Pressing her hands to Justin’s chest, she sighed when their lips parted at her prodding.
Justin’s brow slightly puckered with a puzzled frown. “What’s the matter?” he asked.
Vivianna smiled at him. “Oh, nothin’,” she said. “I was just wonderin’ when the last time was you enjoyed a bit of honeysuckle nectar.”
Justin smiled and brushed a strand of stray hair from her cheek. “Not since the summer before me and Caleb left,” he answered. “Not in three long years.”
Vivianna smiled, took his hand, and led him to sit in the swing. “Then I think you better be about it, Justin Turner,” she said. “My mama always told me that honeysuckle nectar was somethin’ to be enjoyed with each breath of summer.” She reached up and plucked two large honeysuckle blossoms. Handing one to Justin, she smiled as she gently tugged at the blossom, tightly holding the small green bulb at the end. Slowly she pulled the flower until the long white style revealed a drop of sweet nectar. Carefully, she placed the drop of nectar to the tip of her tongue. “Mmm!” she sighed. “You’ve forgotten the simple pleasures of life, Justin. One tiny drop of honeysuckle sugar should help you to remember.”
Justin chuckled and carefully revealed the droplet of honeysuckle nectar from his own flower. He smiled as the sweet nectar of the honeysuckle touched his tongue.
“It reminds me of when I was Nate and Willy’s age,” he admitted.
“When life was fun…and pollywogs were the most important thing in the world,” Vivianna added.
Justin nodded. He reached up and plucked another blossom from the vine.
“We used to do this for hours…remember?” he asked.
“I do,” she said.
Vivianna chose a large pink blossom and gently pulled it from the vine. As she watched Justin struggling to discover the nectar in his blossom, she paused—wondered if Johnny Tabor had forgotten the simple pleasures of life—wondered if he’d ever lingered in the shade of a honeysuckle vine sipping nectar.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Florence, Alabama, had been damaged by the war. Its people had been damaged. Its buildings, bridges, railroad—it seemed everything needed repair. Vivianna could see the good in this—in folks looking to the future, in seeing Florence renewed. She mused that as people watched the buildings, bridges, and streets being mended, it might well help in mending the damaged souls of those who had lived through the battle and lost so much.
Furthermore, Vivianna knew it was good for Justin to be working with Caleb in town. Over the past two weeks, she’d begun to wonder if Justin’s need for a long recovery had more to do with his mind struggling to leave the war behind than his body needing to mend itself. Johnny Tabor had been looking for tasks that might afford him a wage as well, but he was not a local boy and was therefore viewed harshly for having fought for the Union, even more than Caleb and Justin were. At least folks seemed to tolerate Caleb and Justin. Oh, there was animosity enough—threats enough—but many in Florence had been in support of the Union. Perhaps many had not fought for it, but in their thinking they had known it was right. Therefore, Caleb and Justin found wages, whereas Johnny Tabor was not so easily forgiven for his part in the war. Still, the railroad was expanding, and the word was men would be hired on to help build it. Thus, Johnny lingered in fixing things at the Turner place that needed fixing, hauling water that needed hauling, splitting wood, repairing the barn, and maintaining the garden.
At first, Vivianna was somewhat unsettled that Johnny should be the only man near to Savannah, Nate, Willy, and herself during the day. He so thoroughly rattled her, and she could not quite tell herself why. She wondered if it were merely his often brooding demeanor or perhaps the fact that her thoughts still traveled to the missing body of the Andersonville guard and the conversation she’d overheard between him and Justin. There seemed so much mystery about him, as if a sort of imperceptible mist surrounded him, whispering to her that there was more to Johnny Tabor than any of them knew—even Justin. Still, the most frightening thoughts she experienced in regard to Johnny came upon her unexpectedly—on increasingly more frequent occasions when she would become conscious of an odd excitement rising in her whenever he was near. This frightened her not only because she had never experienced such sensations but also because she had begun to realize these sensations were not new to her where Johnny was concerned.
Vivianna was slowly realizing that Johnny Tabor frightened her for the mere fact that he was dangerous to her peace of mind, to her plans to find comfortable contentment in the life she’d come to know—in her life with Justin. She found she was more often than not quite distracted in Justin’s presence—that her mind wandered to thoughts of Johnny, of wondering why he was so brooding, of what could be done to make him less so.
