A Song for Nettie Johnson Page 14

  “No, sir,” he said. “That’s not what it’s about.”

  I was still by the door, holding the milk, Freddie was behind the counter, Mr. Wong stood in the kitchen doorway, looking puzzled, and the lady from the post office twirled her stool around so she could see.

  “Listen to what the WORD OF GOD has to say!” Grandpa shouted.

  I clutched the bottle against my chest, wishing like everything that Grandpa hadn’t come with me and that he wasn’t a Haugean.

  He rumbled on. “If MY people who are called by My name....” He paused and breathed in the steamy restaurant air. “If they HUMBLE themselves and PRAY and SEEK my face and TURN from their wicked ways....” I was hardly breathing and my cheeks were burning. Freddie and the woman were staring at Grandpa, and the Chinaman was shaking his head. I looked at Sigurd. He appeared to be shrivelling up right in front of our eyes. His body slumped forward, his head hung down, and he sank into his chair. Then he started to cry, whimpering and hiccupping like a baby.

  Grandpa opened his mouth to continue. I have to stop him, I thought, he’s out of control. I went over to him and touched his arm. “Grandpa, we have to go now.” He looked at me as if he were surprised to see me there, and he turned to Sigurd and said, more quietly “Then I will hear from heaven, I will forgive their sins, and I will heal their land.” But this good news seemed to have no effect on Sigurd. He sat there, sobbing like a child. Grandpa turned and walked out the door, and I followed.

  When we got to the church corner, Grandpa stopped. He tilted his head back and his words rolled into the darkness. “The heavens declare the glory of God and the firmament showeth forth his handiwork!”

  I looked up to see the glory. But all I saw was a black sky and a few stars, cold and far away.

  Suddenly Grandpa seemed lonesome to me, like someone far from home. I remembered his stories about Utsira, how he and his father and brother would leave that rocky island in their fishing boat and head into the the North Sea, and how they were away from home for two or three days at a time, and storms would come up and howling wind. His brother had drowned in that sea and was never found. And I could see his brother sinking into the icy water, his hair streaming.

  I was glad to get home and walk into our own house, and everyone was there, no one was missing.

  Supper was even more delicious than I thought it would be. I ate a lot of everything, especially the stuffing and chicken gravy, my mother’s specialties.

  We were having a fairly good time at the table talking about our relatives in Vancouver, when Grandpa leaned back in his chair, cleared his throat, and said, “I suppose no one here knows how Hans Nielson Hauge spent New Year’s Eve in Norway in 1823.”

  Suddenly everyone was quiet. I looked at Peter, Peter looked at Dad, Mom and Andrew stared somewhere into space. Then Dad said, “Isn’t it time for dessert?”

  Grandpa straightened his back and stretched his neck. “I can tell the story while we’re eating dessert,” he said.

  “Go ahead, Papa,” Mother said. She got up from the table. “I’ll dish out the pudding while you begin.”

  Grandpa got right into the story.

  “On New Year’s Eve in 1823, Hans Nielson Hauge was in jail. A dungeon, cold and damp, where his hands and feet were bound in chains and his bed was a wooden plank.” He lowered his voice and squinted his eyes so they were nearly closed. “And there were rats scurrying about, sniffing and scratching.” He paused. “Well, I’m not entirely sure about the rats, but in all likelihood they were there. I’m almost certain of it.”

  “Why was he in jail?” Andrew asked.

  “Why?” Grandpa roared. “Why? Because he preached the Word openly and boldly, a simple layman, wandering up and down the coast of Norway, on foot, knitting and singing as he went.”

  “Knitting!” Andrew said.

  “Exactly. Socks and mittens and scarves to give to the poor peasants.”

  “Why would anyone go to jail for that?” Peter said.

  “Ah. Good you should ask. The higher-ups got nervous,” Grandpa said. “The pastors and bishops. They didn’t think a simple peasant could be trusted to proclaim the Word. And besides, what would happen to them if such a thing got started? So do you know what those windbags in their stiff collars and fancy robes did?”

  “No, what?” I said.

