Beneath the Honeysuckle Vine

by McClure, Marcia Lynn

  “Bye, Justin! Bye, Caleb!” Willy cried out.

  “I ain’t watchin’, Mama!” Nate cried suddenly. “I ain’t gonna watch ’em ride away! Daddy rode away…and he never came back! I ain’t gonna watch ’em!”

  “Nate!” Savannah called as Nate ran off in the direction of the house.

  “Let him go, Mama,” Caleb said. “Don’t make it any harder on him than it already is.”

  Savannah nodded as Willy shouted, “I ain’t watchin’ neither! I ain’t!” and ran off after his brother.

  “You all come back to us, boys, you hear me?” Savannah called as Justin set out at a gallop. “Caleb? You all come back to us!” she cried, brushing the tears from her cheeks.

  “We will, Mama,” Caleb said. “Good-bye, Viv,” he said.

  “Good-bye,” Vivianna whispered.

  Caleb nodded. “Get,” he said to his horse.

  They were gone. The Turner boys were gone to war.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Vivianna giggled as she watched Nate and Willy wrestling in the grass. She shook her head, wondering why boys found so much joy in torturing one another. In that moment, she was awash with gratitude and thanksgiving—grateful spring had come, thankful the war was over, grateful in knowing Nate and Willy would never have to enlist. Nate and Willy would not die in the battlefields or disappear the way Samuel and Augustus had—the way their own brother Justin had.

  At the thought of her brothers—as the vision of Justin Turner settled in her mind—Vivianna drew a deep breath, silently pleading with her emotions to remain calm. Caleb was walking toward her, and she would not have him knowing she still longed for his brother.

  She studied him as he approached. He was so handsome, even for the residual evidence of suffered hardship that now weathered his countenance. His smile was not so bright and carefree as it once had been, his eyes void of the radiant spark of gaiety they had once owned. Furthermore, he walked with a limp, a vestige of the war, one that would never let him forget—if forgetting such a thing were even possible. Yet Caleb Turner was a good man, a strong man, and he had returned from the fighting when so many others never would—including his own brother.

  Caleb chuckled as he glanced to Nate and Willy. “Puts me in mind of Justin and me,” he said, his smile fading a little. “Do you remember how we used to fight, Viv?”

  Vivianna smiled, her heart aching at the memory. “I do,” she told him. “It seems the two of you were always covered in dirt and grass.”

  Caleb gazed at her for a long moment. She knew he was thinking of Justin too, missing his brother. A moment of unspoken understanding passed between them. Vivianna knew Caleb sorely missed his brother, and Caleb knew Vivianna’s heart was broken in missing Justin as well. She sensed this was why he had not pressed her further to marry him; he knew her tender heart still clung to his brother’s memory. Vivianna knew Caleb would wait until he was certain she was free of the ghost of Justin Turner before proposing to her again. In that moment, she recognized another reason for gratitude: Caleb Turner’s patience.

  “Do ya need anything?” he asked. “I could stop in at one of the shops for ya if ya like.”

  Vivianna shook her head and allowed her smile to broaden. Caleb was ever so thoughtful.

  “No, thank you,” she said. “I best save everything I have in case the critters get into the garden and we find ourselves needin’ to trade our things for food. You were nothin’ but skin and bones when you came home. I won’t see ya skin and bones again.”

  Caleb nodded. “You’re right. Who knows what these next months will bring?” He reached out, brushing a stray strand of hair from her cheek. “Well, you just send one of the boys after me if you or Mama needs somethin’,” he said. “Repairin’ bridges is hard labor…and I’d look forward to a reason to be called home for the day.”

  Vivianna smiled, though in truth she felt saddened. There had been a time when Caleb’s simple touch would’ve sent goose pimples racing over her arms. But that was years ago—a war ago—and she felt sad that his touch no longer thrilled her.

  “I’ll send Nate or Willy to fetch ya if we need ya home.” Vivianna glanced to the two boys still wrestling in the grass. “If I can break them up long enough to make them hear me.”

  “All right then,” Caleb said. “I’ll see ya this evenin’, Viv.”

