Chapter 3

"But tell me," Jo said. "You KNOW some of this music. I mean, I played two pieces, and you knew both of them."

"I'm like an idiot savant for music."

"Really?"

"No. But I hear something I like and I look for it and add it to my collection. The Mozart clarinet piece is one of my favorites, so I know what it's called. I guess I've played it a thousand times. And Beethoven symphonies? How can you be serious about classical music and NOT know some Beethoven themes?" I drove along, happy to have somebody to talk with. "Sometimes the music was my link to a sane world."

"I can understand that feeling," she said. "I find beauty there that is timeless, how some composer three hundred years ago could put together notes that speak to my being."

"Such wondrous order," I said. "It HAS to be order, order that works in my head and my heart."

I glanced over to catch a smile.

"You're serious about this, aren't you?"

"Music? Yeah. I love it. Lots of other things in my life that I love, too, but I always had music."

"You say that like it means something that I'm not getting."

I slept through the whole flight from Iraq to the hospital in Germany. Drugs. Every time I came to, I tried to move, whined, screamed, made some sort of sound and an attending nurse squirted a little magic juice into the IV stuck in my arm.

Still only had one eye. In the hospital, things were kind of sketchy for a while. Apparently I had no current life-threatening issues, but a sizable bit of my scalp had been blown loose and there was divot out of my skull from a piece of shrapnel. Another piece had tracked parallel to my face, across my forehead, eyebrow, and cheek. Or something like that. I don't exactly remember the details, just that I got blown and thrown and had to keep on fighting until my lights went out.

I underwent several surgeries to attach those pieces where they were supposed to go, and then there was infection and more surgery, and there was a surgery on my leg, leaving me with a souvenir that would set off metal detectors for the rest of my life. I had another souvenir in my upper arm.

I started objecting to the painkillers despite a) the pain and b) assurances that addiction wasn't in the cards. But with the loss of the narcotics, I had another problem: boredom.

Nice people saw to it that we had paperback books and TV movies. I could do without the TV. I learned to do pretty good with the books, one-handed.

I was napping one of those days when I heard a voice. "Lieutenant Jackson." A touch on my right arm. "Lieutenant Jackson?"

I woke up to see one of the orderlies, a pleasant girl with big brown eyes. "Is it time for medicine?"

"No sir," she said. "You got a package. From your old unit." She presented me with a little parcel. I looked at the address label. One of my fellow officers. We'd emailed back and forth.

"Can you open it for me?" I asked. No way that one hand was going to get that box opened.

She got it opened for me. A folded, hand-written note fell out. And my iPod, headphones still wrapped around it like I'd left it.

I read the note.

"Stoney-

We're crating up to redeploy and we were going through the desks in the officer's quarters. We found this iPod. It didn't belong to any of us, so I charged it and put the 'phones on and I knew exactly who it belongs to. You're the only one I know who would have a whole iPod full of this classical shit.

Since you sullied it so badly, we decided to send it to you. When you get a chance, email me and let me know you got it.

I will let you know where we deploy to, but the CO (author note: commanding officer) says you're not coming back to us before we move, and maybe not after. They've removed you from the unit roster.

Caz"

"I'll get an extension cord for your charger," the orderly said.

And I got my music back.

"No, nothing serious. I was just remembering another time..."

"I don't mean to pry into your personal life," she said.

"Oh, Jo, I'm sorry. It's not nearly that serious."

"Sometimes things are," she said. "And you don't know it. Like David."

"Yeah, you said he was being a problem."

"Insistent. I don't know what his problem is. Well, I do. To put it in precise terminology, he's a douche. Last year I mad the mistake of dating him. Once. It was not pleasant. I mean, I thought that the arrogant thing was an act he hid behind in public. I was wrong."

"Boy does seem to have a way about 'im," I said.

"That's why I didn't want to be on the bus. He doesn't seem to think I mean 'no'."

"Even on a bus?"

"Then he's just obnoxious." She huffed. "But why am I talking about him?"

"Good question," I said. "You ready for your time in the spotlight?" She was doing a featured solo tonight.

"Well, yes, : she laughed. "Same pieces I've LIVED with for weeks. I have fun with Quantz. I wish we had a harpist who was up to a Mozart concerto for flute and harp."

"Refresh my memory," I said.

"Delightful allegro movement. Assertive." She twisted around, reaching behind the seats. "If I can reach my case..."

"Oh, you don't have to play it for me..." and inwardly my heart was leaping. I knew the piece.

She expelled a breath, pulling the case through the gap between the seats. Latches clicked and she went through the ritual of assembling her instrument. She swiveled sideways in the seat to give herself room, put the silver tube to her lips and heaven descended into a stupid Japanese SUV.

