Fiction | October 18, 2016

When Priscilla first learned that Conard was planning to have his son christened, her worries centered on the ceremony—its implications, her memories. Safe at home in her small Wisconsin Avenue apartment, far from the scene of the planned event, she found herself waking up every night to spiral into self-disgust when she remembered that she was a fake Episcopalian—not because she’d been evil but because she’d been just plain stupid and not for the first and only time in her life. What it came down to was that when she was twenty-two, she’d had herself christened, and although she’d admitted, even at the time, that she didn’t really believe most of the things you were supposed to believe, she’d gone ahead with the ceremony and a few years later married an Episcopalian in an Episcopal church and, in the following years, had her two sons christened in turn.

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