A Sort of Homecoming

I felt the tension in my perineum as he squeezed his thumb inside my rectum and down towards the vaginal wall and his penetrating cock beyond. The pleasure and pain was delicious. I drew my knees in closer together beneath me to increase the mind-numbing friction as his body invaded mine. He continued to thrust and twist his thumb into my tight, crinkled starfish. Each piston drive of his cock sent a shivers through the both of us. I couldn't take much more of this. Not all in one sitting anyway. I screamed loudly "Jack, give me your cum! Fill my tight pussy! You own that pussy! Fill it with your hot cum! Please, god, give it to me."

He responded furiously in kind "Grrr... I am going to shoot ... deep in that sweet, sweet pussy. I love fucking you. I missed ... awesome tight cunt." He withdrew his thumb from my gaping asshole but continued to plunge into my cunt as my greasy nether lips grasped and pulled him over and over. Jack slammed my cunnie like a man possessed. Both his hands clutched at my plentiful hips and savagely pulled me back in his coup de grâce. My velvet pussy caressed and coaxed him to cum.

Finally he obliged, ramming all the way in and splashing my insides. He grunted out a huge load into my hungry twat. Enormous spurts of thick, creamy cum filled my needy hole. I cried again as I felt the warmth fill me up. Each time he jizzed was greeted by an equal and opposite squeeze from my pussy. Jack collapsed on the bed next to me with a fine sheen of sweat coating his still hard, athletic body and a milky froth of our cum surrounding the base of his cock. He stared at me wide-eyed as I too rolled over onto the bed. A drizzle of white cum appeared at my sodden opening and threatened to leak down onto my savaged asshole. Instead, I intercepted it and scooped up the glob of ejaculate and slurped it off my finger. Jack was giddy with amusement.

We teased one another for a few minutes. Touching and feeling one another's long, lost bodies. He grinned warmly at me and said "You look beautiful, and I love the baby doll. I especially love you half dressed in lingerie and freshly fucked with mascara all over your face."

I winked back at him as I removed another dollop of cum from my cunt and slid it into my mouth. "Finger-licking good" I snorted. Then I slid down and licked the rest of the mixed cream from the base and the head of his still drooling cock. He lay there, relished the view and enjoyed my lapping.

Finally, I rose to go to the bathroom. I shed the soiled baby doll top and dropped it in the hamper. As I sat on the toilet and squeezed the rest of his jizz from my sore, well-used pussy, and took a much needed pee, I saw Jack's fresh message left in the condensation still on the bathroom mirror. He had written, in big letters, "Goodnight Moon," within the shape of a heart. It was a long standing pun, a sweet, inside joke. When he was feeling frisky, he loved to call me 'Moon' because of my big, white butt. It was also Stella's favorite bedtime story when she was younger.

I rinsed off the mussed makeup and the jism from my lips as I wistfully contemplated our long history together. When I returned to the bed Jack was quietly snoring. He lay naked on the top of the sheets, his deflated cock like a sun-baked snake traced across one thigh. I clambered up to join him and he woke long enough to wrap his arms around me and bury his face in my long hair. As we curled our naked bodies together the baby kicked. Jack's tired eyes briefly fluttered in surprise. He beamed at me, for the moment, through hooded, welling eyes. Then he lapsed back to sleep. I pulled the duvet over us both and slept.

*****

A knock at the door roused me from my short-lived, blissful respite. An accompanying series of doorbell rings told me these persistent people were not likely to go away. I quietly slipped from the bed and then enveloped myself in an ankle-length cover-up as I moved to the front of the house.

A look through the peephole showed two officers in Army Service Uniforms -- the Army Blues. There was a Hispanic major (or maybe a lieutenant colonel, nearly twenty years later I still get those two insignia mixed up) I didn't recognize and the Post Chaplain Colonel Odell. He was a Catholic priest, but not being Catholic we knew of him, but didn't know him very well.

I opened the door halfway and peered out.

In a clipped voice, the young major immediately and quietly asked, "Excuse me Ma'am, are you Mrs. Stephanie Covington?"

"Yes, what can I do for you this morning?" I lightheartedly replied. Any irritation I might have felt at being disturbed was overwhelmed by my absolute giddiness as I reflected on the events of the last few hours.