  “They reported him to the authorities. And on a cold winter night in 1823 the police broke down the door of a simple peasant house and grabbed Hauge and carried him off to prison.”

  The story was more interesting than I’d expected. But then Granpa went on to explain how Norway finally became independent from Denmark, thanks to Hauge (at least this was Grandpa’s version), and we all began to fidget. Later, we played dominoes.

  On January 2, I was standing in the school hallway getting used to the smells again, when Ivan stomped through the front entrance, his shoulders bent forward, his head down, and clamping a bundle of papers under his right arm. He went straight up to Mr. Ross’s room without even taking his jacket off. I didn’t know what his hurry was. We had a few minutes before the bell, and his friends were still hanging around in the hall, bumping into each other and making noise.

  It wasn’t long before I discovered the mystery. At 10 o’clock, in World History class, Mr. Ross made the announcement. He sat on top of his desk, dangling his legs in front of it, and told us, “Ivan has suggested a topic for a debate.” Ivan was his favourite because of his intelligence. “He thinks that because we’re studying the Russian Revolution and the rise of Communism it would be useful if we debated that subject in class and wonders if anyone else would be interested.” He waited for a reply. Of course, no one spoke up. Who would be crazy enough to debate Ivan?

  “He’d like to get to the heart of the matter and suggested this for the proposition: Resolved: that there is no God.”

  I was dumbfounded. How could Mr. Ross even consider such an idea? And why did he always make us do stuff that got him in hot water? Like having us count the needles on the spruce tree across the road, taking the whole morning to do it and getting nowhere, not even the number of needles on one branch, and the people downtown complaining, is this what we pay him for? And why would Ivan bring up such a thing?

  “Any takers?” Ross asked. “Anyone interested in meeting his challenge?”

  I glanced over at Esther and Mike sitting in the row to the left of me. They were completely dead-faced. Mr. Ross stood up and walked to the window. He gazed out at the grey sky and stroked his chin with his thumb and fingers. Then he turned to us and said, “Does that mean everyone agrees with Ivan?”

  Of course I didn’t. But I kept my mouth shut.

  ”What?” my grandfather demanded at the supper table. “You didn’t stand up to an unbeliever?” He stabbed the air with his fork.

  ”I’m not a scientist,” I said. “I can’t prove anything about God.”

  “You’re not called on to be a scientist,” Grandpa thundered. “You’re called to be a witness. To stand up for the truth.” And he began to sing, holding his fork upright in his fist, like a pitchfork.

  Dare to be a Daniel.

  Dare to stand alone.

  Dare to have a purpose firm.

  And dare to make it known.

  Then he recited a verse from Genesis: “‘And the earth was without form and void, and darkness was upon the face of the deep, and the spirit of God was moving upon the face of the waters, and God said, ‘Let there be light, and there was light.’ There’s proof for you,” he said. “It’s in the Word.”

  Finally, Dad spoke up. “I think what she means is that if someone doesn’t believe the Scriptures in the first place, you can’t very well use the Scriptures to prove your point to him.”

  This silenced Grandpa for about ten seconds. Then he banged his fork down on the table. “The fool has said in his heart there is no God!” he roared.

  “I don’t think Ivan’s a fool, Grandpa,” I said. “He’s very bright. The
smartest in class.”

  “Fools think they’re smart, but they’re not, they’re fools.”

  Walking to school the next day, I saw Ivan climbing the hill from his house. His whole body leaned forward and his head was lowered. I kept on walking as if I didn’t see him, but we met at the school steps.

  “Scared?” he said.

  “Of what?” I said.

  He didn’t answer, just walked past me and climbed the steps.

  In front of the door he turned around and looked down at me in a strange way, and I found myself breathing differently.

  He didn’t have any reason to hate me, I thought. Hadn’t I delivered the box of cookies to their house before Christmas, cookies my mother had made, knowing that Ivan and his grandfather wouldn’t have many goodies since Mrs. Lippoway was dead? Hadn’t I trudged down the road and across the tracks to their house even though the wind was freezing cold?

