A Song for Nettie Johnson Read online

  Emily sits very quiet. She looks toward the living room, then at Richard. “Why can’t he stop?” she says. “You did.”

  He stands up and moves to the counter to refill his cup. “It’s a mystery to me,” he says.

  For a moment she considers his words.

  “I think it sucks,” she says finally.

  Emily is home from school. She sees her mother in the living room, looking out the big window, staring at something beyond the ravine. The television is on, her mother’s favourite afternoon soap, “The Young and the Restless,” but she’s not watching it.

  Katherine Chancellor, in living colour, is flicking her fingers about her face in little circles, long jewelled fingers glittering near her eyes, her cheek, her chin. Kay Chandelier, Emily’s father calls her, but her mother loves her. She loves her fancy house, everywhere huge bouquets of flowers in crystal or gold vases. She loves her maid Esther in her tidy uniform, and Katherine’s own expensive clothes in colours to match the flowers, never the same outfit twice, and her hair graceful and stylish, even when she’s sleeping, even when she’s walking in a strong wind.

  Emily throws her books on the chesterfield.

  “Get in the car,” her mother says. “Your father’s at the Grey Nuns.”

  The narrow bed. The square table. The ice water in a green glass. The metal dish, pewter kidney turned inward. The high pole. The bottle strapped to the pole. The tube from the bottle dangling down, onto the bed, onto the blue sheet, onto his hand resting there, into the silver needle, the needle flat, visible under the skin, slim outline on a blue vein.

  And Richard on a chair at the foot of the bed watching the form in front of him: the feet and knees smooth hills under the sheet, the chest a little field, the penis a small stone. Emily stands by the high window. She looks at her father’s face. His eyes are closed. The skin is tight over the cheekbones.

  Her mother pushes the door open and backs into the room with a tray holding two cups of coffee and a can of Coke. She sets the tray on the bedside table, then goes to the window. She lays her hand on Emily’s arm, and they move together to the bed. And the three of them sit on the chairs by the bed. They linger there in the semi-darkness, sipping, talking in low tones, their voices strangely clear, melodic in the stillness.

  He opens his eyes and looks at them.

  “Everyone’s here,” he says.

  He looks at her.

  “Hi, Emily,” he says.

  “Hi, Dad.”

  Emily dreams again of the vessels. She’s standing in a long tunnel. Its walls from floor to ceiling hold the shelves filled with glass. She’s waiting for the right container to reveal itself to her, to empty its secret to her. Then gradually, almost imperceptibly, the shelves begin to loosen from the wall, to dip, lean, bend. Pitchers, bottles, tumblers, cups are falling one by one, softly, slowly. They turn in the air, circle, glide, and finally land. Pieces of amber glass, and jade, and ruby red, rise like fountains before her, then fall in piles everywhere, glittering heaps on the tunnel floor.

  And she’s standing by a streetlight on a road she doesn’t know. It’s evening. A small rain is falling. From the house at the end of the street a woman walks toward her. She’s old and wearing boots that glisten. Emily knows that when the woman reaches her she will stop for a minute under the light. They will look at each other. Emily will say hello, and the woman will say hello. Emily will say it’s a nice rain isn’t it, and the woman will say yes it is.

  And in that instant, that one swift and slippery moment, circled in light, washed in rain, Emily knows exactly what she needs to know. She knows nothing. She knows everything.

  In the Atlantic, north of the Hebrides, a mother dolphin nudges her calf through purple water into white spume on the ocean’s surface. With her snout she pushes the calf into the cold clear air above the spray. The infant muscles on the baby’s head stretch open, and the dolphin takes her first breath.

  In the Mediterranean, off the coast of Tripoli, two dolphins swim close together. They nuzzle each other with their beaks, caress with the soft tips of their flukes. She opens herself to him, a thin crevice in her slick body. And he is there, twisting himself around her. They turn and swirl in the foam. They dip and glide and together plunge down into the ancient sea.

  On a windy shore in New Zealand, a dolphin lies stranded. His pearl grey neck and white belly blacken on the stones. In the ocean a family calls. Their whistling clicking cries speed through the rolling depths, the crashing surf. Where have you gone? Oh. Oh. Where?

