A Song for Nettie Johnson (18 page)

At quarter to four my brothers and I quit skating and walked home. As soon as we got there, we piled into the car for the drive to the station. My mother and dad sat in the front seat, my brothers and I in the back where we engaged in our usual competition, seeing who could sprawl out against the back seat and who would have to lean forward to give space to the other two.

I knew on the way home my grandfather would be sitting in the front seat with Dad; the rest of us would be squashed in the back. But there’d be no fooling around then. Grandpa was a follower of Hans Nielson Hauge.

He was also a huge man with a thick chest and wide face. He was dark skinned, and his hair and beard, now grey, had been pitch black in his youth. This, together with his wide cheeks and squinty eyes, made him look more like a Siberian than a Norwegian.

Ivan’s grandfather, who really was Russian, had light brown hair and fair skin. He was a milder man than my grandfather; the few times I’d heard him talk his voice was gentle. Grandpa roared when he spoke, especially when he got going on his favourite topics: the Word of God, the dangers of Rationalism, and his great Nor-wegian hero, Hans Nielson Hauge.

Halfway to the station, I saw my father put one arm around my mother and pull her close to him. He stroked her neck in a comforting way. Grandpa was Dad’s father, not hers.

At the station we piled out of the car and headed up the steps to the platform. The platform was like most station platforms, wide and made of wood, stretching in front of the station house and alongside the tracks in both directions. Tonight it looked like a skating rink. Huge snowbanks were piled high on either end, and the boards beneath our feet were slick with ice. They looked glossy in the snow-speckled light shining out from the station window. Peter and Andrew slid in and out of the light on the slippery boards, Mom and Dad huddled together beside the tracks, and under the lamppost at the end of the platform, old Gibbs, with his cap pulled down on his forehead, bent over his snowy mail sacks.

Then we heard the whistle, a long and lonely sound that touches my soul, especially on winter nights when sounds are so clear and travel such a distance.

When the whistle blew, Peter and Andrew skidded over to the edge of the platform; my parents stepped back. I lifted my head to watch the drizzle of flakes above me, and I think I knew right then why Grandpa wanted to visit us in January: He missed the Norway winters of his childhood, missed his mother buried in a snowy grave in Utsira, and he was tired of rainy Vancouver, where he now lived with his daughter, my Aunt Elsa, and her shrill family.

Again the whistle blew, this time nearer and louder, and we could hear the huffing and panting of the engine.

Then we saw it, black and roaring, its huge eyeball headlight sending a thick beam of light down the tracks as it headed toward us. We watched the engine car pass by and the engineer high up at his window, waving. We heard the screech of the wheels brake against the tracks, smelled the smoke spewing forth from under the cars. And the train stopped.

And suddenly there Grandpa was, his dark body filling the passageway. He was wearing a black coat and fur cap and his face held a severe expression. Down the steps he came, one big boot after the other. My dad went to him, and Grandpa’s face lit up and he threw his arms around Dad and shouted, “Takk Kjaere Gud!” in a voice as big as the night. Then he moved to my mother and bowed, and shook hands with me and Andrew. When he saw Peter he pounded him on the head and laughed, “Peder, Peder, the one much loved.”

Why Grandpa got along so well with Peter I could never understand. Peter was such a fake when they were together, a real hypocrite, agreeing with everything Grandpa said about the power of the Word and the dangers of Rationalism, which Peter knew nothing about but pretended to. “Absolutely,” he’d say to Grandpa. “You’re absolutely right.”

I doubt if even Grandpa knew as much as he let on. He’d been a fisherman all his life until he got too old. First as a boy fishing for cod in the North Sea, then in Canada, fishing in the Pacific Ocean for salmon.

Even my dad didn’t agree with everything Grandpa said, and Dad was the Lutheran minister in town and a Haugean himself. He wouldn’t wear a robe when he preached or a cross hanging from his neck. But he was gentler than Grandpa. He didn’t pound on the pulpit when he preached.

During the ride home Dad and Grandpa talked Norwegian, which they enjoyed doing whenever they got together, even though they both spoke perfectly good English.