  “Bye now,” Vivianna said, tossing a wave as he limped down the road toward town.

  She watched him go—thought of the day last June when he had returned. He’d been wounded, and the injury to his leg had found him unable to fight. In truth, the doctors had feared Caleb would even lose his leg. But he didn’t; he was discharged and sent home to recover.

  She’d never forget the day Caleb returned—never forget the joy in Mrs. Turner’s eyes. Further, Vivianna feared she’d never forget how she’d silently wished it had been Justin who had returned. She’d hated herself for two months over having had such thoughts. Caleb was a good man. She was glad he’d survived.

  It was also in June that Caleb’s mother told him of Justin having won Vivianna’s heart. Justin had faithfully written to Vivianna; Caleb had not. Caleb seemed to understand, though he constantly scolded himself to Vivianna and his mother for letting his brother woo Vivianna away from him. Still, Vivianna was certain he had not loved her as deeply as he had once professed to. She thought if he truly loved her, he should have been angry with his brother for kissing her the day they left. If he loved her as Justin did, he should’ve written long letters of missing her—of loving her. But he did not. It was Justin who had written, not Caleb. Thus, Caleb—by his own admission—had no right to be angry or hurt and did not endeavor to win her away from Justin once more.

  Until November—when Justin’s letters had ceased in arriving. Even Mrs. Turner had received no word from him. All at the Turner home began to worry, yet they continued in owning no word of Justin having fallen. Still, as the weeks and months passed—as no word from Justin ever arrived—Vivianna and the Turners began to understand that no word would ever arrive from him—or of him. Justin Turner was lost. The war had taken him, as it had so many others. Justin would not have let his loved ones linger five months without word. Thus, Mrs. Turner, Nate, Willy, Caleb, and Vivianna had begun to accept that another Alabama son would not return from the war.

  General Lee had surrendered, just three weeks past. Caleb had waited several days after the beginning of war’s end before asking Vivianna to marry him. When tears began to stream down her face, Caleb at once apologized. He explained he had thought her ready to settle—mistakenly. He’d thought the love she once owned for him would somehow heal the love she’d known for his fallen brother. Still, when he realized it had not, he offered his explanation to Vivianna—told her he would wait until she was ready, even if it were a full year or more.

  Vivianna had presented her own apology to Caleb. She did not wish to hurt him, for she had loved him once—yet did love him still, in a manner. Yet she suspected he had asked her to marry him more out of obligation or expectation than because he was truly in love with her. She suspected he felt sorry for her, orphaned and brotherless as she was. Further, she suspected Caleb owned the notion he and she would make a comfortable match. After all, did she not already reside with his family?

  Savannah Turner had taken Vivianna into her home after Vivianna’s parents had been killed by the Union soldiers raiding Florence almost two years previous. With no word from either of her brothers for those same two years, Vivianna knew the Turner family was all the family she would know. She thought perhaps Caleb felt this too—that his own tired heart reasoned it might be easier to own a wife who was already so settled in with his family.

  But Vivianna’s heart could not release the memory of Justin; her lips could not forget the feel of the kiss he’d given her the day he left. The memory of Justin Turner was wound about her heart—woven through her soul. It was nearly every night still that she read his letters, at least one or two of them.
How could she marry his brother? How could she live with always wishing Caleb were Justin? She could not, for if nothing else, it would not be fair to Caleb.

  Savannah Turner had tried to convince Vivianna that time would heal her heart. She had loved Caleb once; she could love him again. Time would be the means. Still, Savannah likewise counseled Vivianna not to marry Caleb unless she truly were able to love him—love Caleb Turner for being Caleb Turner, not merely because she’d once loved him.

  Thus, as Vivianna watched Caleb rather amble-limp toward town, she thought of the good man he was, and a part of her hoped she could fall in love with him one day. Still, she closed her eyes, her mind lingering on the words written in one of her most cherished letters from Justin.

  “When I return,” Vivianna whispered, nearly able to hear Justin’s now silenced voice speaking the words he’d written, “we’ll meet beneath the honeysuckle vine…”

  Awash with the sudden pain of renewed heartache, she opened her eyes. Tears filled them—tears now blurring the vision of Caleb ambling in the distance.