The anxious thoughts of Johnny heaped on Vivianna only grew whenever Savannah would speak to her of Justin—of her delight in one day being able to truly have Vivianna as her own daughter. Justin had not proposed marriage to Vivianna. In fact, Vivianna had begun to wonder if he ever would, for even though he doted on her as much as Justin Turner could dote on anyone, she feared he felt no passion for her—no great love the like of which he’d written of before Andersonville. She feared the horrors of war and Andersonville had broken his heart, that it would not mend, even for the sake of her love.
Each night, Vivianna would read Justin’s letters. Each night, she would see his words and know that he’d written them, that once he had loved her as desperately as any man ever loved a woman. Yet where was the passion of his words now? Worse—where was Vivianna’s passion?
It seemed everyone somehow fell into an uncomplicated routine. Each morning, Nate and Willy would rise and dash out to adventure, Caleb and Justin would rise and leave for town, Johnny Tabor would rise and plunge into hard labor, and Vivianna would rise and assist Savannah with the responsibilities of running the house. Yet it seemed there was nothing else—no excitement, no passion. How could they have all so quickly gone from the misery of war to such seeming utter complacency?
The wondering taxed Vivianna’s mind. She was confused as to why. When she herself had been so emotional, so passionate before and during the war, why was she not more distraught over her disappointment in what was (or was not) between her and Justin? Had her heart simply been used up, emptied by longing and the nightmares of war? Or was there something else—something her mind was not allowing her to see? These thoughts weighed heavy on Vivianna—so heavy that she often chose not to think of them at all. It seemed much easier to settle into the complacency that seemed to make everyone else happy.
Even her walks to the small cemetery offered little or no emotional sensitivity. She went more out of habit and a remembered sense of duty than for any other reason. Still, she went; every few days she went—wandered to the cemetery where she would place violets on the grave of Mrs. Turner’s lost baby girl, where she would not sit near her parents’ graves or think too long on those of the Maggee boys.
It was late afternoon. Caleb and Justin would be returning from town in an hour or two. Savannah would be asking Vivianna to help her start their evening meal soon. Yet Vivianna felt unsettled, as if the day were yet wanting, even for all she had worked over.
Slowly she ambled along the path leading to the meadow. The gardenia bushes were blooming, and the scent washed over her like an enchanting ambrosia. She could hear the bees in the apple trees—feel moisture in the air.
Vivianna paused as she stepped out of the bushes and undergrowth and into the meadow. There, near the tombstone of Mr. Turner’s mother, sat Willy and Nate. Johnny Tabor was with them, lounging on his side in the grass. As usual, he wore only his trousers and boots, having explained to Savannah weeks before that the heavy, moist air of Alabama caused him too much discomfort to always wear a shirt while he was working.
“And what’s them scars from?” Willy asked. Vivianna watched as Willy pointed to an area on Johnny’s arm just below his shoulder. Her
curiosity was piqued, and she walked to where Johnny and the boys lingered in the grass.
“Hey there, Viv!” Nate greeted. “Johnny’s tellin’ us about his scars! He sure does have a mess of ’em! Wanna see?”
Vivianna shrugged. “I suppose so,” she replied.
“Look here, Viv,” Willy said, pointing to the scars on Johnny’s arm.
Vivianna almost smiled, for it was obvious Johnny Tabor was not as comfortable as he had been a moment before. She figured that telling two little boys stories of how scars came to be was a heap more impressive than telling a woman.
“See them? He ain’t told us about these yet,” Willy explained.
Vivianna knelt in the grass next to Johnny, studying the place on his arm where Willy was indicating. A cluster of small marks—perhaps fifty or more—formed a band of scars traveling from just below the back of his shoulder, forward over his arm, and around to the underneath of it.
“Well,” Johnny rather grumbled, “these are from the lice.”
“Lice?” Vivianna exclaimed, horrified. The hairs of her head stood on end as a sickening sense of being eaten by vermin filled her mind.
“What kind of lice leave scars?” Nate asked, wrinkling his nose.
Vivianna watched as Willy unconsciously scratched his head. The thought had made her skin crawl as well.