When we got home, we could smell the roasting chicken from the back porch, where we all crowded together, stomping the snow off our boots. Inside, the table was already set, a big wooden table in the middle of the kitchen. We didn’t have a dining room, like they had at Vera’s.

After we’d hung up our coats, Mom discovered she had no milk, and how was she going to make her special gravy without it? It was New Year’s Eve, the stores would be closed, and also closed the next day. Dad said he’d walk over to the café and ask Mr. Wong if he could spare a quart. Then I blurted out that I’d do it. The café was only a block away and I’d be quick. Dad dug in his pocket for a quarter. “Go ahead,” he said.

I was getting my coat on when Grandpa announced that he wanted to go with me. After the long train ride the fresh air would do him good, he said. I wasn’t pleased, but what could I do? I waited by the door while he took forever tugging at his coat and pulling on his boots. With Peter right beside him, pretending to be helpful.

When we got outside, I led the way and Grandpa followed. I could hear his boots crunching in the snow behind me and his heavy breathing.

“How are you doing, Grandpa?” I yelled.

“Ya, ya,” he said, puffing. And I slowed my pace.

As we lumbered along, I wondered if Ivan would be at the café with his grandfather. Since Mrs. Lippoway’s death, the two of them were known to eat there on special occasions. So it was possible. Not likely, though, in this cold.

Sure enough, when we got to the café, Ivan wasn’t there. Freddie Wong, who was fourteen, the same age as Andrew, stood alone behind the counter. The new lady at the post office was sitting on a stool in front of him, her elbows on the counter and a thick mug in her hands. The windows of the café were steamed over and steamy cooking smells were coming from the kitchen, but there was no sign of any other customers.

Then the front door opened, letting in a draft of cold air and with it Jackson Armor, who everyone said was missing a few marbles but was harmless. He shuffled into the restaurant in a way those people often do, his body moving slightly from side to side. He was wearing a bright red cap with the flaps down over his ears, and a plaid jacket, red and black. His mother dressed him in interesting and colourful ways, but I still found him creepy. He flapped his arms against his chest to get warm, and smiled at us. He smiled all the time no matter what the occasion, even at funerals. And he never talked, even though he was way older than Peter.

Grandpa stood by the counter, eyeing Jackson. I wanted to leave before anything strange happened, so I asked Freddie about the milk and he went into the kitchen to ask his father.

The door opened again, and Sigurd Anderson and another man came in. They were drunk, which wasn’t surprising since it was New Year’s Eve and Sigurd was usually drunk anyway. They wavered in slow motion to a table against the wall, then took their time getting settled in their chairs. Grandpa looked stern. Being a Haugean, he had no use for liquor. Then Mr. Wong came out from the kitchen and I paid him for the milk. I tucked the bottle under my arm and went over to Grandpa to lead him out of there. But when we got as far as the door, Sigurd shouted, “Hey! What’s the rush?”

Grandpa turned around and stared at the two men. He stood there like a monument. His black coat and thick boots, his fur cap and wide rusty face made him look even fiercer than before.

“It’s New Year’s Eve!” Sigurd shouted. “Time to celebrate!” He tried to get up from his chair, but the effort was too much for him. Jackson waddled over to the table to help him. He tugged at Sigurd’s coat sleeve, and finally Sigurd stood, balancing himself with his two hands on the tabletop. He leaned forward, gazing at us with bleary eyes.

“It’s an order!” he said. “So celebrate. That’s what it’s all about.”

He laughed and immediately got into a huge coughing fit. Jackson rocked from side to side, smiling.

Grandpa slowly made his way toward Sigurd. When he got there, he stopped, leaned forward, and peered at him with his Siberian eyes.

“No, sir,” he said. “That’s not what it’s about.”

I was still by the door, holding the milk, Freddie was behind the counter, Mr. Wong stood in the kitchen doorway, looking puzzled, and the lady from the post office twirled her stool around so she could see.

“Listen to what the WORD OF GOD has to say!” Grandpa shouted.

