Act 6, Scene 4
The Death of Original Sin
Saturday, June 19th, 9:30 am.
The Macmillan residence. Angela, Claris, Nigel, and Evan have
impatiently gathered in the kitchen, while Roger Macmillan is standing
at the back door. The door is closed and the window curtains are
drawn. There is a sound of water running outside, and Roger
occasionally parts the curtains to glance out.
The garden had cost fortune, so much so that the Macmillans had taken
a second mortgage on the town house, but it was done. For Roger,
Angela and even the skeptical Claris, the garden had become the most
important aspect of their lives ... and for Nigel, an absolute
miracle. It was his very most favourite thing in the entire world. It
wouldn't have been possible, even at the cost, without Harry
Campbell's assistance, and he resolutely refused payment of any kind
for his labour, nor for his insightful advice on gardening and boys.
It happened that, one day, he and Roger were talking about Nigel, and
Harry had observed quite simply,
"The way I look at it, Nigel doesn't have a problem. Everyone else
does."
All that then remained was to dedicate the garden's completion by some
mysterious ritual that only Roger knew.
"Alright, alright everyone!" Roger announced, peering out the curtain
"For God's sake, Roger," Angela said, "We've been waiting here for
nearly fifteen minutes."
Roger stepped back from the door, purposefully unlatched the lock,
turned the door knob, and swung the door open wide. Everyone went out
onto the porch, fully expecting to see the lush garden they'd each
helped create, the refuge of ivy and rock and flowers and trees and
shrubs. But in that shaded Shangri-La, there was one new item.
"Look, Evan!" Nigel burst out in excitement. Evan needed no
"Dad!" Claris exclaimed, "That is so ACE! Can I invite my girlfriends
over?"
"Of course," her father replied, "As long as they follow the rules."
"Dad!" Claris whined and made that gacking sound. "That's so grotty!"
hideous! Where did you find it?"
"Harrods."
"You're kidding!" His wife replied dubiously.
Roger stepped off the porch and turned to his small audience.
"Dad!" the children protested.
raising an arm. "One, two, THREE!"
Claris, Evan and Nigel bolted from the porch and onto the lawn, a
whirlwind of arms and legs and clothes and bodies. Being the most
nimble, Nigel reached the step ladder first, skipping steps as he
scampered up, reached the top, and leapt high into the air. There was
resounding splash, followed by another as Claris sailed in screaming
and flailing her arms, and another when Evan bravely catapulted
himself in a ball off the ladder, displacing onto the lawn his volume
in water.
"This is so embarrassing!" Claris cried, "And it's freezing!"
It was a modest pool, a portable affair one sets up in May and takes
down in September, possibly three metres in diameter and a metre and a
half deep and, since it was at that moment oscillating like a belly
dancer, of questionable integrity. Still, Roger thought it was a
grand addition to their little paradisiacal jungle. He turned to
Angela and put a triumphant arm round her waist.
"So what do you think?"
"You're mad," she laughed, "But I love it."
So they stood and watched the children frolicking and screaming as the
new pool swayed back and forth.
"Mummy!" Nigel shouted from the pool. He tossed something at her, but
it fell well short. "I'm going to shoot a monkey! Watch me! Take
care of my Pooh watch!"
Angela disentwined herself from her husband, stepped across the lawn
and picked it up.
"Probably already water-logged," she muttered.
But Pooh was yet gaily swinging his arms 'round, so he put it in her
pocket, then glanced down at the results of Roger's rules for the
garden: shoes and socks and pants and underpants and shirts-three sets
of clothes in all, strewn across the lawn. She scooped them all up
and set them on the garden table beside the children's towels and
sodas.
"I can't believe Claris is actually in there," she said under her
breath, "Wouldn't have bet on it in a lifetime. She'd just die if her
friends saw her."
"How do you like Nigel's attire?" her husband chuckled, glancing at
his son. "He's the only one with anything on."
Nigel was plunging about, a toy bow and arrow in one hand and his head
crowned with a feathered headband.
"Now? According to the rules?" his wife exclaimed, a bit shocked.
"Well, are YOU?"
Roger shrugged.
"Oh, what the hell," he said, and unbuttoned his pants. Then he
stopped with a sly smile.
and me."
"You've got a date, mister."
HMSVV2010
|
|