A Song for Nettie Johnson (9 page)

“This is for you, Daddy!”

She throws another and another until there is only one stone left.

“And I’m not saying thank you!”

When she returns to the house she sees the dress.

“Oh my,” she says. She picks it up and folds it over her outstretched hands as if it were an offering, and repeats, “Oh. Oh.”

She lays the dress back in the box and covers it with the tissue paper. Then she digs her hand into her pocket and pulls out the last stone. She holds it close to her face, turns it this way and that, examining its shape, each sharp edge, each small indentation.

“I nearly did a very bad thing to you.” She presses it against her chest and pats it with her hand. “Hey, don’t cry, I’ll take you home.”

A light snow is falling, sifting over the place where the stone had been. But Nettie finds a place, a hollow bowl in a small drift, and rising out of it, a frozen thistle, its stem broken. She brushes the snow aside and lays the stone down beside the thistle. “This is your house,” she says, “and this is your yard. When summer comes, the little beetles can stop here and sit with you for awhile, and rest.”

She moves through the snow to the edge of the quarry and looks down into the pit. “I remember now how it was. I forgot but now I remember. You said I was your new bride, that’s what you said. And there were marks on my legs, little cuts from the rock, some of them you could hardly see they were so small.”

She plods back to the house, muttering to herself.

“I guess what happened is your heart turned to dust one day and spilled out and blew away. Past Winnipeg. And then there was a hole there.”

On Main Street,
cars are slowly driving north, from farms south of town and some from farther away, Shaunavon and Swift Current. A Plymouth, a Chevrolet, two Fords, a Dodge truck. They’re turning right at the corner of Wong’s Café to find parking on the street and in the vacant lot beside the church. From the north they come as well, from Robson and Chumsland’s Coulee, driving past Donnellys’ and into town, turning left at the café. Town people are walking. Past the hotel and post office and up the street to the town hall, then across the street and onto the sidewalk leading to the church. It’s not such a cold evening. A pleasant walk, really. A small wind, light snow.

Inside the church, the pews are beginning to fill. The middle section is already full, the back pews saved for latecomers. And the front? Well, who sits there if there are seats anywhere else? The preacher’s kids of course. And old Mrs. Heggestad, who can’t hear.

In the church basement the choir members are gathered, checking their robes, making sure they’re fastened properly and hanging straight. They’re reading over their scores, humming phrases, making light-hearted comments, “Well, Eli, don’t faint on us up there, or Sigurd will have to take over.” There is discreet whispering among the women, “I guess we better use the ladies’ room now; it’s going to be a long evening. I hope Jenny will be able to hold back her coughing.”

In the trailer
Nettie is lying on the bed, next to the box with the dress inside it. Throwing stones has made her very tired. But now she thinks about Eli. She remembers the dress under his arm and how he swung it back and forth. Remembers his song, “Oh come, come, come, come...” and his hide-and-seek games. Remembers the bags of food he carries up the hill to the quarry. And his thin body – his neck and wrists, his bony knees. And she stands up and says to the empty space in front of her, “I will go into town. I will go to the
Messiah
after all. I’ll put this brand new dress on and go.”

More people
have arrived at St. John’s. In the front row, Peter, Andrew, and Elizabeth are sitting next to the centre aisle; Jonas Grunland is at the far end of the same pew by the window. Immediately behind Jonas are Mr. and Mrs. Ross and Beverly, and behind them, next to Mrs. Hagen and Norma, are Rev. and Mrs. McFarlane from the United Church. Behind the Lunds are Mrs. Sorenson and Mary. There is still some space in the front pew and also beside Mrs. Sorenson. Even so, Carl Jacobson and Bud Evenson are carrying chairs up from the basement. As they place them in position, one at the end of each pew, they smile and shake their heads apologetically, as though they’d never expected such a crowd, and what were they to do?

Then, appearing from the back of the church, Grace Olson walks down the centre aisle, turns left in front of the risers to the piano at the side. She sits down on the piano bench, adjusts the sheet music in front of her, lifts her hands to the keys and strikes the first chord of “The Holy City.” There’s a rustle in the audience. Since when did Grace play the piano for this affair, they wonder.

