Act 4, Scene 1
The Body of Nigel
Sunday, April 11th, 9:47 am
The following Sunday morning, St. Peter's Catholic Church. Having
paid Father Arnold Schroeder a visit the night before to describe the
serious nature of Nigel's condition and securing Father Schroeder's
offer to help, Ronald and Angela Macmillan arrive at St. Peter's for
mass, with young Nigel in tow. Schroeder, or Father Arnie, as he
preferred to be called, had a reputation for working with youth both
during his long tenure at St. Peter's, as well as in his previous
parish at St. Peter und Paul of Mannheim in his native Germany. He
was a short, congenial and energetic priest, whose one fault, other
than the noxious cigars he smoked, was perhaps the excessive deference
and leeway he granted the little ones of his congregation. None in
the town held him in any suspicion regarding this penchant, or
surprisingly, any ill-will over the fact he had been a decorated
Luftwaffe pilot. However, his deep German accent was frequently a
catalyst for jokes among his otherwise very proper British
parishioners.
With young Nigel in mind, the priest had at the last minute added a
blessing of children, which he undertook directly before Holy
Communion. There were a mere handful of worshippers that morning,
most of them elderly, which was becoming increasingly common. Indeed,
Nigel was the sole child there.
"Nigel. Nigel!" Angela whispered urgently to her distracted son
sitting beside her. "Father Schroeder is doing the blessing for you.
Stand up. Stand up."
Nigel looked up at his mum, then turned and looked up questioningly at
his dad.
"Stand up, Nigel." Dad said quietly.
So Nigel stood. He was in his Sunday clothes and it had been so long
since he'd worn them that he'd very nearly grown out of them. The
collar was particularly tight, and his waistcoat rather snug, and his
short trousers shorter than they should have been. Obediently, Nigel
stood up, prying a finger into his collar in an attempt to loosen it.
"Lord, our God," Father Schroeder was intoning, his voice flavoured
with a slight German accent. "Out of the speech of little children you
have fashioned a hymn of praise. Look with kindness on this child whom
the faith of the Church commends to your tender care. Your Son, born
of the Virgin Mary, gladly welcomed little children. He took them up
in his embrace, blessed them, and held them up as an example for all."
He turned rather dramatically in Nigel's direction and grandly lifted
his arms.
"Hear our prayers and, with your unfailing protection, watch over this
child whom you have blessed with the grace of baptism. ..."
The priest continued on for what seemed to Nigel as an eternity. The
hypnotic drone of the priest and the congregation lulled the boy into
a fantasy of standing within the mists of a roaring waterfall in
Brazil, his bow and arrow in hand as the spray ran soothing rivulets
down his bare bottom.
Suddenly his mother was tugging lightly at his ear.
"Nigel. It's the Communion." She whispered, "Now, follow us and do
just as I do."
Slowly they approached Father, who rhythmically repeated as each
parishioner took the sacrament:
The body of Christ, the bread of heaven. The blood of Christ, the cup
of salvation.
The line slowly crept forward. Nigel fiddled with his tie and tried
to remain hidden behind his mum's skirts.
"Stop your squirming," she breathed back at the boy, "Just be
patient."
Almost there.
"I said stop it, Nigel, or I'll turn around and set you right."
Body of Christ.
Body of Christ.
The Body of Christ.
"Nigel! Stop it."
Then came Mum and Dad's turn.
Body of Christ.
Body of Christ.
Mein Lieber Gott!
HMSVV2010
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