Jem drew the service to a close by asking all who wished to be united with Christ to step forward. She went.
Jem put his hand on her head and said, “Young lady, do you repent?”
“Yes sir,” she said.
“Have you been baptized?”
“No sir,” she said.
“Well—” Jem dipped his hand into the black water of the fishpool and laid it on her head. “I baptize you—”
“Hey, wait a minute!” shouted Dill. “That’s not right!”
“I reckon it is,” said Jem. “Scout and me are Methodists.”
“Yeah, but we’re having a Baptist revival. You’ve got to duck her. I think I’ll be baptized, too.” The ramifications of the ceremony were dawning on Dill, and he fought hard for the role. “I’m the one,” he insisted. “I’m the Baptist so I reckon I’m the one to be baptized.”
“Now listen here, Dill Pickle Harris,” she said menacingly. “I haven’t done a blessed thing this whole morning. You’ve been the Amen Corner, you sang a solo, and you took up collection. It’s my time, now.”
Her fists were clenched, her left arm cocked, and her toes gripped the ground.
Dill backed away. “Now cut it out, Scout.”
“She’s right, Dill,” Jem said. “You can be my assistant.”
Jem looked at her. “Scout, you better take your clothes off. They’ll get wet.”
She divested herself of her overalls, her only garment. “Don’t you hold me under,” she said, “and don’t forget to hold my nose.”
She stood on the cement edge of the pool. An ancient goldfish surfaced and looked balefully at her, then disappeared beneath the dark water.
“How deep’s this thing?” she asked.
“Only about two feet,” said Jem, and turned to Dill for confirmation. But Dill had left them. They saw him going like a streak toward Miss Rachel’s house.
“Reckon he’s mad?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Let’s wait and see if he comes back.”
Jem said they had better shoo the fish down to one side of the pool lest they hurt one, and they were leaning over the side rustling the water when an ominous voice behind them said, “Whoo—”
“Whoo—” said Dill from beneath a double-bed sheet, in which he had cut eyeholes. He raised his arms above his head and lunged at her. “Are you ready?” he said. “Hurry up, Jem. I’m getting hot.”
“For crying out loud,” said Jem. “What are you up to?”
“I’m the Holy Ghost,” said Dill modestly.
Jem took her by the hand and guided her into the pool. The water was warm and slimy, and the bottom was slippery. “Don’t you duck me but once,” she said.
Jem stood on the edge of the pool. The figure beneath the sheet joined him and flapped its arms wildly. Jem held her back and pushed her under. As her head went beneath the surface she heard Jem intoning, “Jean Louise Finch, I baptize you in the name of—”
Whap!
Miss Rachel’s switch made perfect contact with the sacred apparition’s behind. Since he would not go backward into the hail of blows Dill stepped forward at a brisk pace and joined her in the pool. Miss Rachel flailed relentlessly at a heaving tangle of lily pads, bed sheet, legs and arms, and twining ivy.
“Get out of there!” Miss Rachel screamed. “I’ll Holy Ghost you, Charles Baker Harris! Rip the sheets off my best bed, will you? Cut holes in ’em, will you? Take the Lord’s name in vain, will you? Come on, get out of there!”
“Cut it out, Aunt Rachel!” burbled Dill, his head half under water. “Gimme a chance!”
Dill’s efforts to disentangle himself with dignity were only moderately successful: he rose from the pool like a small fantastical water monster, covered with green slime and dripping sheet. A tendril of ivy curled around his head and neck. He shook his head violently to free himself, and Miss Rachel stepped back to avoid the spray of water.
Jean Louise followed him out. Her nose tingled horribly from the water in it, and when she sniffed it hurt.
Miss Rachel would not touch Dill, but waved him on with her switch, saying, “March!”
She and Jem watched the two until they disappeared inside Miss Rachel’s house. She could not help feeling sorry for Dill.
“Let’s go home,” Jem said. “It must be dinnertime.”
They turned in the direction of their house and looked straight into the eyes of their father. He was standing in the driveway.
Beside him stood a lady they did not know and Reverend James Edward Moorehead. They looked like they had been standing there for some time.
Atticus came toward them, taking his coat off. Her throat closed tight and her knees shook. When he dropped his coat over her shoulders she realized she was standing stark naked in the presence of a preacher. She tried to run, but Atticus caught her by the scruff of the neck and said, “Go to Calpurnia. Go in the back door.”
Calpurnia scrubbed her viciously in the bathtub, muttering, “Mr. Finch called this morning and said he was bringing the preacher and his wife home for dinner. I yelled till I was blue in the face for you all. Why’nt you answer me?”
“Didn’t hear you,” she lied.
“Well, it was either get that cake in the oven or round you up. I couldn’t do both. Ought to be ashamed of yourselves, mortifyin’ your daddy like that!”
She thought Calpurnia’s bony finger would go through her ear. “Stop it,” she said.
“If he dudn’t whale the tar out of both of you, I will,” Calpurnia promised. “Now get out of that tub.”
Calpurnia nearly took the skin off her with the rough towel, and commanded her to raise her hands above her head. Calpurnia thrust her into a stiffly starched pink dress, held her chin firmly between thumb and forefinger, and raked her hair with a sharp-toothed comb. Calpurnia threw down a pair of patent leather shoes at her feet.
“Put ’em on.”
“I can’t button ’em,” she said. Calpurnia banged down the toilet seat and sat her on it. She watched big scarecrow fingers perform the intricate business of pushing pearl buttons through holes too small for them, and she marveled at the power in Calpurnia’s hands.
“Now go to your daddy.”
“Where’s Jem?” she said.
“He’s cleaning up in Mr. Finch’s bathroom. I can trust him.”