Free A Song for Nettie Johnson by Gloria Sawai Page A

their icy niche. She picks one up and throws it at Eli. Then another, and hurls it at him. And another.
    “And get out of my yard!” she yells.
    Eli calls back to her from the other side of the quarry. “Nettie, go inside. It’s cold out here.” But she doesn’t move.
    She watches him finally disappear over the hill. Then she kicks more stones loose, picks them up, and shoves them into her pocket. She makes her way to the edge of the quarry, to the wide white hole of the pit. And she pulls a stone out of her pocket and hurls it into the hole.
    “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