Chapter 29

Johanna's turn:

I brought my Stoney home. My poor, broken, battered Stoney. Well, actually, a medical transport brought him home and ceremoniously deposited him in bed.

The bed is a rental hospital bed, at least for the time being. I have home health technicians setting up trapezes. One over this bed. One over our bed. One over Stoney's favorite recliner.

He's got crutches. "But do NOT try using them for a week," the doctor said. "And not while under the influence, either. I just finished caring for a patient who had a horrible accident trying to get around on crutches while in a state of inebriation."

"Got it," Stoney said. "Act like a responsible adult."

"I'll watch 'im," I said.

"I have you set up for a home health visit daily for a couple of weeks," the doctor continued.

So now we're home. Stoney's in bed. Without me. "Here we are," I said.

"Not what I had in mind," he said. He smiled at me. "Is there a way you can squeeze next to me on this thing?"

"I'm afraid I'll hurt you."

"Baby," he said, "it's been days. I'm willing to risk it."

I started to climb into bed.

"Do you really need all those clothes?"

"The home health nurse is supposed to be here any time now. Can you hold that thought?"

"Leave your clothes on and get over here."

I giggled. "My Stoney." I gingerly positioned myself next to him, lying on my side, his right arm pulling me against him.

"I missed you next to me, Johanna."

"Stoney, I missed you too. I wasn't ready to do without you, buddy."

"Nor I, little one." He brushed my hair and nudged me toward him for a kiss. We'd kissed in the hospital. This was better. We were home. Mentally, I guess I unloaded because the sound of the doorbell woke me up. I carefully got out of bed and let the home health nurse in.

She met Stoney, did her initial assessment, talked with us, and left. It's time to figure out how to make this new life work. Stoney's drifting along on a wave of painkillers because of all the stress of moving, but when I check in on him, his eyelids flutter, then open.

"Hey, little one. That's the last time I take those things like that. I can get by on a lot less."

"We didn't want you hurting for the move, baby," I said.

"I know," he replied. "And I appreciate it. But I'm not getting stuck on this crap. Didn't the last time. Ain't gonna do it now."

"Don't let yourself hurt too much, guy," I told him. "Too much pain isn't good for healing either."

"Another kiss would help my healing tremendously," he said, forcing a smile. "I didn't get those the last time."

I did that. I fed him. I washed him up. And I sat beside him as I did the flute practice I'd missed for three days, and I practiced the exercises I needed and I played the songs my Stoney loves.

"Tomorrow I'm sitting up with my banjo," he said. "We play together."

We played together a little tonight before I went to bed. I was just in his bed, caressing, comforting, receiving the same from his manly body next to mine. I was idly gliding my hand over his chest when his hand touched my wrist, pushing my hand a little lower.

I sort of giggled. "I didn't want to do something that would hurt you, baby."

"Endorphins, princess," he said. "You're my generator of endorphins."

Yes, THAT works. He was erect, that glorious hot shaft pulsed under my touch.

"God, that feels good!" he gasped.

"Would ... could you stand an orgasm?"

"Ohgodyes!"

"I want..." I was drawing the covers back, exposing him. "I know what I want. You can stop me..." I bent my neck and slurped him into my mouth. One. It's powerful having this control over my man. Two. I really like the feel and taste. Three. As much as I miss having Stoney inside my pussy, this is very, very good.

He didn't stop me. That tiny thought I'd harbored that just maybe the painkillers would also kill his sexual responses, that disappeared as he got harder, started pulsing, and then released into my mouth. Oh, yes! THAT still works. So do I, as I languish in his arms and he gently fingers me to my own orgasm.

For the week he's not supposed to be crutching around, between me and the home-health nurse and Key, we covered Stoney pretty well. Key asked about THAT part of our relationship.

Giggle. "We manage. It's too good NOT to," I said. Key says she looks at him differently after that conversation.

"Just remember that it would KILL your grandma to find out that you'd died messing with a white boy," I said.

She laughed. "IF he wasn't YOUR white boy, I just might be swayed. We'd have these exotic-looking mocha-colored kids..."

It's funny, but my Stoney has that effect on me. And Key brought her oboe. Practice. Make Stoney happy. She and Hutch showed up one evening, bearing gifts. Supper. From a local Thai place. Hutch and Stoney talked a bit of work and Key and I talked a bit of school and orchestra and after dinner Key and I and Stoney played a bit.

"I'm trying to do a whole orchestra's work, backing you two up," she said. "Y'all really have this piece goin' your way." The piece was that Mozart flute and harp concerto.

Weekend came. How I missed the freedom to go to the boat. "Next weekend we need to go check on 'er," he said.

