Planet Skokie

Angie suggested we take Jude swimming. Since Angie is Jude’s
occupational therapist, I assumed the address she gave me was some
sort of therapeutic center. I knew I had assumed incorrectly when I
saw the big, bright water slide rising over the treetops.
Great, I thought. Swimming and a show. See the boy scream and flap!
Be amazed at his mother’s tattoos and body hair!

Angie, who is a doll, and would never imagine that anyone would look
at Jude and not instantly fall in love, meets us at the door. She
leads us out to the pool, and introduced me to her mother and
cousins, all like Angie, perfectly tanned and coiffed and waxed and
pedicured in their bikinis. And like Angie, they are friendly and
kind, but I am uncomfortable, sweating and feeling like a zoo
exhibit. I sit on a lawn chair, and think of Beth at home, hairy legs
propped on a milk crate, watching her kids play with the hose.
I start making mental notes so I can entertain her with suburban
stories. Beth is great for that. Once we were at the park and this
yuppie lady was following her blond toddler around, calling him,
Miles Davis! Miles Davis!!

Beth and I make sideways eye contact. Louis Armstrong!! I yell to
Eden, who ignores me. Bob Marley!! She calls to Cyrus, who looks
confused. Well, Beth says, I better go check on Angela Davis. I just
saw her over by the swings, I say.

Immature, sure, but it helps us feel like maybe we aren’t getting
sucked into a soccer mom vortex. Hey, look how funny and cynical we
are! I might drive a mini van, but it is ten years old and there are
anti war stickers all over the thing. So there.

I lean over to chat with Angies mom, who I discover is the same age
as I am. And she looks better, too.

God.

Jude is in the pool with Angie, and I am watching him, going under
water, trying to float, happy as an otter, playing, splashing. I look
at Angie’s mom, and she is beaming at them, and I am not sure if she
is looking with pride and joy at my child or hers.

It is time to get out of the pool. Jude cannot handle it, and the
meltdown ensues. He is screaming like the proverbial banshee. I sit
by him. Angie does, too. If I could haul him to the car I would, but
there is no picking him up. Angie says, hey, this is fine. He’s sad.
He will get it together, and all we can do is be with him so he isn’t
all alone.

It’s just, a scene, I say.

So? Angie says. She is still looking at Jude, just the way she always
does. Like he hung the moon.

I will myself not to look around at all the faces, which I am sure
are gaping at us in horror and disapproval. Yeah, yeah, this is what
happens when freaks give birth. Go back to your Maeve Binchey novel,
you Stepford wives.

Excuse me, someone says, and I look up. Would he like a cookie?
Stepford wife is smiling, and sits down by Jude, and starts feeding
him milanos. He pauses, chews, and continues to scream. You are doing
a wonderful job, she says to me.

Someone behind me speaks. “He has such beautiful eyes.” I look up,
and everyone is looking at us. And smiling. All over the pool.
Someone pats my back.

Now I am blinking back tears.

Jude calms down, and we buy him a pop and get him in the car. I hug
Angie and tell her I have decided the burbs are not so bad.
And I hit the highway towards the city, with big, hot coals on my
head, and a Miles Davis song playing in my heart.=