And yes, her bright eyes got brighter.

The music flowed out like a brook, the notes bouncing in ripples and waves. I liked it when it was a pair of earbuds or headphones. Jo, sitting beside me, blue eyes as lively as her fingers dancing on her flute. And it brought me to tears.

She saw. Put her flute in her lap. "You're REALLY affected."

"Of course," I said, wiping an eye. "You're really good. And really live." I realized that I was wiping tears. "Sorry, Jo. Music affects me."

"Don't be sorry. D'ya know what it means to a musician if her music actually MOVES somebody?"

"Well, you got me."

She put the flute back to her lips, smiled at me over it, and ripped through the first few bars of "Irish Washerwoman". "Because EVERYBODY knows that one. And I've heard it done on a banjo."

Midafternoon found us in Austin. We went to the motel. I checked into my own room. Jo picked up a keycard for one of the rooms reserved for the orchestra. She'd be sharing with another of the orchestra, naturally. I slung my overnight bag over my shoulder and grabbed her hanger bag and overnighter out of the car.

"I can carry my own stuff, Stoney," she said.

"I know you can, but this way you don't have to juggle things and we do it in one trip."

"I appreciate it, then," she said. We took her stuff to her room.

"What room are you in?" she asked.

"329," I said.

"Okay. Go put your stuff up. Give me a few minutes, and I'll call you."

I left her there and went to mine, wondering about 'and I'll call you.' I ran a fresh wet cloth over my face, feeling a bit revived. Stretched out on the bed. Left leg was barking at me a little bit. It did that if I abused it by things like two and a half non-stop hours sitting in a car.

Last night had been another 'dream' night. Being horizontal right now resulted in a quick slide into sleep. It wasn't a long nap, though, because the bedside phone rang, not unexpectedly.

"Hello," I said, expecting the voice I heard answer me.

"Hi, Stoney," Jo said. "Would you be interested in a late lunch? I have a line on a great little place."

"Austin has some," I said. "Meet you in the lobby?"

I ran a washcloth over my face yet again, patted my short hair back which was as much organization as it ever had, put on my shoes and went downstairs. Before I paraded into the lobby I stopped short of the entrance to the lobby.

Jo was sitting there waiting. I took a moment to look at her. Five foot six. Red hair in a pageboy cut, just brushed with no apparent spray or poof or enhancement. She was wearing a blue sweatshirt that on anyone else would have appeared rather frumpy. On Jo, it almost seemed to say 'there's a whole lot more to me than meets the eye. Figure it out'.

And jeans. Because when she saw me walking up, she stood, leggy, in a pair of colorful athletic shoes and jeans that weren't exactly tight, because she wasn't exactly showing off. As far as I was concerned, she didn't need to. Had no business staring like that, I told myself, but then, a man does get to look every now and then.

"Hi, Stoney," she said.

I wished eight years of my life would disappear. "Hi, Jo. Where're we going?"

"It's two blocks from here. Little something fusion place. Kind of a bar and grill."

"Walk or drive," I asked.

"Walk. Pretty day."

I should've not offered the choice. Leg was sort of singing a sad song. First block wasn't bad. By the second block, I was trying not to look like I was limping and I thought I was doing okay on the outside, even though each step was a sort of dull twinge.

I wasn't walking with an idiot.

"You're limping."

"'Sokay. Not much further. Gets a lot better with a short rest."

"Well Stoney, you should've said something." She looked at me with those clear blue eyes.

"It usually doesn't act up. I guess between the drive and the walk, I'm pushing things a bit too hard."

"Left leg? How'd you hurt it?"

"Same bad day that got me this scar," I said.

"Oh. Are you gonna be okay?"

"Absolutely." We turned the corner and saw the sign.

Sitting in a chair was immediate relief.

"Your smile brightened up. Feel better?" she asked.

"Yes. Much."

"What happened, Stoney? Leg? Head?"

I unbuttoned the left sleeve of the long-sleeved shirt and slide it halfway up my arm, where the scarring started from that part of the party. "There are others," I said. "The leg's the one that gives me the most trouble," I said. I didn't add 'but doesn't hurt as often as the one in my head.'

"Same bad day?" she asked.

"Yep."

"Okay." A waitress dropped us at a table in the corner with a pair of menus. "Dad says that most guys don't talk about it. And you didn't say."

"I have some hardware in my leg and upper arm. And sometimes the leg acts a little achy. It's not that bad. If I had to, I could do MUCH more than walk a couple of blocks."

"You could've said something."

Chapter 4 »