"I called Gary and told him when you got in the wreck," I said. "He's keeping an eye on 'er. But yes, next weekend."

And Monday is our fun/practice day. We used to go to the apartment once shared by me and Key. Not this time. Everybody showed up at our apartment. Stoney clumped on crutches and settled into his chair, accepted the requisite amount of sympathetic commentary, and we started practicing.

And the doorbell rang. I answered it. Mrs. Hlinka from next door. Seventy-ish. Retired.

"I'm sorry if we're too loud," I said. "We'll dial it back."

"Oh, no, dear," Mrs. Hlinka said. "Can we come in and listen?"

I had to smile. "Sure! We'd be privileged to have you!"

"Let me go get Georgi," she said. "And tell him that I'm not being rude, please."

So I introduced Georg and Betta to my friends. "The Hlinka's. Our neighbors. Betta and Georg, these are some of our orchestra. Remember, this is practice. Please don't think poorly of us."

Got us put on the "when I bake cookies, you'll get some" list from Mrs. Hlinka.

"Could I, please," Georg asked Key. "It's been so many years since..."

Key smiled. Produced a fresh reed and handed her oboe to Georg. His eyes lit up as he put the reed to his lips. The tone wasn't Key's clean, practiced, sound, and the fingering was fits and starts. "Thank you," he said. "So many years ago, in university at Prague," he said.

Doing some math in her head, "Prague Spring?" Key asked gently.

He and Betta both nodded. "Yes. We strove for freedom. Failed. Here in America, a new life, but no time for music. And when I hear Jackson and his lovely wife, I wish. Tonight I hear oboe, and I send Betta to ask," Georg said.

Dad told me about meeting people who'd lived the history we only read about. I made a mental note to invite Georg and Betta over again.

"Mister Georg," I said. "This last one is something that Stoney..."

"Stoney?" he asked.

"My husband is Randall Jackson. In the Army they named him 'Stonewall' after the famous Confederate general. He's always been 'Stoney' to me."

"Ah," Georg said. "That, I know about."

"He wanted me to play Mozart's flute and harp concerto, but we couldn't find a harpist, so he plays the part on his banjo. I hope you like it."

They liked it. Mizz Betta is a retired nurse. Checks in on Stoney now.

"I didn't know their story," Stoney said. "Just a nice old couple with a funny accent that sort of kept to themselves."

"You never know," I said. "There's a lot of central European heritage in Texas," I said.

"I know," Stoney replied. "But generations old. I knew their accent was too fresh for them to be native. But one doesn't pry."

"Unless one plays music that brings an old man's memories back alive."

Something else is alive, too. "Baby, if we're very careful, do you think we could try it?" I didn't think I was being selfish. I was thinking that we need each other.

He smiled. "Jo, I want to try it."

Yes we can. Gloriously. An act that I once thought I'd never care about, it's now a desire across the spectrum of my being, and I straddled Stoney and satisfied both of us. Satisfied? It's a form of worship. Adulation. And ever so quiveringly, wetly satisfying.

"Stoney, are you sure that didn't hurt?"

Soft laughter. "Killed me. I felt my life force leaving my body. Guess where it went."

"Like I was riding a fountain," I replied.

I gave him a pain-killer before we tried going to sleep. He was drifting off while I pondered that, yes, Jo and Stoney can get past this. Piece of cake.

So I come home from class and he's in the kitchen, propped up on a crutch, and Key's on the sofa talking with Mizz Hlinka.

"He ran us out," Key said. "Said you have deprived him of red beans and rice and he was intent on rectifying that situation."

"Stoney, you're perfectly capable of talking somebody through that."

"I know," he said, "but I get tired of letting others do things for me. Besides, I've been listening to Key and Mizz Betta."

"Where's Mister Georg?" I asked.

"Nap time," Mizz Betta said. "He does so enjoy them now. Was such an active young man in his youth. Our youth. Much like your Stoney," she said.

Okay, I smile, you know, because he's MY Stoney and it makes me happy when others say good things about him. I notice Key grinning, too.

"What?"

"I gave my old oboe to Mister Georg to play with. He can keep it as long as he wants."

"You made him young again, dear Key," Mizz Betta said. "He was so alive at twenty-two, in university, studying, music was something he loved."

"Music is something we all love, Mizz Betta. I'm glad a little thing like that will bring such joy."

Life has a way of moving onward. We can't stop it. There's no sense in raging against it. So Saturday morning I held the door open on my little SUV and let him back into the passenger seat and we drove to the marina. Got greeted by Gary, and since I had the requisite bags of popcorn and cat food, the geese.