  At the mall in Edmonton, the dolphins are playing. They’re swimming around in circles, being friends, having fun, taking care.

  ~

  The Day I Sat with Jesus on the Sundeck and a Wind Came Up and Blew My Kimono Open and He Saw My Breasts

  When an extraordinary event takes place in your life, you’re apt to remember with unnatural clarity the details surrounding it. You remember shapes and sounds that weren’t directly related to the occurrence but hovered there in the periphery of the experience. This can even happen when you read a great book for the first time – one that unsettles you and startles you into thought. You remember where you read it, what room, who was nearby.

  I can remember, for instance, where I read Of Human Bondage. I was lying on a top bunk in our high school dormitory, wrapped in a blue bedspread. I lived in a dormitory then because of my father. He was a religious man and wanted me to get a spiritual kind of education: to hear the Word and know the Lord, as he put it. So he sent me to St. Paul’s Lutheran Academy in Regina for two years. He was confident that there’s where I’d hear the Word. Anyway, I can still hear Mrs. Sverdrup, our housemother, knocking on the door at midnight and whispering in her Norwegian accent, “Now, Gloria, it iss past midnight, time to turn off the lights. Right now.” Then scuffing down the corridor in her bedroom slippers. What’s interesting here is that I don’t remember anything about the book itself except that someone in it had a club foot. But it must have moved me deeply when I was sixteen, which is some time ago now.

  You can imagine then how distinctly I remember the day Jesus of Nazareth, in person, climbed the hill in our backyard to our house, then up the outside stairs to the sundeck where I was sitting. And how he stayed with me for awhile. You can surely understand how clearly those details rest in my memory.

  The event occurred on Monday morning, September 11, 1972, in Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan. These facts in themselves are more unusual than they may appear to be at first glance. September’s my favourite month, Monday my favourite day, morning my favourite time. And although Moose Jaw may not be the most magnificent place in the world, even so, if you happen to be there on a Monday morning in September it has its beauty.

  It’s not hard to figure out why these are my favourites, by the way. I have five children and a husband. Things get hectic, especially on weekends and holidays. Kids hanging around the house, eating, arguing, asking me every hour what there is to do in Moose Jaw. And television. The programs are always the same. Only the names change: Roughriders, Stampeders, Blue Bombers, whatever. So when school starts in September I bask in freedom, especially on Monday. No quarrels. No TV. The morning, crisp and lovely. A new day, a fresh start.

  On the morning of September 11, I got up at seven, the usual time, cooked Cream of Wheat for the kids, fried a bit of sausage for Fred, waved them all out of the house, drank a second cup of coffee in peace, and decided to get at last week’s ironing. I wasn’t dressed yet but still in the pink kimono I’d bought years ago on my trip to Japan, my one and only overseas trip, a five-hundred-dollar quick tour of Tokyo and other cities. I’d saved for this while working as a library technician in Regina, and I’m glad I did. Since then I’ve hardly been out of Saskatchewan. Once in awhile a trip to Winnipeg, and a few times down to Medicine Lake, Montana, to visit my sister.

  I set up the ironing board and hauled out the basket of week-old sprinkled clothes. When I unrolled the first shirt it was completely dry
and smelled stale. The second was covered with little grey blots of mould. So was the third. Fred teaches science in the junior high school here in Moose Jaw. He uses a lot of shirts. I decided I’d have to unwrap the whole basketful and air everything out. This I did, spreading the pungent garments about the living room. While they were airing I would go outside and sit on the deck for awhile since it was such a clear and sunny day.

  If you know Moose Jaw at all, you’ll know about the new subdivision in the southeast end called Hillhurst. That’s where we live, right on the edge of the city. In fact our deck looks out on flat land as far as the eye can see, except for the backyard itself, which is a fairly steep hill leading down to a small stone quarry. But from the quarry the land straightens out into the Saskatchewan prairie. One clump of poplars stands beyond the quarry to the right, and high weeds have grown up among the rocks. Other than that, it’s plain – just earth and sky. But when the sun rises new in the morning, weeds and rocks take on an orange and rusty glow that is pleasing. To me at least.