  Turning, she left Nate and Willy to their play, brushing tears from her cheeks as she hurried toward the vine-covered arbor. It was her place of heartache—of memory. Once her secret venue of hope, the arbor heavy with honeysuckle was now the place she retreated when her tears could no longer be restrained.

  The fragrance of sweet honeysuckle hung heavy on the air. Not as heavy as it would in the coming months but heavy enough that Vivianna could breath it in—almost taste the sweet nectar of the blossoms.

  Mr. Turner had built a bench swing before the war and fastened it to hang under the massive arbor his own father had constructed. As Vivianna sat down on Mr. Turner’s swing, she was reminded of yet another life stripped from the earth—for Mr. Turner had enlisted even before his sons. He’d died early in the war. It was a widowed Savannah Turner who had watched her two eldest sons ride away to battle.

  Vivianna pushed at the ground with her well-worn shoes. As the swing began to sway back and forth, she gazed up to the vine overhead. Already heavy with honeysuckle blossoms, the vine covered every space of the arbor. Even as a child, Vivianna had loved the Turners’ honeysuckle vine, often spending hours upon hours beneath its shady shelter. Frequently she had imagined the vine-covered arbor was a house, a house made of honeysuckle. Certainly the arbor was as large as a small dwelling. Every year the Turners would prune back the vine at each end of the arbor; otherwise the tangle of vines, leaves, and blossoms would swallow up even the open space within it. The vine had grown unruly during the war, branching out even to the nearby trees, engulfing an old wagon abandoned nearby as well. Still, Vivianna loved it! The arbor with honeysuckle was her space of serenity—and love—for now and then she liked to imagine Justin’s spirit lingered there, as if he too were finding haven in the arms of the fragrant vine.

  Vivianna reached into her skirt pocket, drawing out the letter she ever carried there—the letter she had silently vowed she would always carry.

  The paper upon which the letter was written was becoming fragile, weakened with so much handling and rereading. Yet carefully she unfolded the pages of Justin’s cherished letter, pressing them to her face in a vain attempt to catch a lingering trace of the scent of the fallen man she so loved.

  She studied the first page—traced Justin’s rather disheveled script with her fingertips. She thought that all the while he had been writing it, all the while he had been thinking of her. A vision of the dead soldiers she’d seen in Florence when the Yankees had attacked entered her mind. Their faces had been dirt-streaked, pale, and often their cold, dead eyes had stared blindly at passersby or into the raining sky. A horrified shiver ran through her, yet she would not think of Justin lying dead in an open field. She would not imagine him propped up against a tree trunk, bleeding out onto the soft Georgia grass as General Sherman rode on—the Alabama First Calvary accompanying along his Savannah Campaign. No! She would only think of Justin Turner as he’d appeared the last time she’d seen him: handsome, strong, vibrant, and hopeful.

  “My Darling Vivianna,” she began to read aloud. New tears stung her violet eyes, as ever they did when she read Justin’s letters—especially this one, for it was her most cherished.

  I beg you; do not be angry with me for so intimate a beginning to this letter. By now you must know my mind addresses you as my darling…for you are so dear and darling to me. It is true you have always been dear to me, yet now you are even so deeply more dear, more dear than you may ever know. You have saved me, sweet Vivianna. It is many the time I have been in despair, injured, hurt, hungry, cold, or alone that your sweet letters comfort me. There is one particular I carry with me. I am hoping you will remember it if I make reference to it here. It was the letter of last June 16th, 1863, in which you enclosed a photograph of yourself—of your beautiful self, a photograph I gaze upon each night before I take my sleep, that I might rest with the vision of your loving face in my mind. Do you remember this letter, sweet Vivianna? I will write a piece here that you might remember: “The honeysuckle is heavy on your grandfather’s old arbor. At times, I sit beneath it in wondering at the old arbor being strong enough to support it yet. I have gone there every day this spring and summer to think and to wish you were home…to wish you were here with me. It seems there are more blossoms than ever I remember seeing before, and they are soft yellow and bright pink, and their nectar more sweet than any other year, I think. Whenever I am able, I slip away to the arbor and the vine. There I imagine you are home again…that you and I are together on your father’s swing, talking of family and friends, of long summer walks and pollywogs in puddles…”

