As she walked, as she meandered toward the meadow and gravestones nestled midst the dogwoods, Vivianna pulled the pins from her long sable hair, allowing it to hang freely down her back. Combing it with her fingers, she wished she could always wear her hair free. She fancied it calmed her—made her feel not quite so worried and tired. Slowly she wove it into a soft, loose braid, securing it with a strand of itself and letting the braid rest over her right shoulder.
Stepping into the small clearing, Vivianna was immediately struck with the sense of warm sunshine—of peacefulness and rest. In truth, she had never feared cemeteries the way others seemed to. In fact, as a child, it was often she would wander to the Turner cemetery and sit in contemplation at the etchings on the gravestones. She liked to think that all those spirits who had left their bodies to sleep in the soft earth were watching from heaven, happy to see that a little child cared enough to read what was written over their graves. She imagined they all smiled as she wove dandelion chains or gathered nosegays of fresh violets to place by each stone. In truth, she’d learned every epitaph, every name of every person buried there, and often tried to imagine who they had been and what they had loved. Had they gathered flowers as children? Had they laughed and played, sung with the birds? Had they sat at the edge of the pond, sinking their toes into the mud as pollywogs tickled their ankles? As a child, Vivianna was certain each and every one of them had done just these things, and she had adored knowing it. Yet since the war, she’d begun to wonder how many of those who rested amid the dogwoods had known pain as well. Surely all, for pain was certainly as much a part of life as were muddy toes.
Still, as she passed the large granite monument marking Mr. Turner’s mother’s grave, she whispered, “Good afternoon, Mr. Turner’s mother. Isn’t this sunshine just lovely today?”
Thus, Vivianna wandered among the stones marking lives once lived. Oddly, it brought her more comfort than melancholy or heartache. She thought of all those who were waiting to meet Sam and Augie as they arrived at heaven’s gate—wondered if Sam and Augie were there to meet her mother and father or if her mother and father stood smiling in greeting Sam and Augie. Even Mr. Turner must’ve been filled with joy at seeing his own parents—his earthly remains—no matter how painful a death he met, resting at last as he drifted into the arms of the Lord. She thought then that Justin too would’ve been met with family and friends—though she would not linger on those thoughts. Simply she wandered, tugged a few unruly weeds from places they should not be, even gathered a handful of violets to lay on the grave of the tiny baby girl Savannah Turner lost before either Caleb or Justin were born. Last, she visited the graves of the two local boys from Florence. Boy and Floydie Maggee had fought with the Alabama First Cavalry—side by side with Caleb and Justin. Yet both were wounded in the same battle and returned home, Floydie having lost both legs to amputation and Boy with a terrible injury to his head that found him unable to respond to any stimulus. Neither young man had survived the month and now rested in comfort in the arms of heaven, their earthly remains in repose at the Turner cemetery.
Vivianna kissed her fingertips and placed them on the etched name of Floydie Maggee. She did the same for Boy.
The last stones she read were those of her parents. She would not read them aloud, for she knew she could not linger, lest the certainty of her loss should overtake her. Quickly she sprinkled the remaining violets she’d gathered over the graves of her mother and father. Then—without a word—she turned.
She would think of the living—of Nate and Willy, of Savannah, and of Caleb. Caleb had returned from the war, and when he had, both Vivianna and Savannah had determined they would make certain Caleb felt no guilt in having survived when so many had not. Vivianna let her thoughts linger on Caleb—not the dead or the lost but the man that yet breathed. He was such a good man. Any unmarried woman of any age in Florence would count herself blessed in owning his heart. Vivianna determined she would try to fall in love with him. She should try. Yet even as she resolved she would endeavor to do so, Justin’s words echoed through her mind.
When I return, we will meet beneath the honeysuckle vine.
Vivianna frowned as she neared the house. Nate and Willy were no longer playing in the grass nearby. The war was over, yes, but there were yet angry, renegade Confederate soldiers lurking about the countryside, beaten and desperate and not to be trusted. Thus, Vivianna frowned—felt a familiar wave of worry wash over her.
She startled when Willy rushed up behind her, taking hold of her hand and tugging at her to turn.
“Look there, Viv!” Willy cried. “Looks like two more boys are comin’ home to Florence!”