A moment of self-awareness reminded me that I was naked beneath the dark green silk robe with a bit too much cleavage exposed between the lapels. A glance down also showed me that 'the girls' were still very much excited and poking through the thin covering. A rush of blood and a deep blush crossed my freshly-fucked face as I self-consciously tightened the robe, and crossed my arms around me.

"Mrs. Covington, I am Major Roberto Garza from Headquarters Company, 2nd Battalion, 7th Infantry, Fort Stewart, Georgia do you mind if we come in Ma'am?"

The corner of my mouth turned up sourly, in my best facsimile of 'McKayla Maroney is not impressed,' as I asked "Please, don't call me Ma'am. My Mom is a Ma'am.... What's this all about? We'd rather not have visitors right now." My normal paranoia about strangers was returning as I transitioned from post-coital bliss to become increasingly more irritated.

The major nervously looked at his wingman before saying again "I think it's best if we can come in and speak with you for a few minutes. Please?"

His worried look and mannerisms were unsettling, but I knew enough about the elderly chaplain, in passing, to let them both in. I presumed, rightly, that they weren't going to attack me or steal anything. They were about to hurt me though, in the worst way possible.

I let them in and quickly closed the door behind them. It was a crisp, but not extraordinarily cool, December day in Hinesville, Georgia. Probably around 50^o F. Cool enough to further tickle my already embarrassingly hard nipples, but certainly not warm enough to justify the beads of sweat I noticed gathered on Major Garza's brow.

I ushered them out of the foyer into the living room, but I didn't offer them a seat. The two men stood almost shoulder to shoulder, hands identically clasped one inside the other at the waist with arms akimbo. Before I got the chance to ask them again "What can I help you with?" the major launched into the speech he had painstakingly memorized over the last several hours.

"Ma'am....excuse me, Mrs. Covington..." he started and stopped in a clipped off voice.

He started over slower "Mrs. Covington, the Secretary of the Army has asked me to express his deep regret that your husband, Major Jackson Martin Covington, is believed to have died this morning in Frankfurt, Germany. Lufthansa flight 426 exploded in the air upon departure from Frankfurt to Philadelphia. There were no survivors. The cause of the explosion is under investigation. The local authorities are currently trying to establish positive identification of the remains. You will be notified as soon as identification has been established. The Secretary extends his deepest sympathy to you and your family during this trying period."

I didn't know whether to laugh or be furious. Unfortunately, my first reaction was not at all graceful. I snorted loudly and choked back a laugh. My first words were "You've got to be fucking kidding me! This is some sort of joke."

The crestfallen look on the chaplain's face instantly drove me from bemusement to anger "Is this some sort of sick, fucking joke?" My blood pressure was skyrocketing, and my face was ablaze now, not from my ill-dressed embarrassment, but from absolute fury.

Major Garza started to softly cry. His walled off stoicism was crumbling rapidly under the pressure. He too had seen combat, but that was less painful than telling a family member this kind of news. Garza desperately tried to maintain a brave face as the tears and sweat streamed unabated. This was the fourth time he had done a notification and it never got easier.

I thought, obviously, there had been some sort of terrible error. But this was one of those areas where the military isn't supposed to make a mistake. Zero defect, they called it. I'd seen what happened when families received a Casualty Notification Officer visit. It tears your heart out. It's like clear cutting an Amazonian jungle. Nothing left but hollow, mournful stumps. The thought that someone made a mistake and sent these people to my house, instead of where they were supposed to go, incensed me.

The chaplain put both hands out as if to calm me and said "Ma'am, I assure you...."

I cut him off angrily "Goddamnit, stop calling me Ma'am." I didn't even realize the irony of cursing at the chaplain, but then again, at the moment, I didn't really care about offending anyone.

Unrattled, Chaplain Odell, who had, sadly, been through this more often than the young major, started again "Mrs. Covington.... Stephanie, we aren't joking. We aren't joking. We truly are not joking. Your husband was manifested on the flight." He tried to break through to me, unsuccessfully. He said "I'm terribly sorry for your loss." And I came unglued.

I screamed bloody murder for my husband, "Jackson!" Then I directed my resentment back at the two men before me. I spit each word out in staccato, "Jackson...my husband... is asleep... in our bed!" I seethed and pointed sharply towards the hallway and our master bedroom.

The two officers quizzically looked at one another. They simply didn't know how to react.

