Damn it to hell, who does she think she is? Sarah is my child, and I don’t want anybody trying to feed her a load of crap. There is enough out there anyway without some right-wing nuts brainwashing her. Who the hell is Shane Norman anyway? In an earlier life he probably was some fly-by-night con artist who figured out that peddling salvation was an easier way to make a living.

I may not be a genius or a saint, but I know bullshit when I see it. From the Crusades on down, with a Bible in one hand and a sword in the other, Christians who were sure they had a lock on the truth have murdered thousands of people. I’d rather my daughter’s brain not be one of their victims.

“It’s all right. Call me later,” Rainey says, hurrying to the door.

I nod curtly, as Sarah runs ahead of me.

Sarah and I ride in an angry silence until we turn into our driveway.

“You can be so closed-minded,” she says, as she shuts the car door, careful not to slam it, knowing I will explode if she does.

“Just because you don’t believe anything doesn’t mean other people can’t.”

Banging doors, yelling, any behavior except “Yes, sir” or “No, ma’am” uttered with a respectful tone minus a snide expression were forbidden to me and my sister, Marty, when we were growing up in eastern Arkansas. Even when my father was at his craziest, we went around smiling like slaves who were working up their nerve to ask for permission to marry someone off the plantation. Only in the last couple of years have I realized how much I intimidated Sarah when she was growing up. I have begun to lighten up, but I am afraid she will always be a little intimidated by me.

“I believe in something,” I respond weakly. We covered this ground last summer. Since religion has become important to her, it upsets her that I don’t share her preoccupation with it. I unlock the door, and we are greeted by Woogie, a genetic disaster with his long legs and beagle body and head.