Vivianna turned, her heart leaping in her bosom. It was true her heart had grown weary of leaping, only to find disappointment and renewed aching. Over the past few weeks, each time a lone soldier or a group of soldiers traveling together meandered past the Turner place on their way to Florence, Vivianna hoped. Even after years of no letters from her brothers, even after months of knowing Justin was lost, still she hoped. The pain she’d tried to leave beneath the honeysuckle vine returned, and she wondered how any human being who had survived the war continued to survive it.
“Simmer down, Viv,” she whispered to herself as she raised her hand to shade her eyes from the sun, gazing down the road in the direction Willy was pointing.
“They’re wearin’ ordinary clothes. That means they’re Yankees!” Nate exclaimed. “Two of ’em! Maybe one of ’em is Justin, Viv! Or Sam or Augie!”
“Maybe,” Viv said, though she held no hope anymore—or at least very little, even for her fast-beating heart—or so she told herself.
The fact was she knew Sam or Augie would’ve written if they were able—if they were still alive. She knew the same would be true of Justin—especially of Justin. Instinctively she let her hand slip into the pocket of her skirt—felt the folded, well-read letter—again heard the echo of the loving words written in it.
“When I return,” Vivianna whispered as she watched the distant figures advance, “we’ll meet beneath the honeysuckle vine.”
“What’s that, Viv?” Willy asked. “What’re you mutterin’ on about?”
“Yankees,” she answered. “You boys are right. They’d still be wearin’ the gray if they were Rebs comin’ home to Florence.”
“That’s right!” Nate agreed. “Only southern Yankees like Justin and Caleb come marchin’ home in ordinary clothes. It might be Justin, Viv! I just know it might be him!”
“Now, simmer yourself down, Nate,” Vivianna warned, though her own heart was pounding like a hammer on an anvil. “It’s most likely just some men from town.” She tried to steady her breathing. “We can’t let ourselves get too hopeful every time…”
But it was too late; hope had already enveloped the two boys who so missed their lost brother. As Nate began to whistle “When Johnny Comes Marching Home,” Willy ran off down the road toward the two approaching men.
“Willy!” Vivianna called. “Come here! You come back here this minute! We don’t know who…”
Nate’s whistling grew breathy—silenced. Vivianna held her breath. As Willy ran toward the two men, one of them spread his arms wide, dropped to his knees, and embraced the boy.
“It’s Justin! I know it is!” Nate shouted. “Mama! Mama! Justin’s home!”
“Nate!” Vivianna scolded as Nate raced down the road toward his little brother and the two men. “We don’t know who they are,” Vivianna breathed—even as the letter in her pocket began to warm the tender flesh of her fingers with hope.
“What’s all the fussin’ out here?” Savannah asked, drying her hands on her apron as she stepped off the front porch.
“Two men,” Vivianna managed. “I-I think one of them might be…” She looked to Savannah Turner. Already tears of hope were brimming in her eyes.
Savannah looked down the road to where one of the men still knelt on the ground, now hugging Nate as well as
Willy.
“Justin!” she cried. “Oh, my baby!”
Vivianna watched as Savannah lifted her skirts, running toward the two men, who were still some distance down the road.
“It can’t be,” Vivianna breathed, shaking her head—still afraid to hope. Yet as she watched Savannah collapse into the welcoming embrace of one of the men, she knew.
“Justin!” she gasped.
CHAPTER TWO
Vivianna could not breathe, let alone move. It couldn’t be true. It just couldn’t be! After five months of no letters, no word of any kind, it couldn’t truly be Justin who now embraced Mrs. Turner. It couldn’t be! It was too frightening to hope—felt somehow wrong to allow the thrill to continue to well up within her.
Yet slowly—as she heard Savannah sobbing, as Nate and Willy turned, gesturing for her to join them—slowly Vivianna’s feet began to carry her forward, and her eyes filled with tears.
“It’s Justin, Viv! It’s Justin!” Willy called. “He ain’t dead after all! Look, Viv—it’s Justin!”
She was running then, running toward Justin Turner, toward all her heart held dear and most loved.
Justin caught her in his arms, breathing, “Viv!” and she sobbed against his shoulder for a moment. She could feel his breath in her hair, hear his heart beating in his bosom. Justin was alive!
