”“Santa!” Nina cries in mock astonishment. “That’s so naughty.”“Mmm, so’s this,” he growls, running his index and middle fingers through the sodden cleft of her panties.“Oh, fuck!” she gasps, shattering the lollipop between her teeth. Dozens of sticky shards tumble down the front of her light-green dress.He feverishly presses the soaked cotton between Nina’s labia. Burrowing his thumb into the nub of her clit, he works it in tight circles as best he can. It’s all he can do to find the rhythm with her gyrating pelvis.“Oh shit, I’m gonna come,” Nina drools.She looks around in a panic. A barrage of camera flashes capable of triggering seizures explode a few feet away. Her best friend watches on from the fence line farther back, chewing through the nail of her thumb. But thankfully, none of the dozens, if not hundreds of other people in this part of the mall seem to be aware of what’s happening.Out of nowhere, Santa clamps down on Nina’s right breast. He sucks her nipple through the thin. Donald had thought he pleased her. 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 hers. ‘Hush,’ the river murmured, rumbling and tumbling its eternal course down the ragged ruins of time. In ‘forty-three’, the river had withheld itself from them, parching the land and shriveling the crops ’til they had all nearly starved. She lost Christian that year, her sixth child, to the fever and the drought. That year, too, Donald had gone on his way to look for work and never returned. The suitors had lined up almost immediately, for though she had four.
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