  I unplugged the iron and returned to the kitchen. I’d take a cup of coffee out there, or maybe some orange juice. To reach the juice at the back of the fridge my hand passed right next to a bottle of dry white Calona. Now here was a better idea. A little wine on Monday morning, a little relaxation after a rowdy weekend. I held the familiar bottle comfortably in my hand and poured, anticipating a pleasant day.

  I slid open the glass door leading onto the deck. I pulled an old canvas folding chair into the sun, and sat. Sat and sipped. Beauty and tranquility floated toward me on Monday morning, September 11, at around 9:30.

  First he was a little bump on the far, far-off prairie. Then he was a mole way beyond the quarry. Then a larger animal, a dog perhaps, moving out there through the grass. Nearing the quarry, he became a person. No doubt about that. A woman perhaps, still in her bathrobe. But edging out from the rocks, through the weeds, toward the hill, he was clear to me. I knew then who he was. I knew it just as I knew the sun was shining.

  The reason I knew is that he looked exactly the way I’d seen him five thousand times in pictures, in books and Sunday School pamphlets. If there was ever a person I’d seen and heard about over and over, this was the one. Even in grade school those terrible questions. Do you love the Lord? Are you saved by grace alone through faith? Are you awaiting eagerly the day of His Second Coming? And will you be ready on that Great Day? I’d sometimes hidden under the bed when I was a child, wondering if I really had been saved by grace alone, or, without realizing it, I’d been trying some other method, like the Catholics, who were saved by their good works and would land in hell. Except for a few who knew in their hearts it was really grace, but they didn’t want to leave the church because of their relatives. And was this it? Would the trumpet sound tonight and the sky split in two? Would the great Lord and King, Alpha and Omega, holding aloft the seven candlesticks, accompanied by a heavenly host that no man could number, descend from heaven with a mighty shout? And was I ready?

  And there he was. Coming. Climbing the hill in our backyard, his body bent against the climb, his robes ruffling in the wind. He was coming. And I was not ready. All those mouldy clothes scattered about the living room, and me in this faded old thing, made in Japan, and drinking – in the middle of the morning.

  He had reached the steps now. His hand touched the railing. His right hand was on my railing. Jesus’ fingers were curled around my railing. He was coming up. He was ascending. He was coming up to me here on the sundeck.

  He stood on the top step and looked at me. I looked at him. He looked exactly right, exactly the same as all the pictures: white robe, purple stole, bronze hair, creamy skin. How had all those queer artists, illustrators of Sunday School papers, how had they gotten him exactly right like that?

  He stood at the top of the stairs. I sat there holding my glass. What do you say to Jesus when he comes? How do you address him? Do you call him Jesus? I supposed that was his first name. Or Christ? I remembered the woman at the well, living in adultery, who’d called him Sir. Perhaps I could try that. Or maybe I should pretend not to recognize him. Maybe, for some reason, he didn’t mean for me to recognize him. Then he spoke.

  “Good morning,” he said. “My name is Jesus.”

  “How do you do,” I said. “My name is Gloria Johnson.”

  My name is Gloria Johnson. That’s what I said all right. As if he didn’t know.

  He smiled, standing there at the top of the stairs. I thought of what I should do next. Then I got up and unfolded another canvas chair.

  “You have a nice view here,” he said, leaning back against the canvas and pressing his sandalled feet on the iron bars of the railing.

  “Thank you,” I said. “We like it.”

  Nice view. Those were his very words. Everyone who comes to our house and stands on the deck says that. Everyone.

  “I wasn’t expecting company today.” I straightened the folds of my pink kimono and tightened the cloth more securely over my knees. I picked up the glass from the floor where I’d laid it.

  “I was passing through on my way to Winnipeg. I thought I’d drop by.”

  “I’ve heard a lot about you,” I said. “You look quite a bit like your pictures.” I raised the glass to my mouth and saw that his hands were empty. I should offer him something to drink. Tea? Milk? How should I ask him what he’d like to drink? What words should I use?