“Lice?” she whispered again. Without thinking, she reached out, running her fingers over the cluster of small scars.
“Well…to be honest…I ain’t sure whether it was the lice or the fire that left ’em,” Johnny explained. He smiled, chuckled, and shook his head. “I guess in the end…neither one caused ’em. It was me.”
“You?” Nate asked. He frowned with frustration. “Who scarred your arm up, Johnny? The lice or somethin’ else?”
“We called ’em graybacks at the prison camp,” Johnny said, running his own hand over the small scars. “The lice at Andersonville, they’d get near as big and as plump as a wheat kernel…and they were miserable. One day, I was sittin’ there pickin’ ’em off me. We all did it; there wasn’t nothin’ else to do. And they were miserable. So we figured…why not pick at ’em?”
Nate and Willy both nodded, as if Johnny’s reasoning were as sound as the earth. Vivianna, however, frowned. She wasn’t at all certain she wanted to hear stories about lice big enough to leave scars when they bit. Images of soldiers living in filth—tortured by vermin, the elements, and their captors—began to creep into her thoughts. Yet she fought the images, pushed the true horror of it all to the back of her mind. She would not think too deeply on it; she could not.
“Well, me and this other feller,” Johnny continued, “one day we just plum got irritated with the graybacks, angry about ’em gnawing on us all the time. I thought I couldn’t endure another day of them eatin’ me, so I got myself up and went over to the fire near where the guards were standin’. I asked for a piece of wood…a stick they’d had layin’ in the fire. They asked me why I wanted it. I told ’em I was sick of the lice and meant to burn ’em off me. They thought I’d gone mad, of course, but gave me the smolderin’ stick anyway. It was glowin’ hot on the fire end—red and orange—and I couldn’t wait to give it a try. I’d seen another feller burnin’ off lice once. But he died pretty quick after doin’ it, so I hadn’t really thought of tryin’ it myself…until that day. So I stripped off my clothes then and there and started burnin’ those little sons of…started burnin’ those graybacks off. I guess I fussed ’em up a bit ’cause the ones I burned bit me so hard that I still ain’t sure if it was the bites that scarred me or the hot stick.” Again he ran his hand over the scars. “Most others I picked off never scarred like this…so I’m guessin’ it was the fire stick.”
“Maybe it was both…the bitin’ and the fire,” Nate suggested.
Johnny shrugged. “Maybe. But that’s why me and Justin shaved our heads and everything else before we came home. We didn’t want to bring the graybacks here to chew on all of you.”
“What do ya mean by sayin’ ya shaved everything else, Johnny?” Willy asked. “What could a body shave besides his head?”
Johnny glanced to Vivianna. She felt an amused smile spread across her face when she realized Johnny Tabor was blushing—truly blushing! His cheeks were near as rosy as a radish! Oh, it was a gruesome story—a horrible realization that lice could so infest a person as to offer shaving every hair as the only chance to rid a body of the bugs and their nits. Still, she could sense Johnny was entirely embarrassed—embarrassed at having mentioned something so deeply personal in front of a lady. She liked him for it—liked him more than she had even a moment before.
Nate shook his head and whined, “Willy Turner! Sometimes you’re just plum ignorant. You got hair on your arms and legs, don’t ya?” Nate shook his head again. “Boy, sometimes I don’t think ya have a brain in your head.”
“Well, I ain’t as ignorant as ya think, Nate!” Willy argued. “I ain’t blind neither! Justin’s chest is all hairy like Caleb’s now, but when he come home, it was all smooth and shiny like a little baby’s bottom…just like your chest is now, Nate!”
“You hush, Willy Turner!” Nate growled. “I’ll sprout me some hair on my chest long before you…so hush!”
“Well, I don’t want no hair on my chest,” Willy began, “leastwise not so much like Caleb and Justin.” Willy nodded toward Johnny. “I just want me enough to look manly…like Johnny here.”
Vivianna again glanced to Johnny and giggled when she saw the lingering red on his cheeks. He was completely humiliated—so red with blushing, so uncomfortable with the course of the conversation (being that a lady was present) that she indeed wondered if he could endure it. It was delightful—his blushing, his sudden awareness that he wore no shirt.
