Baptism

My dad just told me that when he was born his parents named him Gerard. He left the hospital as Gerard, spent the first month of his life as Gerard and then was brought by his father and uncle to his Catholic baptism. My father's name is Fred.

“Do women go to baptisms now?” He asks me as though he has not been to five of his children’s baptisms.

Well, four of his children’s baptisms. He missed my youngest brother’s baptism due to a work conflict. He was scheduled to meet us at the church after his shift at the Boston Police Department. During the pre-ceremonial hubbub inside St. Patrick Church, my mom asked me to run outside to see if he was here yet. I went to the main doors of the church and stood at the top of the long string of concrete stairs and scanned Central Street. There was his car. And he was sitting in the driver’s seat. I saw him lean over the middle console to roll down the passenger-side window and wave me over with his right arm. He has never been one for honking the horn to get someone’s attention, unlike my mother who would do sets of beeping push-ups as she beckoned us out of the house on school day mornings. I let go of the church door and place my hand on the iron banister for assurance as I skitter down the steps. I run to the car prepared to relay my mom’s message verbatim. I stand at the passenger side window, looking down at my dad as he bends toward me. He lowers his aviator sunglasses down his nose and I see it. I ask him what happened and he tells me that he was called to a house where a husband and wife were fighting and the husband clocked him in the face. I can barely see my dad’s left eye, it seems that all the skin from his cheek to his hairline is puffy and purple with little splotches of red. He smiles at me. He says he is fine. He tells me to tell Mommy that he will just meet us at the party at home, that he can’t go into church like that. I say ok and turn around to ascend the stairs back into the church. He watches me go back in. I tell my mom that a husband punched Daddy in the eye when he tried to help the wife. She looks at me, hands me my baby brother and walks down the church aisle to get the story for herself. A few minutes later she returns and the baptism goes on without my father. At the post-christening party I overhear all the adults talking about right hooks and Roxbury.

“Um, yes, women go to Baptisms.”

“Oh, ok, well they didn’t before. So, anyway, my father and uncle took me to the church as Gerard and I came back to the house as Fredrick.”

“Why?”

“At the church they decided it was a better name: it was their father’s name.”

“What did Nani think about that?”

“Oh she didn’t care. She thought it was a good name. I mean she had to think that, right? I mean it was Mad Men time. You know what I am sayin’?” And I do know what he means. I have finished the third season of Mad Men and he has just started watching Season One. “So, I went from Gerard to Fredrick. How’s that?”

“That is unbelievable,” I say. But it’s not unbelievable. Actually, it’s so totally, perfectly believable that it dawns on me: my blog needs a baptism of sorts.