A rage came over me. I screamed "Jack!" again. Surely, he would have heard me? Surely, he would have come running? Even if he wanted to grab a robe, by now he should be standing tall in the living room to defend me, to protect me, to save me from this charade.

I looked to the men in their confusion and said very slowly, very deliberately, very loudly "My husband... came home ... this morning!" I was telling them, but I was no longer just trying to convince them. I was already trying to convince myself.

I spun on a bare heel and dashed for the bedroom, his name on my lips; I yelled, screamed and cried "Jackson! Jackson! Jack." Over and over again.

There was no one in the bed, no one in the bedroom, no one in the master bath. No sign of him. No clothing on the floor, no duffel bag, no helmet bag. Nothing. I was losing my mind. My vision tunneled before me. I heard nothing but my own voice as I screamed his name over and over again. I flew through the house, searching every room. The loose robe dragged behind me as I futilely tried to maintain my modesty, while also trying to preserve my sanity. He wasn't in the den or the kitchen. He wasn't in the yard or the garage. He wasn't in the baby-to-be's room. I stopped in Stella's room and crumpled to the floor. He wasn't here. He wasn't anywhere.

The desert-camouflage-clad Build-A-Bear © Jackson gave Stella before his Iraq deployment was fortuitously laying next to me. I clutched it to me and pressed the button in its palm. Jackson's badly recorded voice said "Hi Stella, it's Daddy. I love you and I miss you. You'll always be my Care Bear. I'll always love you." I pressed the button again, over and over again.

Far off, in some alternate reality, I heard the chaplain slowly clomping up the hardwood stairs. Below, Major Garza was speaking to someone on his cell phone. The chaplain took a knee beside me and quietly said "Stephanie, I am so sorry. I am so sorry. Is there someone we can call? Is there a nearby family member, friend or neighbor who can come to be with you?"

I was babbling like an idiot; my unrestrained brown hair covered my water-logged eyes. Tears and snot dripped down my face in streaks. "He was here, he was here. We were... together. I know he was here. How can this be?" I looked up at the old man with haunted, dark eyes. I hugged the bear tight to my chest, as I stared into the abyss.

Odell said, "Stephanie, child, the Lord works in mysterious ways."

I dissolved in sobbing tears as the unborn baby within me kicked and kicked.

*****

The two officers finally got me somewhat composed. I found enough internal reserves to eventually put some clothing on. The next door neighbors came over and agreed to stay and assist me until some of my family could arrive from Atlanta.

I'd helped other widows through this. Other widows. Widows. Widow. I was now an Army widow. I never imagined that it could happen. I never thought it would be me. I mean, I knew it could happen. For twenty years I knew it. But you just never think it will be you. I guess it is stupid; one of us could easily have died driving home on any given Sunday. More Americans die every year on U.S. roads than during all of the Vietnam War. You just never know.

It was particularly cruel to know that he made it through so many deployments, and it wasn't until Jackson's final trek home that fate caught up with him. That is to say, if fate comes in the form of a terrorist airplane bomb.

I begged our other friends to watch Stella until the evening. I didn't know what I would do, or how I could tell her that her Daddy wasn't coming home. She couldn't or wouldn't understand.

Major Garza and Colonel Odell explained that a Casualty Assistance Officer would be assigned and call on me in the next few days. He would assist with funeral arrangements and the various military bureaucratic processes. Garza returned to his remembered script, "Mrs. Covington, we must be returning to Fort Stewart, again, on behalf of the Secretary of the Army, please accept the United States Army's deepest condolences." The two officers were leaving damaged by their task, but I was wrecked. Using the car crash analogy they were departing with superficial scratches and dents, while I was certifiably totaled. All of us would somehow live with the harm. Their thankless job done, they left almost as quickly as they arrived.

My neighbor friend closed the door behind them as I crumpled to the floor and collapsed. I very slowly and deliberately, but briefly, went insane with grief.

*****

In the aftermath, my family and friends and the Casualty Assistance Officer did their best to piece our life back together. There was paperwork, tons of evil, godforsaken paperwork. And a parade of well-meaning, but unhelpful, visitors. It took its toll. After four weeks of tears and torment I began to shutdown. It was hell. Two false labors sent me scurrying back and forth to the hospital. The doctor and the midwife warned me that the stress was hurting me and the baby, which only worried me more.