I clutched the bottle against my chest, wishing like everything that Grandpa hadn’t come with me and that he wasn’t a Haugean.

He rumbled on. “If MY people who are called by My name....” He paused and breathed in the steamy restaurant air. “If they HUMBLE themselves and PRAY and SEEK my face and TURN from their wicked ways....” I was hardly breathing and my cheeks were burning. Freddie and the woman were staring at Grandpa, and the Chinaman was shaking his head. I looked at Sigurd. He appeared to be shrivelling up right in front of our eyes. His body slumped forward, his head hung down, and he sank into his chair. Then he started to cry, whimpering and hiccupping like a baby.

Grandpa opened his mouth to continue. I have to stop him, I thought, he’s out of control. I went over to him and touched his arm. “Grandpa, we have to go now.” He looked at me as if he were surprised to see me there, and he turned to Sigurd and said, more quietly
“Then
I will
hear
from heaven, I will
forgive
their sins, and I will
heal
their land.” But this good news seemed to have no effect on Sigurd. He sat there, sobbing like a child. Grandpa turned and walked out the door, and I followed.

When we got to the church corner, Grandpa stopped. He tilted his head back and his words rolled into the darkness. “The heavens declare the glory of God and the firmament showeth forth his handiwork!”

I looked up to see the glory. But all I saw was a black sky and a few stars, cold and far away.

Suddenly Grandpa seemed lonesome to me, like someone far from home. I remembered his stories about Utsira, how he and his father and brother would leave that rocky island in their fishing boat and head into the the North Sea, and how they were away from home for two or three days at a time, and storms would come up and howling wind. His brother had drowned in that sea and was never found. And I could see his brother sinking into the icy water, his hair streaming.

I was glad to get home and walk into our own house, and everyone was there, no one was missing.

Supper was even more delicious than I thought it would be. I ate a lot of everything, especially the stuffing and chicken gravy, my mother’s specialties.

We were having a fairly good time at the table talking about our relatives in Vancouver, when Grandpa leaned back in his chair, cleared his throat, and said, “I suppose no one here knows how Hans Nielson Hauge spent New Year’s Eve in Norway in 1823.”

Suddenly everyone was quiet. I looked at Peter, Peter looked at Dad, Mom and Andrew stared somewhere into space. Then Dad said, “Isn’t it time for dessert?”

Grandpa straightened his back and stretched his neck. “I can tell the story while we’re eating dessert,” he said.

“Go ahead, Papa,” Mother said. She got up from the table. “I’ll dish out the pudding while you begin.”

Grandpa got right into the story.

“On New Year’s Eve in 1823, Hans Nielson Hauge was in jail. A dungeon, cold and damp, where his hands and feet were bound in chains and his bed was a wooden plank.” He lowered his voice and squinted his eyes so they were nearly closed. “And there were rats scurrying about, sniffing and scratching.” He paused. “Well, I’m not entirely sure about the rats, but in all likelihood they were there. I’m almost certain of it.”

“Why was he in jail?” Andrew asked.

“Why?” Grandpa roared. “Why? Because he preached the Word openly and boldly, a simple layman, wandering up and down the coast of Norway, on foot, knitting and singing as he went.”

“Knitting!” Andrew said.

“Exactly. Socks and mittens and scarves to give to the poor peasants.”

“Why would anyone go to jail for that?” Peter said.

“Ah. Good you should ask. The higher-ups got nervous,” Grandpa said. “The pastors and bishops. They didn’t think a simple peasant could be trusted to proclaim the Word. And besides, what would happen to
them
if such a thing got started? So do you know what those windbags in their stiff collars and fancy robes did?”

“No, what?” I said.

“They reported him to the authorities. And on a cold winter night in 1823 the police broke down the door of a simple peasant house and grabbed Hauge and carried him off to prison.”

The story was more interesting than I’d expected. But then Granpa went on to explain how Norway finally became independent from Denmark, thanks to Hauge (at least this was Grandpa’s version), and we all began to fidget. Later, we played dominoes.