Free A Song for Nettie Johnson by Gloria Sawai

measure, not three, not three and a half...try again...soloists, stand tall...lift up those notes, don’t let them slide...think up...up... that’s better...now crescendo, give it all you‘ve got... punch it! Blessing...honour...glory...and power...excellent...not bad...not bad at all.
    And then the day arrives.

    In St. John’s church, boughs of evergreen arch the windows, frame the pulpit, bank the table of the altar. Large red bows are tacked to the ends of pews. In the corner a tall spruce tree glitters with many coloured lights, gold balls, long strands of silver tinsel. Wooden risers have been installed in front of the altar to hold the singers. And facing the risers, the podium where Eli will stand.
    At the trailer, Eli is dressing. He has put on the black trousers, pinned the waistband so the pants won’t slip down, tucked in the white shirt, straightened the bow tie. Now he’s examining himself in the mirror above the kitchen sink, trying to smooth the unruly strands of hair with his two hands, sprinkling the hair with water, patting it down again.
    From the bedroom doorway, Nettie watches him. Eli with smooth face, slick hair, shiny pants. She sees him squat in front of the sink, reach under it, and remove a rag from an old pail. He wets the rag in the wash basin, bends down and wipes his shoes, the same brown shoes, worn and cracked, but now clean, even shiny in a few spots. He puts the rag back and goes into the bedroom. When he returns he’s wearing the black coat with tails. He struts in front of Nettie, bobbing his head from side to side.
    Now what? she thinks. What’s all this about? He’s going to town to direct his choir. So what? Why would a man rub his shoes with a rag and slap down his hair with water for that?
    Eli looks at her slyly. Maybe he’ll try one more time. “Put your dress on,” he says. “I have to go early to set things up.” Nettie doesn’t move from the doorway. “Come on,” Eli says. “Put it on. See what a pair we’ll make.”
    And Eli, in four long strides, is in the bedroom, pulling out the box from under the bed. When he comes back, he’s again holding the dress under his arm, waving it at Nettie.
    What does he think he’s doing? Tricks and more tricks. She hurries to the sink, grabs the dish towel from the rack, and flaps it at him.
    “Forget it,” she says. “I’m not moving.”
    And for the first time, Eli is angry with her. He throws the dress over a chair, grabs his coat from its hook by the door, and digs his arms into the sleeves. He’s buttoning up the coat when the words come out, words he hasn’t even thought of before. They tumble out of his mouth, one after another.
    “That old Swede was right, you know, about the blessing. A blessing as big as a boulder...as big as this hill...as big as the whole damn prairie...and it comes to you...over and over...but you just don’t see it, Nettie... your eyes are stuck shut, and you miss it.”
    Nettie marches closer to Eli. She holds the towel in both hands and shakes it up and down in front of him. Her face is red, her breathing heavy.
    Eli pushes past her into the bedroom where he picks up his music. When he returns to the kitchen, he flaps the Messiah at her, its pages ragged.
    “So hide, Nettie. Or the blessing might find you. And it’s big. It will knock you off your feet if you don’t watch out.” He moves to the door, turns, and looks at her. “Open your eyes, Nettie. Wake up.” He pushes the door open and walks out into the night.
    Nettie shoves her feet into her overshoes, grabs her coat and pulls it on. She rushes out after him. Sees him trudging past the rocking chair.
    “Open your own eyes!” she shouts.
    She scrapes at the snow with her foot until she can see the dirt beneath the snow, and the stones, and dead and frozen thistles. She bends down and tears at the stones with her hands, but they’re frozen into the earth. She stands up, kicks at them with her foot, and some dislodge from