  Though I cannot tell you why, Vivi—for perhaps I do not know why myself—I ever think of you beneath the honeysuckle vine. I imagine you are waiting for me there, that you will be waiting there when I return. I make a promise to you now, Vivianna Bartholomew. I promise this: When I return, we will meet beneath the honeysuckle vine, and I will kiss you such a kiss as you have never known before. It is what I dream of. Amidst the nightmares of battle and death, often there comes to me a dream of you, of you and I together beneath the honeysuckle vine, and I awake improved and hopeful, for there is something for me to fight for now…you, my darling.

  On the battlefield, or at the campfire, there are moments when your sweet face will appear before me. Those brief visions of you rescue me…for I will not die and never meet you beneath the honeysuckle. That is what I think—when the stench of death and fighting is all around me, when the noise of the cannons seems to echo forever in my ears, as we bury our fellow soldiers and want for food and comfort, I think of you and me there beneath that arbor, bathed in the fragrance of honeysuckle…sharing kisses as sweet as their nectar. You, Vivianna…you are why I continue to live.

  I confess it…I confess that I love you. I have written it here in hoping you will not refuse the offer of my heart. It belongs to you, Vivianna. You alone will own my love…forever.

  I fight for you, Vivianna. I fight to come to you…to live…so that we may linger together beneath the honeysuckle vine.

  May God protect and keep you, my love.

  Vivianna brushed the tears from her cheeks—let her fingers tenderly trace the lone character Justin had signed the letter with. She drew the letter to her face once more, kissed the familiar and beloved initialed signature.

  “Oh, Justin!” she breathed. “I feel as if I can’t go on! Sometimes I just think…I just think…”

  Vivianna swallowed and inhaled a deep breath. Folding the letter, she returned it to the pocket of her skirt. She could not let her passionate emotions rise. She could not linger on thoughts of all she had lost. She would not think of her parents, of Sam or Augie. To think of them would mean collapse; she was certain of it. It was everything she could manage to will her heart to continue to beat when the loss of Justin was so painful. She could not think of the others. Vivianna had grown to know that war was far more destructive to the hum
an soul and heart than it was even to the landscape, towns, or cities. Each morning she awoke with thoughts of her family yet pushed them to the far corners of her mind. She could not linger on the whole of it—not yet.

  She had spent enough time in misery for one day. Thus, Vivianna stood, inhaled one last breath of the sweet honeysuckle beneath which she would never meet Justin Turner, and walked. She knew where her feet would lead her, though she further knew it would only bring her more pain. Still, though she would not linger on the deaths of so many loved ones, she did not want them to look down from heaven and think she did not miss and mourn them. Thus, she wandered to the small cemetery nestled in the meadow in the center of a grove of dogwood trees. It was not more than half a mile from the house—a small cemetery belonging to the Turner family. Mr. Turner’s parents and his eldest brother were among those resting beneath the cool, fragrant grass. Sadly, Mr. Turner did not rest with them, having fought and died far from home. Savannah had begged Vivianna to let her parents be interred there instead of in the cemetery in Florence. Though there were many northern Alabamians who had silently or otherwise supported the Union during the war, the Union raids on Florence had hardened many of those hearts, as well as causing further hatred of the Union and its Yankees to grow among local Confederates. Thus, Vivianna’s parents, Victor and Mary Bartholomew, were laid to rest in the Turner family cemetery where none could defile their graves for the sake of their two sons, who had been lost defending the Union.

  Oddly, the short walk to the old cemetery helped Vivianna to surface from the melancholy heartache she’d been lingering in within the arbor. The dogwoods were beginning to bloom, and the wildflowers and grass were mellow and sweet in their perfumed offerings. The birds were plentiful in the trees, chirping songs of happiness, of carefree springs to come and nests filled with tiny eggs of hope in further generations—generations that would not know the scent and sight of battle and bloodshed.