  In summer their whole yard was one thick vegetable garden. Mr. Lippoway worked in it every morning, digging and watering and sometimes covering plants with tin cans for protection against the wind. From the schoolyard we could look down and see their garden. In the late summer, tall yellow sunflowers swayed in the wind.

  But on the Saturday of my Christmas delivery the yard was packed full of snow. The long path that led from the road into the yard and to their back door had a wall of snow on either side as high as my armpits.

  I knocked on the door and Ivan answered. He looked shocked to see me. He didn’t even invite me in until his grandfather called out, “Who is it?” When I stepped inside I was surprised at what I saw. One room was the kitchen, living room, and workshop all combined. And maybe even someone’s bedroom as well; a couch at the far end of the room was covered with a quilt. I noticed the smells right away: leather, pipe tobacco, and the cabbage cooking on the stove. Mr. Lippoway was sitting on a stool at his workbench, which was littered with shoes, hammers of various sizes, boxes of tacks, pieces of leather.

  The old man rose from his bench and stepped forward to greet me. He was thin and wore a dark blue apron. I handed him the parcel and said it contained a few cookies my mother had made. He seemed pleased and thanked me in his broken English. He held up the box in both hands and examined the wrapping, blue tissue paper with small silver stars pasted on it. He turned the box this way and that, shaking his head in admiration of my mother’s artistic ways. Then he placed it on the kitchen table, which was littered with Ivan’s school books, and shook my hand. His hand was hard and smooth, except for some nubs of thick skin that stuck out on a couple of fingers. Ivan didn’t move from the door. He just stood there, scowling.

  Now, seeing him at the top of the school steps looking down at me, I thought of that box. I knew what was in it: shortbread, spritz, rosettes, fruitcake. I was quite sure he’d enjoyed eating all this, so why was he being so peculiar?

  At 10 o’clock it was time for history. Again Ross challenged us to debate and no one responded. I don’t know yet why I did it, but I felt my hand go up and I heard myself saying I would debate Ivan.

  “So Elizabeth’s decided to have her head chopped off,” my brother said at the supper table.

  “What’s this?” Dad asked.

  “What are you talking about?” Mother added.

  “She’s debating Ivan the Brain,” Peter said.

  “I’ve accepted the challenge to prove there’s a God,” I said.

  “My little jente,” Grandpa said. “So young but with courage like a lion.”

  At school the next day I began my preparations by looking up key words in the dictionary. All our library books were on a shelf at the back of the room: the dictionary, the Encyclopedia Britannica, a book on insects, and a play entitled A Doll’s House. I lifted the dictionary from the shelf, carried it to my desk, and settled down for some serious work. The room was quiet. Everyone was at their desks, busy with something or other. The sun was shining through the tall windows onto our desks. Mr. Ross was in his swivel chair, watching over us.

  I found the words I wanted and wrote down the definitions in my scribbler. “God: the one Supreme Being, creator and ruler of the universe. Atheism: disbelief in or denial of the existence of God or gods.” But I already knew all this, so I moved on to the encyclopedia for more information. I was surprised at how much there was under that one word, atheism.

  I found out that in ancient Greece Plato had argued against the idea of atheism. Plato was quite famous, so I decided I might use him to prove my point. Then I came across something called logical positivism. It said, “Propositions concerning the existence or non-existence of God are nonsensical and meaningless.” This was my view exactly, but I was startled to discover that this viewpoint was considered atheistic.

  I brought my problem to Mr. Ross, who was still relaxing in his chair. I showed him the article in the encyclopedia and described my conflict.

  “Why don’t you look up gravity?” he said.

  “Gravity?” I asked.

  “It’s the power that holds the universe together so we don’t fly off in all directions.”

  “Is that about God?” I asked.

  “It could be,” he said.

  I went back to my desk and looked up gravity. I found long equations in the article like w=g. 4⁄3 π r3 ∆ m/r2=g. 4⁄3 π r ∆ m.

  I decided to just study the definition. “Gravity is an action between masses of matter that makes every mass tend toward every other.” I looked up tend and saw that it meant to be disposed toward or attracted to. This tendency is so powerful, the encyclopedia went on to say, that “a mass of matter in Australia attracts a mass in London precisely as it would if the earth were not interposed between the two masses.”

