“What’s that?” he murmured.
“If I Baptize you,” the preacher said, “you’ll be able to go to the Kingdom of Christ. You’ll be washed in the river of suffering, son, and you’ll go by the deep river of life. Do you want that?”
“Yes,” the child said, and thought, I won’t go back to the apartment then, I’ll go under the river.
“You won’t be the same again,” the preacher said. “You’ll count.” Then he turned his face to the people and began to preach and Bevel looked over his shoulder at the pieces of the white sun scattered in the river. Suddenly the preacher said, “All right, I’m going to Baptize you now,” and without more warning, he tightened his hold and swung him upside down and plunged his head into the water. He held him under while he said the words of Baptism and then he jerked him up again and looked sternly at the gasping child. Bevel’s eyes were dark and dilated. “You count now,” the preacher said. “You didn’t even count before.”
The little boy was too shocked to cry. He spit out the muddy water and rubbed his wet sleeve into his eyes and over his face.
“Don’t forget his mamma,” Mrs. Connin called. “He wants you to pray for his mamma. She’s sick.”
“Lord,” the preacher said, “we pray for somebody in affliction who isn’t here to testify. Is your mother sick in the hospital?” he asked. “Is she in pain?”
The child stared at him. “She hasn’t got up yet,” he said in a high dazed voice. “She has a hangover.” The air was so quiet he could hear the broken pieces of the sun knocking in the water.
The preacher looked angry and startled. The red drained out of his face and the sky appeared to darken in his eyes. There was a loud guffaw from the bank and Mr. Paradise shouted, “Haw! Cure the afflicted woman with the hangover!” and began to beat his knee with his fist.
“He’s had a long day,” Mrs. Connin said, standing with him in the door of the apartment and looking sharply into the room where the party was going on. “I reckon it’s past his regular bedtime.” One of Bevel’s eyes was closed and the other half closed; his nose was running and he kept his mouth open and breathed through it. The damp plaid coat dragged down on one side.
That would be her, Mrs. Connin decided, in the black britches—long black satin britches and barefoot sandals and red toenails. She was lying on half the sofa, with her knees crossed in the air and her head propped on the arm. She didn’t get up.
“Hello Harry,” she said. “Did you have a big day?” She had a long pale face, smooth and blank, and straight sweet-potato-colored hair, pulled back.
The father went off to get the money. There were two other couples. One of the men, blond with little violet- blue eyes, leaned out of his chair and said, “Well Harry, old man, have a big day?”
“His name ain’t Harry. It’s Bevel,” Mrs. Connin said.
“His name is Harry,”
The little boy had seemed to be going to sleep on his feet, his head drooping farther and farther forward; he pulled it back suddenly and opened one eye; the other was stuck.
“He told me this morning his name was Bevel,” Mrs. Connin said in a shocked voice. “The same as our preacher. We been all day at a preaching and healing at the river. He said his name was Bevel, the same as the preacher’s. That’s what he told me.”
“Bevel!” his mother said. “My God! what a name.”
“This preacher is name Bevel and there’s no better preacher around,” Mrs. Connin said. “And furthermore,” she added in a defiant tone, “he Baptized this child this morning!”
His mother sat straight up. “Well the nerve!” she muttered.
“Furthermore,” Mrs. Connin said, “he’s a healer and he prayed for you to be healed.”
“Healed!” she almost shouted. “Healed of what for Christ’s sake?”
“Of your affliction,” Mrs. Connin said icily.
The father had returned with the money and was standing near Mrs. Connin waiting to give it to her. His eyes were lined with red threads. “Go on, go on,” he said, “I want to hear more about her affliction. The exact nature of it has escaped…” He waved the bill and his voice trailed off. “Healing by prayer is mighty inexpensive,” he murmured.
Mrs. Connin stood a second, staring into the room, with a skeleton’s appearance of seeing everything. Then, without taking the money, she turned and shut the door behind her. The father swung around, smiling vaguely, and shrugged. The rest of them were looking at Harry. The little boy began to shamble toward the bedroom.
“Come here, Harry,” his mother said. He automatically shifted his direction toward her without opening his eye any farther. “Tell me what happened today,” she said when he reached her. She began to pull off his coat.
“I don’t know,” he muttered.
“Yes you do know,” she said, feeling the coat heavier on one side. She unzipped the innerlining and caught the book and a dirty handkerchief as they fell out. “Where did you get these?”
“I don’t know,” he said and grabbed for them. “They’re mine. She gave them to me.”
She threw the handkerchief down and held the book too high for him to reach and began to read it, her face after a second assuming an exaggerated comical expression. The others moved around and looked at it over her shoulder. “My God,” somebody said.
One of the men peered at it sharply from behind a thick pair of glasses. “That’s valuable,” he said. “That’s a collector’s item,” and he took it away from the rest of them and retired to another chair.
“Don’t let George go off with that,” his girl said.
“I tell you it’s valuable,” George said. “1832.”