  “It gets pretty dusty out there,” I finally said. “Would you care for something to drink?” He looked at the glass in my hand. “I could make you some tea,” I added.

  “Thanks,” he said. “What are you drinking?”

  “Well, on Mondays I like to relax a bit after the busy weekend with the family all home. I have five children you know. So sometimes after breakfast I have a little wine.”

  “That would be fine,” he said.

  By luck I found a clean tumbler in the cupboard. I stood by the sink, pouring the wine. And then, like a bolt of lightning, I realized my situation. Oh, Johann Sebastian Bach. Glory. Honour. Wisdom. Power. George Fredrick Handel. King of Kings and Lord of Lords. He’s on my sundeck. Today he’s sitting on my sundeck. I can ask him any question under the sun, anything at all, and he’ll know the answer. Hallelujah. Well now, wasn’t this something for a Monday morning in Moose Jaw.

  I opened the fridge door to replace the bottle. And I saw my father. It was New Year’s morning. My father was sitting at the kitchen table. Mother sat across from him. She’d covered the oatmeal pot to let it simmer on the stove. I could hear the lid bumping against the rim, quietly. Sigrid and Frieda sat on one side of the table, Raymond and I on the other. We were holding hymn books, little black books turned to page 1. It was dark outside. On New Year’s morning we got up before sunrise. Daddy was looking at us with his chin pointed out. It meant be still and sit straight. Raymond sat as straight and stiff as a soldier, waiting for Daddy to notice how nice and stiff he sat. We began singing. Page 1. Hymn for the New Year. Philipp Nicolai, 1599. We didn’t really need the books. We’d sung the same song every New Year’s since the time of our conception. Daddy always sang the loudest.

  The Morning Star upon us gleams;

  How full of grace and truth his beams,

  How passing fair his splendour.

  Good Shepherd, David’s proper heir,

  My King in heaven, Thou dost me bear

  Upon thy bosom tender.

  Near–est. Dear–est. High–est. Bright–est.

  Thou delight–est still to love me,

  Thou so high enthroned a–bove me.

  I didn’t mind actually, singing hymns on New Year’s, as long as I was sure no one would find out. I’d have been rather embarrassed if any of my friends ever found out how we spent New Year’s. It’s easy at a certain age to be embarrassed about your family. I remember Alice Olson, how embarrassed she was about her father, Elmer Olson. He was an alcoholic and couldn’t control his urine. Her mother always had to clean up after
him. Even so, the house smelled. I suppose she couldn’t get it all. Anyway, I know Alice was embarrassed when we saw Elmer all tousled and sick-looking, with urine stains on his trousers. Sometimes I don’t know what would be harder on a kid – having a father who’s a drunk, or one who’s sober on New Year’s and sings “The Morning Star.”

  I walked across the deck and handed Jesus the wine. I sat down, resting my glass on the flap of my kimono. Jesus was looking out over the prairie. He seemed to be noticing everything out there. He was obviously in no hurry to leave, but he didn’t have much to say. I thought of what to say next.

  “I suppose you’re more used to the sea than to the prairie.”

  “Yes,” he said. “I’ve lived most of my life near water. But I like the prairie too. There’s something nice about the prairie.” He turned his face to the wind, stronger now, coming toward us from the east.

  That word again. If I’d ever used nice to describe the prairie, in an English composition at St. Paul’s, for example, it would have had three red circles around it. At least three. I raised my glass to the wind. Good old St. Paul’s. Good old Pastor Solberg, standing in front of the wooden altar, holding the gospel aloft in his hand.

  In the beginning wass the Word,

  And the Word wass with God,

  And the Word wass God.

  All things were made by him;

  And without him wass not anything made

  That wass made.

  I was sitting on a bench by Paul Thorson. We were sharing a hymnal. Our thumbs touched at the centre of the book. It was winter. The chapel was cold – an army barracks left over from World War II. We wore parkas and sat close together. Paul fooled around with his thumb, pushing my thumb to my own side of the book, then pulling it back to his side. The wind howled outside. We watched our breath as we sang the hymn.