  Every once in awhile I’d glance over at Ivan to see what he was up to, but he had no books in front of him at all. He just kept scratching away in his scribbler. I did catch a glimpse of one page, and all that was on it were numbers and mathematical signs. My heart sank when I saw this. If he was using algebra to prove his point, I didn’t have a chance.

  That night Grandpa asked me how I was getting along. We were in the living room after our family devotions. He was in the big chair; I was sitting on the piano bench. I told him not bad, but I hadn’t gotten a firm hold on God yet. He started to laugh. He slapped his leg and said: “A hold on God! That’s a good one. Ha ha.” Then he looked at me with one of his severe expressions and shouted, “God is not tame!”

  Later, I told my dad I just didn’t know what to do. I wasn’t good enough in math or science to prove my point. And I couldn’t quote Scripture like Grandpa wanted me to. Ivan didn’t accept the Bible as proof of anything.

  “You’ll find a way,” was all he said.

  “Well, that helps,” I said.

  But when I woke up the next morning, it came to me. Lines from a poem by William Wordsworth were moving around in my head, a poem Mr. Ross had made us memorize months before.

  It is a beauteous evening, calm and free,

  The holy time is quiet as a Nun

  Breathless with adoration; the broad sun is

  Sinking down in its tranquility....

  I knew right then the path I’d take. It would be poetry. Beauty. Why was there beauty? Answer me that, Ivan Lippoway.

  As soon as I got to school I looked up the definition. “Beauty: a quality or combination of qualities that gives pleasure to the senses or to the mind and spirit. ‘A thing of beauty is a joy forever.’” I copied the definition into my scribbler.

  Then I borrowed the thick poetry book Mr. Ross kept on his desk and looked up Wordsworth. If he’d written one poem about beauty, he’d probably written more. And he had.

  I wandered lonely as a cloud

  That floats on high o’er vales and hills,

  When all at once I saw a crowd,

  A host of golden daffodils....

  As I went through the book I realized that Mr. Ross had been reading us only the easy poems. Most of the others were beyond me. Bu
t even some of those contained a few lines that made sense, and I copied these into my scribbler. For example, Samuel Taylor Coleridge wrote:

  All thoughts, all passions, all delights,

  Whatever stirs this mortal frame,

  Are all but ministers of Love

  And feed his sacred flame.

  I noticed that Love was capitalized. I knew what that meant.

  Then I found this line by John Dryden: “From harmony, from Heavenly Harmony, this universal frame began.” I figured out what he meant by Heavenly Harmony, since he, too, used the capital letter. And I thought that this could be a strong point in my argument. Where did harmony come from? I would ask. Did the petals of a rose, the wings of a bird, the fingers of my own hand happen accidentally? Without a design or a designer? Could “The Hallelujah Chorus” by George Fredrick Handel have just appeared out of thin air? Without a composer? But as I continued my reading, I became less sure of my direction. It seemed to me that too many of the poems tended toward confusion.

  I got up from my desk and walked back to the library. Passing Ivan’s desk, I saw that he was reading from a book I hadn’t seen before. I glanced down at it, but when he saw me looking, he covered the whole book with his arms, and I moved on to the library shelf.

  It seemed to me that arguments could be made from the world of nature, so I picked up the book on insects and paged through it. I saw a picture of the parts of a beetle: head, thorax, abdomen, wings (both front and back), legs, feet, claws, antennae, all with their own work to do. I read how important legs are in an insect’s life, and how grasshoppers even sing with their legs by rubbing them together. On another page I found pictures of fireflies and read that these insects flash light signals to attract mates. Male fireflies signal as they fly in the summer night. Females flash back their light signals from the ground since they don’t have wings. Some species of fireflies even have glowing eggs.

  When I came home from school, Mom was in the kitchen standing at the sink peeling potatoes. I sat down at the table and told her about my idea to use beauty to support my position in the debate, and about using poems to prove my point.