"No, Lee," said Step, also loudly. "I clearly told you that you would have chances to baptize if you seine a mission, but that I would baptize my firstborn child today. I'm sure you realize that there is no chance that I would ever have said otherwise under any circumstances."
"Come along, Lee," said Dr. Weeks icily. Step couldn't guess whether she was angry at him or at Lee or-worst of all-at the Church.
DeAnne touched Dr. Weeks on the arm. "I hope you understand," she said softly. "No one meant to embarrass your son. It was just a misunderstanding."
"Oh, I'm sure Lee understood perfectly all along," said Dr. Weeks, also softly, and with a slightly pained smile. "He simply has a way of adjusting reality to fit his desires and then expecting others to go along. I hope you will overlook this."
"Of course," said Step. He was relieved-she knew where the blame for this belonged.
"You've embarrassed me, Mother," said Lee.
"It's time to go home," said Dr. Weeks.
"Why not stay and see the baptism?" said DeAnne.
"I saw Lee's baptism," said Dr. Weeks. "I imagine this will be much the same."
"I want to stay" said Lee.
"Come home now, Lee," said Dr. Weeks.
There was a moment's silence between them, and then Lee turned to Step and, with a cheerful smile, said,
"You really should have let me baptize him. That would have been the best thing." Then he turned and walked with his mother down the corridor toward the southeast door of the meetinghouse.
DeAnne squeezed his arm. "They're leaving, and everybody else is waiting," she said.
"Yes," said Step. "Sorry." He looked down at Stevie and smiled. "What do you say we go through with this?"
Stevie nodded.
Inside the dressing room, where their Sunday clothes were hanging up on hooks, Step paused for just a moment, feeling a need to explain. "Lee Weeks is just excited about being a priesthood holder," he said. "He misunderstood, that's all."
Stevie looked up into Step's eyes and said, "I think he's crazy as a loon, Dad."
And I think you're as sane as I am, thought Step. But you've got to go to a psychiatrist, while Lee only goes home teaching.
"I love you, Stevie," said Step.
"I love you too, Dad," said Stevie. But it was perfunctory, the obligatory answer.
They went to the door that led from the dressing room into the font itself. The water was just above the second step from the top. The water bent the light to make the font seem no deeper than a child's wading pool, but as Stevie stepped down into it, it seemed to swallow him up, bending him at the legs and then at the hips until he was so short that this shallow water came up to his shoulders. Step followed him. The water was cold, but he got used to it quickly. It came up only to his hips. Stevie is so small, he thought. He's too young to take on himself the consequences of all his future choices.
Then he thought, Stevie's been making his own choices, taking responsibility for himself ever since he was old enough to walk. For Stevie, baptism is probably years overdue. The Lord just picked eight years old as a convenient middle ground, that's all. Some children are ready for it as toddlers, and some aren't ready until well past their teens. Stevie was born with wisdom and goodness in him, like the high priest Samuel, like Solomon, like Joseph who was sold into Egypt, like Jesus.
Step took Stevie's right wrist in his left hand. "Hold on to my arm," he whispered. "Just like we practiced."
Stevie reached up his left hand and took hold of Step's left wrist. His hand was so small, his grip so tight and yet so feeble.
Stevie tried to move his right hand up to plug his nose.
"Not yet," Step whispered. "After the words."
Stevie waited as Step raised his right hand to the square and spoke loudly, so the official witnesses could hear and make sure he said it right: "Stephen Bolivar Fletcher, having been commis sioned of Jesus Christ, I baptize you in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost. Amen."
"Amen," murmured the crowd.
"Amen," whispered Stevie.
Step lifted Stevie's right hand toward his face, and Stevie took hold of his nose to pinch it closed. "Bend at the knees," Step whis pered. Stevie closed his eyes and Step pushed him backward into the water, then shoved him down. The water resisted as it always did, but Step pushed Stevie downward, downward, burying him under the water until he was completely immersed. Only then did he let the water have its way, float him back up; and when Stevie reached the surface, gripping tightly to Step's arm, Step pulled him back up to a standing position. Stevie gasped, let go of Step's arm, wiped at his eyes.
Some of the onlookers chuckled affectionately. They had all been through this. They knew how it felt to come out of the water. The disorientation. The hunger for breath. Like being born, gasping for air. The body's instinct for survival in control of you, so all you can think about is, live. Breathe. Then you think, I'm cold. Can they see through the white clothes? Did I look stupid? Did everything go right? Did some part of me stick up out of the water so they'll have to dunk me again?
Step looked from the bishop to Brother Cowper, who were serving as the official witnesses. They both nodded.
"We're OK," said Step. "Got it right the first time."
Stevie nodded gravely.
The bishop and Brother Cowper closed the sliding doors between the font and the corridor. Everybody else went back into the Primary room to wait. Step and Stevie climbed up out of the water, their clothes heavy, dripping, cold.
In the dressing room they dried off and changed back into their street clothes. Stevie was very shy about his body, asking Step not to look and making sure that his back was always turned to his father while he dressed. A
far cry from the days when he used to run stark naked into the living room with company there, shouting
"Teebee go toe-let now! Hurry-up Daddy!"
Step wrung out the wet clothes and then they returned to the Primary room, where some of the younger children-all Cowpers, by Step's rough census-were running around hooting and screeching. They soon got things quieted down, Brother Cowper gave a short talk about the meaning of confirmation and receiving the gift of the Holy Ghost, and then Stevie came forward, sat in a chair facing the small congregation, and Step laid his hands on his son's head. The other priesthood holders there-the bishop, Brother Cowper, and the Primary president's husband-then laid their hands lightly on his, with perhaps a finger also touching Stevie's head. And Step began the confirmation as he had done so many times on his mission in Sao Paulo-except in English, not in Portuguese. He confirmed Stevie a member of the Church, and then commanded him to receive the Holy Ghost.
Technically that was all that was needed, and Step could have stopped there-but that would have caused talk, a lot of gossip, because the custom was to add a few minutes of blessing and admonition, and the omission of that blessing would have been shocking.
Yet as Step stood there, ready to speak the words of blessing, nothing came to mind. It was not that he had given it no thought. In fact, for days he had been replaying in his mind the ways he might obliquely address the problems Stevie had been having. He couldn't say I bless you that your imaginary friends will go away without your having to bother going to a psychiatrist, but there were ways of phrasing the same idea, such as, I promise you healing, and that all your visions will be true ones-things like that, which would sound ordinary enough to people who knew nothing about Stevie's problems, but whose true meaning DeAnne and Step and God would understand.
Now, though, Step could not remember a single thing that he had planned to say. He stood there in long silence. This was not unusual. Many men took a moment or two to gather their thoughts. But this time the moment became longer and longer, and one of the men in the circle around Stevie shifted his weight, and a woman in the congregation cleared her throat.