Just thank him.”

  “I will.”

  Monica gave Jimmy a big bear hug, then headed to her dressing room to collect her things before she left for the day. She knew Monty might balk at first about appearing on a soap (she could hear his disgusted voice in her head), but in the end, he would thank her. Maybe he’d start getting small parts here and there. At the very least, maybe it would change his mind about the medium, make him see that what she did was legitimate, not garbage. She was saddened by Wallace’s sudden demise, but hopefully, some good might come out of it that could help her ment
or.

  “You tried to resuscitate Tucker Lamont? You?”

  Eric stared at his brother, annoyed with his incredulity. Jason knew Eric knew CPR. What was so shocking about him using it on someone who needed it?

  They were hanging out at Jason’s, sharing a couple of Heinekens and intermittently watching American Idol. Delilah had gone to visit her parents out on Long Island. Jason had begged off; he could only take his in-laws in short doses, since their primary mode of communication was yelling. Having met Delilah’s parents on countless occasions, Eric didn’t blame his brother for not going.

  Jason took a swig of beer. “Well, the character was going to die anyway, right?”

  “Yeah. But still . . .”

  “How did Monica take it?”

  “She was pretty shaken up.”

  Jason smirked. “Then what are you doing here?”

  Good question. Eric had felt a small twinge of guilt leaving Monica at the studio. She claimed she was okay, but that might have been her putting on a brave face. The right thing to do would have been to see her home. The way a real boyfriend would, which was what he was supposed to be.

  “She and a few of her costars wanted to go out on their own,” Eric lied quickly.

  Jason looked at him dubiously but had no further comment, so Eric assumed he believed his explanation. Jason leaned over to pet the head of his Newfie, Stanley, who always lay faithfully at his feet. “What did Gallagher say to you last night after the game?”

  Eric shifted his gaze to the TV. “You know what he said. Play offensive. Do what we hired you to do. And then he gave me his famous ‘live, eat, and breath hockey’ speech. ”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “Why didn’t I what?”

  “Play aggressively.”

  Eric turned back to him. “I fucked up,” he snarled. “Obviously.”

  “I thought you never fucked up,” Jason taunted.

  “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

  “Hell, yeah,” Jason chortled. “Same way you enjoy the rare times I mess up.” Jason stopped stroking Stanley’s massive black head. “I spoke with Dad yesterday.”

  Eric stiffened resentfully. Goddamn, why did their parents always call Jason? It hadn’t always been that way. Maybe because Jason was married now, so they saw him as the responsible one? Or perhaps they didn’t want to shell out for two long-distance phone calls now that money was tight? Eric knew he hadn’t always been consistent when it came to contacting his folks in the past, but he’d really been making an effort lately. It would be nice if once in a while, they called him first. He was the older sibling, after all, even if it was by only three minutes.

  Eric took a sip of beer. “What did Dad have to say?”

  “He wanted to know if we could come out for a visit soon. Mom’s really depressed. She’s been baking her head off.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  Whenever their mother was stressed, she turned into a bake-o-maniac. Pies, cakes, cookies . . . it was awesome, at least if you were the recipient.

  Jason looked troubled. “I think they just need to see us in person and talk. He kept mentioning ‘the loan’ we’re giving them.”

  Eric frowned. “I thought we made it clear that it’s not a loan.”

  “You know Dad and his pride.” Jason looked solemn. “Anyway, we do have a break next weekend, so I think we should go.”

  “Absolutely. Is Delilah coming?”

  “Of course. The dogs, too.”

  Eric nodded. Maybe it was silly, but he loved seeing his sister-in-law on his parents’ farm. She’d grown up in the burbs, and she was such an animal lover you’d think she was born to milk cows and muck out barns. The last time she and Jace were there, they brought all four of their dogs with them. The canines were in heaven with all that land to run around on. Eric was actually envious of his brother’s contentment and of the life he’d carved out for himself.

  His mind jumped to Monica and to the kiss he’d planted on her at the studio. He started out doing it just for show. Really. But then there was some connection, and—Oh, man, he didn’t want to think about it. He took a slug of beer. He was pretty sure, now that Monica was slowly beginning to see that he wasn’t a total jackass, that he could probably get her into bed for a one-nighter if the circumstances were right. But part of him didn’t want to, which freaked him out. He really needed to get a grip.

  Maybe it was the twin thing, but Jason seemed to be clued in to the fact he was thinking about Monica.

  “The guys were really impressed with Monica,” said Jason, sounding almost disappointed.

  “Of course they were. She’s great.”

  Jason frowned. “Which is why I’m still trying to figure out why she’s with you.”

  “Yo, what is this, abuse Eric night?”

