A Song for Nettie Johnson Read Online Free PDF Page B

Andrew. “Mr. Ross went to Swift Current.”
    “We were playing Eli and Nettie,” Elizabeth said.
    “What?” Hilda said.
    “What they did at the gravel pit.”
    “You were at the gravel pit?” Hilda’s shoulders felt weak, her skin tingled, her heart beat faster. “What did you see?”
    “Nothing,” Peter growled.
    “They rolled in the dirt,” Elizabeth said.
    “Mr. Ross has gone to Swift Current,” Andrew said.
    Hilda grunted. “Go home right now and wash your hands.” She turned and walked out of the yard, her music and her blue purse pressed tightly under her arm.
    Now, in front of the warehouse, she turns abruptly toward the preacher’s house. He must know about this, she thinks. But then she turns in the opposite direction. No. She’ll tell the others first.
    In the Golden West Hotel, Doctor Long raises his head from the small table in front of him and stretches his white loose-skinned neck over his half- empty glass toward Sigurd Anderson, sitting across from him. He squints into Sigurd’s face.
    “So, my good friend, is this all there is? This thin liquid?” He taps the rim of his glass with his finger. “This pale thin liquid, here in the Golden West?”
    “Golden liquid,” Sigurd murmurs.
    “Golden yes, that’s true. And you and I, two lost birds in a golden sky.”
    “It’s not so bad,” Sigurd says.
    The doctor lays his head on the table, his cheek resting beside the glass.
    “It is beautiful,” he says.
    Eli and Nettie are sitting in the kitchen, eating tomato soup from white bowls decorated with blue flowers, dishes donated to Nettie years ago by the Sunshine Circle at Saint John’s. Eli is animated, flushed, excited about the Messiah . He will direct it. They can’t keep him from doing that.
    “Handel was German,” Eli says. “Like Bach. And Beethoven.”
    “German!” Nettie snorts. German means the enemy. It means the time when the war took all the good men away. And the only men who came to her were ragamuffins, rejects, and sick men, like Eli.
    “What excitement,” Eli exclaims. “What a flurry of writing. Imagine. The whole Messiah written in twenty-four days. Pages and pages of manuscripts. Thousands and thousands of notes to draw. And he drew them all, every dot, every little stick.”
    Nettie sighs. “Those poor tired fingers.”
    “Imagine. Opening night. Crowds of people. Men in black suits, women in furs. Standing ovations and rave reviews. And now it’s here. From London, England, to Stone Creek, Saskatchewan. Some distance, eh? And it hasn’t been easy.”
    Nettie is quiet, scowling into her empty bowl. She looks up at him.
    “Don’t do that,” she says. She draws a small triangle in the air with her finger, conducting. “Stay here with me. I’ll be good to you.” She cocks her head and smiles up at him. “Do you know what I’ll do for you? I’ll pick up your socks. That’s number one. Number two, I’ll pass you the salt. Three. I’ll scratch your back. Four. I’ll cover you with a blanket when you’re cold.”
    She leaves her chair and goes to him. She stands behind him and puts her arms around his neck. He lays his spoon on the table, reaches back, and pulls her onto his lap.
    “My sweet lady,” he says. She lays her head on his shoulder.
    “Spell something,” he says.
    “What do you want to hear?”
    “Anything. Your favourite word.”
    “S-t-o-n-e,” she murmurs into his shoulder.
    “Fine,” he says.
    “Do you want to hear rock?”
    “That would be good,” he says.
    “R-o-c-k!”
    “Wonderful. Now tree.”
    “T-r-e-e!”
    “Grand,” he says.
    “G-r-a-n-d,” she says.
    “Lovely,” he says. “You fill the air with your spelling. And it’s very nice.”
    “Oh it’s not that great.”
    He strokes her neck, nuzzles into her ear.
    “Try bird.”
    “I never could spell that one,” she says.
    “Yes you can. Bird.”
    She scowls.
    “Go ahead, take a chance.”
    “I’m too old for that now.”
    “Bird!” he