“Besides,” Willy added, “if I ever get lice…then if my chest ain’t as hairy, I won’t have to worry as much…right, Johnny?”
“Oh, they gnaw on ya whether or not ya’ve got hair on your chest, Willy,” Johnny said. He wouldn’t look at Vivianna, and she could tell he was still bashful. This continued to thoroughly intrigue her. Suddenly, big, mean Johnny Tabor didn’t seem quite so intimidating.
He smiled at Willy then and said, “They’re vermin, that’s for certain. Still, they’re fun to race…if ya ain’t got anythin’ else to entertain ya.”
“Race?” Nate exclaimed.
“Yep,” Johnny chuckled. “We’d just get us a mess plate, line two or three graybacks up on it, and let ’em go. I found a pretty quick ol’ lice bug in my belly button once, and he was fast! I won a peach and a piece of soap with him.”
“How fast, Johnny?” Willy asked.
“Fast enough to win me a peach and a piece of soap,” Johnny chuckled. He sighed. “But then…then he lost, and I had to eat him.”
“Eat him?” Nate, Willy, and Vivianna asked in unison.
“Yep,” Johnny said. “That was the rule. If you lost a race…ya had to eat the little feller ya were racin’ with.”
All at once, the pure horror of what Johnny was saying overwhelmed Vivianna’s mind. Like a sudden illness, it wove through her body—constricted her stomach. She held her breath—tried to remain calm as she looked at the scars on Johnny’s arm—scars caused from burning off body lice the size of wheat kernels. There should be no amusement in thinking of men enduring such torture. And what good could come from telling the young Turner boys about it? Suddenly, Johnny’s blushing of a minute before did nothing to keep the horrid thoughts of war, prison, and misery from Vivianna’s consciousness.
“That’s terrible!” she exclaimed. Shaking her head in an abrupt emotional altering, she scolded, “Johnny! Racing lice? They were near eatin’ ya alive!”
Johnny’s smile faded. “Well, there wasn’t really a whole lot else to do, Miss Vivianna.”
“Oh, he’s just teasin’ us, Viv,” Willy said. “Don’t worry. I’m sure it ain’t true.” The boy reached out and squeezed Vivianna’s arm with loving reassu
rance.
“It is true,” Nate said. “I heard Justin tellin’ Caleb about it not a week ago. He said the lice were always swarmin’, everywhere…all over the camp, in soldier’s clothes…on their bodies…”
Vivianna felt tears brimming in her eyes. It was awful! So horrible! How could Johnny sit and tell Nate and Willy such horrid things? How could she have listened so long without feeling the depth of their misery?
“Nate! Viv’s gonna get upset. I was just tryin’ to soothe her a bit,” Willy whispered loudly.
Vivianna reached out, running her hand over the cluster of scars on Johnny’s arm. She shook her head as the tears escaped her eyes, rolling down her cheeks.
“Now ya done it, Johnny!” Willy scolded, shaking his head with disgust. “Ya went and got Viv all to bawlin’. I can’t stand to see Viv cry. I can’t stand it.”
“I’m sorry, Vivianna,” Johnny said. “I’m…I shouldn’t have told such things in front of a lady and…”
But Vivianna was already too overcome with sympathetic pain to stop her tears now. She thought it odd in that moment—odd that she’d spent so many days worrying over why her emotions seemed numb. Yet here they were, violent in their rapid sympathy.
“It’s not your fault, Johnny,” she told him. “I just…I just can’t think on it. I can’t think on you and Justin…I can’t think on anybody bein’ so miserable.”
“But he’s fine now, Viv,” Nate soothed. “Look…look at the muscles he’s sproutin’ lately.”
“Vivianna,” Johnny began. He leaned forward, placing a hand on her knee, with such an expression of guilt on his handsome face it made her feel all the worse. She’d added to his discomfort by scolding him for sharing the stories of the hell in Andersonville—stories that she well knew should be told. She’d heaped even more pain on him.
“I mean, look at these arms, Viv!” Nate said, reaching up and squeezing Johnny’s muscular arm. “Like tree trunks! He’s fine now. Don’t go gettin’ all upset like ya do. You know Willy and me can’t stand to see ya upset.”
Beneath the Honeysuckle Vine Page 14