She had let him think it. But she had known that Mariah, the wild and uncontrollable second of her eleven children, had been conceived that night, not...by Donald, but by she and the river. Sixteen years later, when the river had reclaimed his child, had sucked out Mariah’s life, cast her empty gray body on the rocks at Haswell’s landing, and folks had wondered, gossiped, that she had not grieved the child’s loss, she told them simply she could not mourn the loss of a child who had never been. There was this whole other world that didn’t know anything about uncomfortable pews, uptight mothers, smelly crowds, and angry Jesus statues. The sun reached down from the lovely blue sky, and the green grass stretched up to meet it. Birds sang from the trees, and squirrels were busy at play. Cars drove by, carrying laughing families on their way to the beach or to the park or the movies – or anywhere but the awful, boring church. There was something enchanted about the world outside, and every. More

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