Grace is entranced by the music. Imagine, she thinks, Eli asking her to render this beautiful piece. But why not? She’s sung a solo every year. Now she gets to play “The Holy City.” And while more people enter the church, filling the pews and chairs, she leans forward, stiff and proud, her fingers moving precisely over the keyboard.

Nettie stands
beside the bed and wonders what to do first: Take the dress out of the box? Take off her skirt and sweater? Wash her face? Comb her hair? She walks into the kitchen, stands in front of the sink, and sees in the mirror above it her uncombed hair, her sharp blue eyes, and the skin of her face, wind-swept and hard. Not great, she thinks. But so what. She returns to the bedroom, takes the lid off the box, and removes the tissue paper. She lifts up the dress by its sleeves, raises it above the box, then lays it down on the bed, smoothing the cloth with her fingers. Yes, she’ll take off her sweater and skirt and put on the dress. That’s exactly what she’ll do. Then she’ll put on her coat, and walk to town, to St. John’s Church.

Jerusalem, Jerusalem,
lift up your voice and sing....
After the last note, Grace bows her head over the keyboard. This piece always moves her deeply. Then she picks up her music and walks down the aisle to join the rest of the choir in the basement. Now the pianist from Moose Jaw comes forward, sits down on the bench and places the Handel score in front of her. The three other musicians follow. Two violinists and a trumpet player. They sit on chairs beside the piano and arrange their music on the stands in front of them. Whispering stops; eyes focus on the musicians. Then suddenly the door to the vestibule swings open, and the choir enters. Members of the audience turn their heads, strain their necks, trying to see who enters first, who next, how many there are. The choir walks single file down the narrow aisle.

Nettie raises
the hem of her old skirt above her head. She tugs at it, pulling the waistband up to her chin. Then she lets go and the skirt drops back to where it was. She looks over at the dress lying flat and empty on the bed. She can feel her heart beating faster now, and her breathing heavier. “What was I thinking anyway?” She leans over and touches the hem with her finger. “I can’t wear this. How would a dress like this look on someone like me?” She hears a whispering in her ear, like the sighing of wind scraping over pebbles at the bottom of the quarry. “Stay where you are,” it says. “Stay put.”

From the far end
of the third riser, Jonathan appears to be listening to the long piano overture, but he’s really watching the crowd, his eyes skimming over the pews, discreetly, marking who’s there, who isn’t. He knew of course that McFarlane would come and Ross and others not of his own denomination, including Mrs. Long, the doctor’s wife, who’s United. But he was not prepared to see Mrs. Donnelly, a Catholic, and five Mennonites from north of town. He feels a small ripple of excitement up his back and on his arms. How extraordinary. Even Mrs. Donnelly. And the Mennonites.

His focus quickly changes to Eli on the podium, Eli in smooth black pants, white shirt, and tails. Eli with gold cufflinks and clean shoes. His right hand is lifted, baton poised. It’s time for the first number, Jonathan’s first solo. Eli’s two hands come together slowly in front of his face, then curve upward in a graceful half-circle above his head. And Jonathan begins.

Comfort ye, com–fort ye–My people...

Speak ye com-fort-a-bly to Je-ru-salem

And cry un-to her, that her war
–
fare is ac
–
complish-ed,

He pauses, breathes deeply, he wants to be sure to sing the next line in one breath.

That her in-I–qui–ty is par–don-ed.

Nettie puts
the dress back in the box, folding it carefully to fit neatly into the space. She straightens the collar, tucks in the sleeves, covers the garment with tissue paper, and replaces the lid. Later, when Eli’s here, she’ll put it on. She’ll put it on just for him. That will make him happy. She goes into the kitchen and sits down at the table. She’ll just have to wait here until he comes home.

The singers
are gazing at Eli. They’ve warmed to the song and are sending out the words, loud and triumphant, over the pews. The piano, the two violins, and the trumpet lead them.

