Free A Song for Nettie Johnson by Gloria Sawai Page B

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