“I’m home, Viv,” Justin said. Oh, how familiar his voice was to her—how beloved! She looked to him and took his face between her hands.
“Justin!” she breathed as she studied his weary eyes. His whiskery face was so lean, so weathered. Yet it was Justin; he had come home!
He smiled at her, the smile of a worn and weary soldier, beaten and battered by war—yet the smile she knew so well, the smile she’d so often seen in her dreams. Justin!
“You’re beautiful, Viv,” he whispered, and more tears streamed over her cheeks as she saw the moisture brimming in his eyes.
“And you’re scrawny and bald,” Willy laughed. He threw his young arms around Justin’s waist then and added, “But it ain’t no matter. Mama and Viv will fatten ya up now that you’re home.”
Justin released Vivianna, and it was only then that she noticed how weak his embrace had been. Indeed he was almost frail looking. His appearance pierced her heart with alarm, yet she was determined to cast fear aside in favor of hope. Justin was home! Weathered and weak he may be; still he was alive, and he’d come home. He’d returned to her!
Vivianna watched as Savannah ran a tender hand over the short bristles of hair on Justin’s head.
“Your hair,” she said.
“We shaved it,” Justin replied. “I’m not sure I want to tell ya why though, Mama.”
“No matter,” she said, smiling and brushing tears from her cheeks. She caressed Justin’s face with the back of her hand. “No matter. You’re home. My darlin’, you’re home.”
“Who’re you, mister?” Vivianna heard Nate ask.
She’d nearly forgotten Justin had a traveling companion. In truth, she’d been so overjoyed, so overwhelmed with emotion at the sight of Justin, she’d not yet looked to the man who now stood to one side.
“That’s John Tabor,” Justin said. “He’s my friend. I owe him my life…more than once over.”
“You look worse than Justin, mister,” Willy said as the tip of one index finger disappeared into his left nostril. The young boy offered his free hand to the man, and the man shook it, though weakly.
“I suppose I do,” the man said, rather coughing an amused chuckle.
“Get your finger out of your nose, Willy!” Nate scolded in a whisper, smacking Willy hard on the back of the head.
Vivianna felt her heart twist with sympathy. This man looked even more weary, weathered, and worn than Justin did. His several-days’ beard growth could not hide the pale, gaunt state of his face. His clothes hung on his emaciated frame, and the knuckles of his perhaps once-strong hands looked unusually large for the lack of meat on his fingers.
“I’m Savannah Turner,” Savannah said, offering a hand to the man.
“Ma’am,” the man said. Yet as he reached out to accept her offer of greeting, he teetered to one side, nearly losing his balance.
“Oh my!” Savannah exclaimed. She caught hold of the young man’s arm in an effort to steady him.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” Justin’s friend said. “I suppose I’m just a little worn out from walkin’ today.”
“Mama,” Justin began, “it’s the truth of it when I tell ya I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for Johnny.” Justin reached out and put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I mean it. Johnny saw me through.”
Vivianna smiled as Savannah gently embraced Justin’s friend. Still, something in her feared that even Savannah’s gentle hug might break the man in two.
“Thank you, mister,” Nate began, “for bringin’ Justin home.”
“You can call me Johnny there, boy,” he said, offering a trembling hand to Nate. Nate shook the man’s hand carefully.
Vivianna glanced back to Justin. Her heart filled with so much joy, love, and emotion, she was sure it would burst!
“Justin,” she breathed. He looked at her, his blue eyes weary yet still reflecting joy. “Where have you been?” She couldn’t help but ask. She so desperately wanted to fling herself against him—kiss his mouth over and over with loving kisses. Yet she knew this was not the time. Justin was first and foremost Savannah’s son. Second he had brothers who would require attention. Still, she could not keep from asking—for she wondered why he had not written.
“In hell,” came his simple answer. The smile faded from his eyes and his lips, and an odd sort of trepidation twisted about Vivianna’s spine.
“Nate…run an’ fetch Caleb,” Savannah said.
“Aw! But I want to stay here!” Nate whined.
“Run fetch Caleb!” his mother demanded. She placed her hands determinedly on her hips, and her eyes narrowed. “Nate Turner…you fetch your brother this minute! It wouldn’t be fair not to! He’ll be as happy as the rest of us to know Justin’s alive and well and come home to us. Now run along.”