And the glo–ry, the glo–ry of the Lord

Shall be re–veal–ed, re–veal–ed.

Shall be re–veal–ed, re–veal–ed.

But this isn’t what she was going to do. She was going to go into town to St. John’s Church, where Eli is, and listen to the music. That’s what she just said she was going to do. So what’s she sitting here for? Get up now and go. Just go. G-o.

It’s Jonathan’s
turn again, his second solo. It’s written for alto, but none of the altos can handle it, he’s the only one, just him. He stretches his body tall and waits for Eli’s signal.

But who may a-bide the day of His com-ing?

And who shall stand when He ap-pear-eth?

And who shall stand when He ap-pear-eth?

When he ap–pear–eth?

When he ap–pear–eth?

Eli pierces him with his eyes, reminding him: Now’s the tricky part, so do your stuff. Concentrate. Focus. It’s a mental thing, too, you know. Wear your thinking cap. Jonathan feels the energy. He’ll not mess up this year.

For He is like a refi-i-i-i-i-i-ner’s fire.

For he is like a re-fi-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-ner’s fire.

Who shall stand when He ap-pear-eth?

For He is like a re-fi-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-ner’s fire.

Mary Sorenson leans over the pew in front of her and whispers to Elizabeth. “It’s very good, isn’t it.” Elizabeth nods but doesn’t look back. Very good? Of course it’s very good. Her father, his church, this music, this night. It’s wonderful.

It’s settled then. She’ll do what she said she’d do. Nettie reaches for her coat. She pulls it on and buttons it, covers her head with a woolen scarf, knots the ends under her chin. She shoves her feet into her overshoes and buckles them up, puts her mittens on, and opens the door. Suddenly she turns back. She forgot the dress. She can’t go without the dress. What was she thinking anyway? She runs into the bedroom, picks up the box and tucks it under her arm. She walks out the door into a light falling snow.

Jean Wilson
has never sung a solo before. She’s ner-vous and feels dizzy. She leans toward Eli, but he doesn’t seem to be there. Her neck is red. She can hardly breathe. The pianist is trilling the notes of the introduction, smooth, perfect. So many notes. Then, as if through fog, she sees the flick of the baton, and she opens her mouth and sings.

O thou that tell—est good ti—dings to Zion...

Get thee up in-to a high moun—tain...

Lift up thy voice with strength; lift it up, be not a—fraid.

Her voice wavers, cracks, she wants to stop, this is terrible. Eli is smiling, nodding, keep going he’s telling her, bring it to the finish line. She takes a deep breath and pushes the words out.

Say un—to the cit—ies of Ju—dah, be-hold—be-hold...

Good. You’re nearly there, now run with it, carry it over the line, bring it home.

The glo–ry of the Lord is ris–en up–on thee.

There. She did it. She looks down at Ralph in the fourth row. His head is going up and down and he’s smiling. It’s too warm in here, her neck is hot, her cheeks are burning.

Nettie is wedging
sideways down the slippery hill, trying to follow Eli’s steps, clutching the box against her chest. She slips, falls once, and is up again. She doesn’t let go of the box. She wades through thick snow in the creek bed, then stumbles into the pasture. She lifts each foot high, but she can’t make headway. Cut over to the road or you’ll never get there.

Doctor Long,
on the third riser, holds his head high and looks down at Eli. His voice when he sings is black and rolling.

For be-hold, dark–ness shall co–ver the earth

And gross dark–ness the people

And gross dark–ness the people

Nettie plods east.
In the ditch by the road snow reaches almost to her knees. She holds the box above her head, the cover slips off, the tissue paper slides out, the sleeves of the dress hang over the edge of the box. She can’t walk and keep the dress in the box at the same time. This is not working. Go back. Let the dress be safe and warm beneath the bed. The wind picks up the cover and blows it across the drifted snow. She grabs the dress. Let the box go too. It tumbles into the ditch and bumps and turns and flips over and slides away. She is on the road and is heading toward the creamery.