The Catechumen - First Place, Wallace Prize for Fiction
A baptismal font is not a font.
This occurs to me as I take my place beside the pedestal. I run a finger along the rim of the broad, shallow bowl. It’s made of brilliant emerald stone, something like marble, grander than the one at our church. There is a drain in the center. Surely they don’t let the christening water go into the sewage pipes. Where, then? Maybe it collects in a holding tank and they use it again. How many Catholics can you get out of one liter? Instant Christian, just add —
It is my cousin Lara whose sins are to be forgiven today. My grandmother, standing...
