Act 3, Scene 3
A Plan
Wednesday, April 6th, 8:45 pm
The late evening of that day brings light but steady showers to the
Macmillan neighborhood. In the Macmillan home, both Nigel and Claris
have gone to bed upstairs. The television is on, but the sound muted.
Together on the divan, Mr. Macmillan holds and comforts his wife, who
is clearly distressed.
"It couldn't have been all THAT bad," Roger said encouragingly as he
stroked Angela's disheveled hair. She'd gone to tears the moment
Roger had come through the door, and told him she'd cried the entire
afternoon whenever the children weren't about. She lifted her head
from his shoulder.
"I wish you were right," she sniffed, "But it was a perfectly beastly
day. He was beat up by hooligans at school, then had all his clothes
moment.
"What do you mean?"
"I am so very upset with him! After poor Nigel's appointment, he
informed me that his examination had determined Nigel needed some more
serious psychological help and would require possibly months of
"What the hell is OCD?"
"That's just it!" she cried. "I haven't a clue, Roger. Not to any of
it!"
Angela glanced tearfully up into his eyes.
"Do you think he's seriously ill?"
"I can't believe it," she cried, "Depression! He's only seven, for
God's sake."
She started to cry, but abruptly sat up as if something had just
occurred to her.
"Do you know that therapist insisted Nigel see Dr. Venton? The
psychiatrist! A bloody shrink for a seven-year-old boy! He'd gone so
far as to make the appointment right then and there, as if I was being
summoned!"
She crossed her arms angrily.
"Just as well, anyway. I don't think Nigel particularly liked that
therapist. Do you know he wouldn't even remove his coat until we got
back in the car?"
Roger worked up a smile and simply said, "Well, there you are!
Progress already!"
"Well that's not the half of it!" Angela continued, talking past him,
"When we got home, the sun was nicely warm, so Nigel went out to play.
Not more than thirty minutes later, I hear a bang on the front door,
you, not outside on the landing, but here inside, in the foyer, I see
A look flashed over Angela's face that could only be described as
venomous.
"Oh, I could just KILL her!" she hissed.
"Great. Let me guess," Roger said, becoming nearly as concerned for
his wife as he was for his son. "Agnes Whitby."
gesture. "had thrown open our door and dragged Nigel into the foyer.
And there he stood, stark naked-of course-and holding a handful of
I don't need to tell you they were right out of that old witch's
garden."
Roger sighed. "So much for progress."
"That old crone stood there behind him, holding him like a vulture,
was and what horrid parents we were!"
Angela stood up and began pacing the floor, mimicking Mrs. Whitby.
"That boy of yours is completely wild, she shouts. Running around in
the altogether like a little rodent, she shouts. It's revolting and
obscene, she shouts! That nasty little delinquent! I'm calling Child
Welfare, she says. I'm calling them today. And if they don't come
right off, I'm calling the police!"
Mrs. Macmillan suddenly stopped in mid stride and looked at her
husband. Roger was staring up from the divan, his mouth slightly
agape.
"Well," he began, "She IS a bit off her trolley, you know."
"More run over by it, I'd say."
"Do you remember the time I parked the new Cooper in the drive. She
had an absolutely hurly-burly fit. How dare I block her view of the
street, and she'd have the constable out having the car loaded on a
lorry! Clearly she's potty."
"Why do you have to be so damned reasonable, Roger! I just can't BEAR
that woman," Angela glanced up as if having a horrid insight. "Can you
imagine anyone having SEX with her? My God!"
happened?"
she was so pathetically vile that she didn't recognize beauty in
anything, much less the beauty in my boy and that she should never
bobbies at her door before she could say 'you and your little dog,
too, Dorothy'!"
He hadn't thought it possible that evening, but Roger began to laugh.
This served to embarrass Angela some. She blushed but, more
importantly, gave a reluctant smile.
"Do you feel better now?" Roger asked, feigning caution as he stood
up.
"I have to confess, I do." She replied, throwing her arms around his
neck. She gave him a deep kiss and sensuously drew her hand around
his bottom.
"We'll have to have old Mrs. Whitby over more often!" he chuckled.
Angela abruptly broke the embrace and turned toward the door.
"Oh! I could just strangle her!"
"Sorry," her husband replied sheepishly. "But the question is; what
are we going to do about Nigel's problem? It isn't getting better.
It's getting worse."
His wife flopped down onto the divan in resignation.
"I don't know." She moaned. "I don't want to take him to a
nowadays, isn't it-can't control your child without our pill?"
"We do seem to have that control problem," Roger said hesitantly. "I
don't think we should dismiss it out of hand, do you?"
"I suppose not." She replied in a hopeless tone. "I suppose not."
"Look. How about this?" Roger proposed. "When is the appointment for
Dr. Ventor?"
"Three weeks, more or less," Angela answered, "Thursday, April 29th,
2:30 pm."
"Alright then. We've got 'till the 29th. Why don't we take Nigel
down to St. Peter's and speak with Father Schroeder? We could go this
"Lord, Roger. We haven't been to mass in months!"
"More like a year," Roger confessed, "But he's good with kids, gentle
and patient. Nigel likes him well enough. Who knows? It can't hurt
authority that can get through to the boy."
"I'll try anything." Angela said, "We're all going to be in booby
hatch, as Nigel says, if this goes on much longer."
"And if it works," Roger added, "You can call that psychologist and
tell him to pack his pills up his hindquarters."
Angela hugged her husband and gave him a leer.
"I love it when you talk dirty."
HMSVV2010
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