The Widow Melody Scott

Sunday, November 2

Given that I have an unusually well-developed talent for understanding the actions and motivations of my fellow humans, I feel confident in speculating about how Ms. Melody Scott, young widow and mother, came to be the thorn in my side, my cross to bear, a major pain in the posterior.

I imagine she was sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the screen of her cheap, flimsy notebook computer. The color-coded spreadsheet in front of her told a grim, undeniable truth. She was flat broke. Like a fool, she'd married for love, let the man impregnate her, and then, at an age when no one expects such a thing, Death came knocking.

Of course, there was no life insurance and little savings and, having been a housewife most of her adult life, the woman had no notable marketable skills.

In her gut she knew she was sunk, but she couldn't let on.

The children were supposed to be brushing their teeth, preparing for bed, but the muffled thumps and bangs sounded more like an enemy invasion on the second floor of their ordinary little Craftsman house than any sort of ablution ritual. With a soul-weary sigh, the widow probably pushed her chair back and trudged up the carpeted stairs.

Hearing her coming, the little brats would have rushed to the bedroom and put on their most angelic expressions.

"It was nothing, Mother. We were only doing as you told us, getting ready for bed."

Children are inherently dishonest little creatures, always after their own best interest and self preservation. I rather admire that about them. If I'd been more like that in recent days, things might have turned out differently. But, I imagine the widow Scott was too lost in her own grief and misery to put much effort into chiding her brood. Rather, she ordered them to their individual beds--two sets of bunk beds, with a scant five feet of space between them.

"There's something we'd like to speak to you about, Mom."

That would have been Ethan. As the eldest, he'd be the designated spokesperson for the siblings.

Ms. Scott, having been a mother for more than ten years, would immediately be on high alert. If all four children approached her together, it was invariably a request for a puppy, or a swimming pool, or a Disney vacation, or some other thing as far out of the realm of possibility for her right now as a trip to the moon.

"Go on then." She'd pick up toys and clothes from the floor and put them away while the children talked. Single mothers had no spare moments in which to be still or self-indulgent.

"Well, remember what you told us, about needing to go to work and not being sure what would happen with school and all that?"

Being a good mother and a reasonable American, she had gathered the children around the table and held a formal meeting some weeks after their father's untimely demise. During the course of the meeting she praised their maturity and resilience, wept a little with them over the loss of the man they all loved, and then told them she had no idea how they could carry on as usual. Timothy had been the sole breadwinner, and he'd done a mediocre job of it, at best. With him around, she'd been able to be a full-time mother, homeschooling the children, cooking elaborate dinners that would make June Cleaver look like a slacker, hand-stitching Halloween costumes and so forth, all while balancing a shoestring budget. Now, she would need to get a job, and the children would need to learn to make their way among their peers in public school. There would be babysitters or after school care. It would be yet another big change in the world as they'd always known it.

But what about Dillon?

Dillon was special. At four-years-old, he was reading chapter books and whispering math test answers to his older siblings. Public schools wouldn't know what to make of Dillion.