  “C’mon, Eric. You have to admit she’s not your usual MO. It just seems weird to see you with someone who can actually string a sentence together.”

  “Very funny. There’s chemistry between us, Bro. You saw it with your own eyes.” Faux chemistry, maybe, but chemistry nonetheless.

  “Why don’t you bring Monica to Mom and Dad’s next weekend?”

  “What?”

  Jason’s taunting tone returned. “Don’t you want Mom and Dad to meet your girlfriend?”

  “It’s not a serious relationship yet, Jace,” Eric countered. “You know Mom. I bring Monica home, and the wedding banns are in the Bismarck Tribune the following week.”

  “She’s gotten better about that stuff.”

  Eric grinned. “You mean she’s stopped knitting booties for you and Delilah?”

  Jason sighed. “She knits sweaters for the dogs now. How bizarre is that?”

  “Good old Mom.”

  Jason took another drink of beer. “So can I tell Mom and Dad we’ll be there? Maybe we’ll catch a flight Friday night?”

  “Definitely.”

  They went back to watching TV. Monica at the farm—talk about hell. They’d be thrown together for an entire weekend, having to pretend to be a couple for his parents. Jason would be on them constantly, watching, listening, looking for any little discrepancy that might reveal that Monica wasn’t as into Eric as she appeared to be. Knowing Jason, he’d probably try to talk Monica out of dating Eric, the SOB. He and Monica at the farm. Never in a million years, Bro. Never in a million years.

  NINE

  “Monica, darling, light of my life. Could you come up here a moment?”

  Monica responded to Jimmy’s request with a queasy smile. Squaring her shoulders, she made her way up to the control booth to face Jimmy and Michael, the executive producer. They were about to tear her a new one for suggesting Monty to replace Wallace; she knew it. Right now, the shooting schedule was at least an hour behind, and it was all Monty’s fault.

  As Monica had expected, Monty had flared his nostrils at her and hurled choice words of disdain when she suggested he fill in for Wallace. But the mention of money as well as the possibility that some work might come of it turned him around, as did half a bottle of brandy. He learned his few lines in no time flat. It was executing them in front of the camera that was turning out to be the problem.

  Monica entered the booth, striking preemptively. “I know what you’re going to say.”

  “No, you don’t,” said Michael with a glare. He looked down at the set, where Monty was now sitting up in the hospital bed, smoking a cigar in between takes.

  “He’s awful,” said Jimmy. “What’s with the booming voice?”

  “He’s used to acting in the theater,” Monica tried to explain. “He’s projecting.”

  “He thinks he’s doing King fuckin’ Lear,” said Michael.

  “He’s a classically trained actor.”

  “I don’t give a rat’s ass if he’s a trained gymnast,” said Jimmy. “I need him to stop pretending he’s Peter O’Toole and just looked terrified and die. Do you think you can get him to do that? Because he sure as hell isn’t listening
to me.”

  “I think so,” Monica said nervously.

  “Go do it, then,” said Michael.

  “Now,” Jimmy added. Monica turned to go.

  “You owe us big-time for this,” Jimmy called after her as she was leaving.

  “I was just trying to help,” Monica replied tearfully. Help you, help my friend, and maybe even help myself. Their criticism of Monty shook her. Yes, he was a little over the top, but he wasn’t that bad. The embarrassing part, for her, was his unwillingness to take direction. As if he knew better, even though he’d never worked in daytime before. What had she been thinking? This was one of the stupidest ideas she’d ever had. As it was, everyone was still upset and stressed over Wallace’s death, and now she’d made things worse by bringing Monty in, even if it was just for the day. She intended to apologize profusely to Jimmy and Michael at the end of the day. For now, she had to deal with Monty.

  “They must be insane,” was Monty’s melodramatic response when Monica told him he need not project quite so much.

  “TV is different than the stage, Monty,” Monica explained as nicely as she could. “Your voice and your gestures don’t have to be quite as big.”

  “That’s rubbish.”

  “Just do what the director asks, okay?” Monica pleaded.

  Monty leveled her with a frosty look. “They’ve brain-washed you. I taught you to question. To explore. The text beneath the text, remember, Monica?”

  “There is no text beneath the text in this scene. You just need to die.”

  “But what’s my motivation?”

  “Oh, God.” Monica could not believe she was having this conversation. “Your motivation is to advance the plot, okay?”

  Monty looked disgusted. “Cheap melodrama. I cannot believe I agreed to this.”

  “It’s work, Monty,” Monica shot back angrily. She found herself trembling. Rarely did she challenge her old teacher this way. It felt scary. “Do you know how many unemployed actors would kill to lie in this bed and die? You should be grateful.”

  Monty got back under the covers with a sneer. “For debasing myself? Never. I’d rather starve than compromise my integrity as an artist.”