Finally Joseph spoke. "I like my own name." He returned his gaze to his half-carved coracle.

"By God, you cheeky whelp," Windom cried in a raspy voice, overturning his stool as he lunged toward the youngster.

Bess jumped between them. "Let him be, Thad. No true disciple of our Savior would harm a child."

"Who wants to harm who? Look at him!" Joseph was on his feet and backed against the chimney. The boy's chest rose and fell fast. Unblinking, he held the knife at waist level, ready to slash upward.

Slowly Windom opened his fist, moved away awkwardly, and righted his stool. As always, when fear and resentment of the boy gripped him, it was Bess who suffered. Joseph resumed his seat by the fire, wondering how much longer he could let it go on.

"I'm sick of hearing about your blessed Lord," Windom told his wife. "You're always saying He's going to exalt the poor man. Your first husband was a fool to die for that kind of shit. When your dear Jesus shows up to dirty His hands helping me with the chare, then I'll believe in Him, but not before." He reached down for the green bottle of gin. Later that night, Joseph lay tense on his pallet by the wall, listening to Windom abuse his mother with words and fists behind the ragged curtain that concealed their bed, Bess sobbed for a while, and the boy dug his nails into his palms. Presently Bess made different sounds, moans and guttural exclamations. The quarrel had been patched up in typical fashion, the boy thought cynically.

He didn't blame his poor mother for wanting a little peace and security and love. She'd chosen the wrong man, that was all. Long after the hidden bed stopped squeaking, Joseph lay awake, thinking of killing the charcoal burner.