The third trip to the hospital I expected would be yet another false labor. But my doctor, Dr. Mandel, explained that the baby was in distress and we needed to do an emergency Caesarean. From the beginning, I'd already anticipated and planned for a second C-section, but his grim demeanor threatened to send me over the edge again. My mother intended to be there for the official due date, but this was unexpected, and still several weeks premature. My best friend was watching Stella at home and I was alone in the surgical delivery room.

As the doctors and nurses prepared I reflected that I wasn't just alone at the hospital. I was alone...period. Now, Stella and this newborn-to-be were my only lifeline, my raison d'être. I would raise them alone. Alone.

Alone, the tears started again. The epidural took effect. Half paralyzed, I lost the feeling below my waist. Hot lines of tears, like molten lava, streamed slowly down my face. The kindly doula held my IV-laden hand gingerly while she wiped away the salty mess. The doctor on the other side of the screen tugged at my stomach. I couldn't feel it but I knew the scalpel was slicing through my flesh. Through layers of skin, fat, muscle, and finally uterus, he cut.

Things seemed to be taking much longer than they did when Stella was born. Maybe it was just perspective. Last time Jack was there to distract me. He was there to hold my hand, to kiss my cheeks, to hold the basin to my chin when I puked bile. I heard, but could not register, the increasingly frantic activity on the other side of the sheet. That hanging sheet separated me from the ongoing violence that was occurring to my body. What was happening? I did the only things I could. I lay unmoving, thought the worst, and cried.

The assisting nurse asked with a hushed but concerned tone, "Do you need me to get Dr. [inaudible]."

As Dr. Mandel wrenched on my stomach he responded with a curt voice, "No, I just need some help getting [inaudible]...."

I was repeatedly calling out softly "What's going on?" but no one was responding. I was about to pass out from the fright when the tension in my stomach disappeared. I was empty. One, two, three,...four... heartbeats of silence drove me to despair before I heard the telltale sign of a baby's cry. My... baby's cry. A dam burst in my brain and the trickle of fearful tears turned into a river of joyful ones. A relieved smile creased my pale lips. The midwife smiled back.

From behind the curtain the OBGYN asked me "Do you want to know what it is?"

I sniggered a little. It seemed a silly question. I'd find out soon enough I suppose. But I answered in the affirmative, "Yes, please tell me."

"You have a beautiful baby boy, and he looks to be fine," said the voice from behind the curtain.

A few moments later, Dr. Mandel walked around with my child wrapped in a messy surgical sheet. He showed me the squalling infant briefly before handing the boy off to the nurses for the standard checks, inoculation, and minimal cleanup. The doctor half-kneeled beside me.

He said, "Congratulations, you did a great job Stephanie. Your baby was jammed up there pretty good. He didn't want to come out. But all is well."

Choked up, I could only grin and nod through my tears.

The doctor resumed the surgical chore of putting me back together. I watched from the table as the nurses went about their business poking, measuring and weighing my baby. By the time we made it to post-op the endorphins were starting to wear off. The recovery room nurse let me hold the child and encouraged him to take my breast. The dull ache in my abdomen was matched by an equal and opposite pain of sadness in my heart. My husband should be here.

The post-natal intensive care nurse, who did not know me or my story, politely asked "Do you have a name for the baby?" She held a pen and an empty blue card for his rolling hospital bassinet.

The sad feelings disappeared like a fog melting off under the sun. I responded proudly "Yes, of course, this is Jackson Martin Covington...after his father."

The nurse beamed back, "Oh that is such a nice name. He's perfect. Congratulations."

*****

Nine weeks later, we were ready to move. We were headed to Tacoma, closer to my mother. There was no reason to linger in Georgia and I needed help with the kids to re-enter the work force. The Army did its best to take care of us, but death benefits alone weren't going to sustain a family of three.

Stella missed her Daddy but, counter-intuitively, the fact that he was gone so often made their lost relationship more nebulous and, therefore, less painful. Her new sibling further distracted her from the loss. As a big sister, Stella was as happy as she could be. She doted over her little brother.

Even though he was premature, Jack Jr. quickly regained his birth weight, and more. Other than being a 'happy spitter,' he was perfectly okay. Unfortunately, he happily spit-up all over me, habitually. He often breastfed and then coughed up half of what he took back onto my chest ... like he just did.