Nate kicked the dirt with one foot, scowled, and exhaled a heavy sigh. “Oh, all right,” he mumbled. “But don’t tell ’em anything ’til I get back with Caleb. Don’t tell ’em one thing, Justin.”
Justin grinned again at last. “All right. But you run on and fetch Caleb.”
Nate smiled at his returned brother. “I will, Justin. You remember how fast I am, don’t ya?” he asked.
Justin chuckled. “I do.”
Nate was off then, racing toward town.
“Hey, mister…you don’t look too good at all,” Willy said.
Vivianna turned to look to Justin’s friend once more.
Again she took note of the terrible condition of the man—so pallid a complexion, so thin. His brown eyes were dull, nearly void of life. His lips were parched and dry, his hands chapped and covered over with small breaks in his skin, many of which were bleeding. Even the brown stubble of his hair and beard looked weary, and she wondered why it was Justin credited this man for his return home when it appeared to her that Mr. Tabor was in worse condition than Justin.
Vivianna gasped, reached out, and caught hold of Mr. Tabor’s arm as he suddenly swayed and then stumbled. It was obvious he was near overcome with the weakness of fatigue and his frail condition.
“Mr. Tabor!” Vivianna exclaimed. “It would appear you are quite unwell.”
Still, the man merely shook his head and mumbled, “I just need to sit down here for a spell.” He fairly crumpled to the ground, sitting down hard in the grass at the side of the road.
Certainly Vivianna herself wished to be in Justin’s arms—to know, through his touch, that he was alive and home with them. But she could not ignore the poor soul who had helped him to return.
“Hey, Viv,” Willy began, “I’m thinkin’ you better not let that feller sit like that for too long. He might never get up again.”<
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“Willy Turner!” Savannah scolded. “What a thing to say!”
Still, Vivianna owned the same sense as Willy—that perhaps the man ought not be allowed to linger in sitting outside.
“Mr. Tabor?” Savannah asked, bending down before him, frowning as she studied his state. “Are you indeed well?”
Mr. Tabor nodded weakly. “I’m right as rain, Mrs. Turner,” he lied.
Justin dropped to one knee before the man.
“Let’s get on in the house, Johnny,” he said. “I’m sure Mama’s got somethin’ in there that’ll start in to fixin’ you up.”
“I just need a little time. I’ll just sit here for a spell,” the man mumbled.
Vivianna glanced to Justin—saw the worry in his eyes, the fear. She would not have his friend die right there in the Alabama grass before him. It was obvious Justin was weak himself; he might not endure losing his companion so soon after returning.
Kneeling before Mr. Tabor, she said, “We’ve killed a chicken today, Mr. Tabor. It’s boilin’ on the stove just this minute. Let’s get you on your feet and take ya inside for some warm broth.”
Mr. Tabor only shook his head a little, however. “I’ll…I’ll just sit here awhile, miss,” he mumbled. “I’ll just sit here awhile.”
Vivianna’s heart began to quicken its pace once more, again for the sake of renewed fear. She looked to Justin, praying he was stronger than this poor fellow before her. She could not bear to have Justin return only to die.
“Johnny!” Justin growled. “You get up and get in the house!”
“Please, Mr. Tabor,” Vivianna begged in a soothing voice. “Let’s get ya inside. Then ya can eat somethin’ and rest. You’ll feel better if ya eat somethin’.”
“I’m…I’m just tired, miss,” Mr. Tabor mumbled. “We walked a fair piece today. I’m just tired. I’ll just stretch out for a minute and…”
Mr. Tabor began to lie down in the grass, and a strange sort of panic caused Vivianna to tremble. Somehow—somehow she knew he could not be allowed to rest there in the grass. Somehow she knew that if Justin’s friend took his rest there, it would be his final rest. They might as well fetch a shovel and begin digging his grave as to let him linger a moment longer. She feared Justin may be lost as well—that his own will to press on in life might expire with the final breath of the man who had shared his journey home. If Mr. Tabor was allowed to lie down in the grass, well, she might as well have Willy fetch two shovels.
Beneath the Honeysuckle Vine Page 3