When I get home from work he has the TV on, with the sound so high he doesn't know when I come in. I hear a chanting hubbub and a bell as I put my coat away in the hall closet. He's watching a fight. Maureen is working late in the library, so I go to the kitchen to wash my hands and start supper. From there, I can see him reflected in the hall mirror. He still thinks he is alone.
As I stir some bouillon and sip some wine, the excitement grows. Sitting on the edge of the sofa, crouched over with his shoulders hunched and his slippers planted deep into the carpet, 'Dad' thrusts his 70 year-old, balding head toward the glare from the TV screen. At the critical moment, he works his ringed fingers frenetically in the air before him, as if crushing and mauling something, and a snarl of transfiguring intensity twists his face. Punching downward toward the floor, he shouts and mutters with the faraway crowd.
"Kill the bastard! Kill the bastard him! Kill him!"
his quiet demeanour
over the lamb