by Gloria Sawai
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—b
e-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.
Eli’s arm is getting tired, his legs sore, his fingers stiff around the smooth baton. The choir strains toward him, watches his eyes, his mouth, his hands, for clues. They lap up his energy, take it into themselves.
For un-to us a Child is born, un-to us a Son is giv-en
And the gov-ernment shall be up-on his should—er;
And His Name shall be call-ed
Won–der–ful, Coun–sell–or...
The sound of their voices soaks into the air and into the walls and windows, pews and floors, and there’s no space anywhere without the song.
There’s a small rustling in the audience. The concert is longer than people are used to. Bud Olson slips out the door to check on the furnace downstairs. Mrs. Peterson follows with her small son who needs to use the toilet. Eva Skretting from the Red and White Store fans her cheeks with the edge of her hand.
Nettie has reached the creamery. She stops at the foot of the hill, lifts her face to the lights of town. And she remembers – the creamery, the hill, the crossroads at the top. And then what? What else will she find up there? Her chest tightens. She’s come this far. Oh, Mama, look at me now.
Hilda Munson, on the middle riser, is looking down at Eli, waiting for his cue. She’s counting to herself, doing her breathing as Eli has taught her. Lift the voice, Hilda. Put both hands beneath your voice and lift it up. And keep the sound clean. I know it’s beautiful and so touching, but try not to waver, keep it straight and simple, let the purity shine through. He nods his head and flicks the baton, and when the words come out of Hilda’s mouth they are just that: clear and smooth and delicate.
He shall feed His flock like a shep–herd,
And He–shall ga–ther the lambs with His arm, with His arm,
And car–ry–them–in His bo–som.
So Hilda got Grace’s solo. How did that come about? the people wonder. Christine looks down at the front pew to check on Peter. But Peter isn’t moving. He’s quiet, listening to Hilda’s song. Jonathan scans the audience. Hilda’s husband isn’t there. You could have come, Sam, he thinks. It wouldn’t have killed you.
Nettie is halfway up the hill. She’s walking on the edge of the road where it’s not slippery. She walks carefully, sinking her feet into small ridges of snow. The dress hangs on her arm, and she holds her arm against her chest, and the dress moves slightly from side to side as she climbs.
Now the choir has speeded up. The lines are coming fast. “Jerky,” Peter whispers. “They’re getting too jerky.” Eli’s stick is alive. It looks threatening, angry.
All we like sheep have gone a–stray
We have turn——ed ev-’ry one to his own way,
We have turn——ed ev-’ry one to his own way
Why do they sing the same line over and over, Elizabeth wonders. We have turned, we have turned, we have turned, we have turned....
Nettie has reached the top of the hill. She’s standing in front of the Golden West Hotel. So this is where he soused himself with Sigurd Anderson. She passes the post office, the United Church, Gilman’s, the town hall. She turns right, crosses the street and keeps going. She could find the way with her eyes closed. Vy did God create man? Watery-eyed Swede, freckled hands, old breath. Then she sees the cars. Cars on the street and in the vacant lot, even some in the field north of the church. She doesn’t remember this. So many cars. She pulls her coat collar closer to her face and walks head down on the shovelled sidewalk to St. John’s.
Eli’s back aches. His face is red and wet. The white shirt under the black coat is soaked. Can he finish this? His arm is lead. He punches the air. Give it more. More.
Lift up your heads, O ye gates,
And be ye lift up, ye ev-er-last-ing doors
And the King of Glo-ry shall come in.
And now she’s standing on the bottom step of the church. The caragana bush is over there, the iron railing is here, the wooden door is up there, the big handles are on the door. She hears the music from inside the church. And under the music, old voices. Maybe they go to Regina, to Hudson’s Bay or Eatons, maybe to New York. Or Paris, France. She untangles the dress that has been scrunched in her hand, lifts it up so she can see it. The dots are there, the collar’s there, the lace is there. She holds the dress in her left hand and grabs the iron railing with her right, fingers curled tightly around it. She better get inside right now. They don’t like it when you’re late.
Sigurd Anderson’s Adam’s apple rises and falls with the words. He sees from Eli’s face that it’s going fine, and he lifts his voice louder still.
Un-to which of the an-gels said He at a-ny time
Thou art My Son, this day have I be-got-ten Thee?
And Nettie says, “Just go. One more step. Put your hand on that handle, there’s a space underneath it for your fingers, they’ve made it easy for you. So go on up there and pull.”
Christine Lund lifts her head, tilts her score slightly so she can see the notes and Eli at the same time. Peter pokes Andrew with his elbow and whispers, “It’s her turn now, wake up,” and Andrew raises his head from his chest for a moment. Then Peter reaches across his brother and shakes his sister’s arm. Elizabeth opens her eyes ever so slightly, a thin line that won’t let in the harsh light.
How beau-ti-ful are the feet of them
That preach the gos-pel of peace,
How beau-ti-ful are the feet,
How beau-ti-ful are the feet...
No. It’s too much. What would she do in a place like this? Nettie turns and hurries down the steps, clutching the dress. When she reaches the bottom she walks around the caragana bush to the yard at the side. She stands away from the building and looks up at the lit windows. Sees shadows of heads but can’t tell who they are. Moves farther. Wades through mounds of snow, then stops again. There in the window, that little window right there above the lilac bush, she sees it moving, the small thin stick, a narrow shadow against the frosted glass. Up and down and straight across it goes. And she laughs. Isn’t he having fun tonight. Well, let him. And she won’t have to go inside after all. She can hear enough thumping from where she is. She pushes through the snow to the spruce tree in the middle of the yard.
Let us break their bonds a–sunder,
Let us break their bonds a–sunder
Let us break their bonds a–sunder...
The choir is shouting. To Bud Olson and Carl Jacobson and Eva Skretting from the Red and White and Mrs. Donnelly and the Mennonites and Bever
ly Ross and Peter Lund and Mrs. Sorenson...
Let us break their bonds a–sunder,
Let us break their bonds a–sunder...
Nettie stands beside the tree and wonders. It comes so slow. It comes from far away in the dark, in wide circles in the night. It’s never in a hurry, and that’s how it is. It takes a long time to get the picture. She watches the stick in the window, whizzing this way and that. And she calls out.
“I’m here, Eli. I came. A thousand miles. And it wasn’t easy.” She steps away from the tree. “Oh, come, come, come, come. That’s what I did, all right.”
She looks at the church window to where the thin stick moves dimly against the glass.
“I know something too,” she says. “It’s a new thing.” She spreads her feet apart, lifts up her head, stretches her neck, and opens her mouth wide.
“B-i-r-d. Bird! Did you hear that?”
She waves the dress in the air, back and forth and up and down, flapping.
“Sparrow, robin, magpie, owl...”
The stick in the window dips, rises, swings out wide, crashes down, then up again, and higher, cutting the air, carving through.
Hal–le-lu-jah, hal-le-lu-jah, hal-le-lu-jah, hal-le-lu-jah
Ha——le——lu——jah!
And Nettie shouts, “Crow. C-r-o-w. Duck. D-u-c-k. Loon. L-o-o-n.” And the sound of her voice speeds through night, past clouds and stars, to where the white birds hover. And others gather. Blackbird, hawk, thrush, and meadowlark. Singing around the golden chair where her angel mother in her pale blue dress plucks the strings of her silver harp.
