A. Homes - In A Country Of Mothers

The flying squirrel was perfect: in a deep-black case like in the darkest dream, it was fixed against tall trees, moonlight, a distant forest, and snow-covered mountain peaks. Fully extended, the northern squirrel was up there, out there, hanging in midair.

Jody would pull herself together. She would go to the park and meet Claire’s family. What harm could come of it? She hurried toward the exit, wishing there was someone to lead her out, eyes closed, blind. She walked quickly, trying not to pay attention; but all the same, the last thing she saw on her way out was the dodo bird.

At three-thirty, the appointed time, she stood on the grassy knoll above Wollman Rink. The light was starting to fade, the chill of night slowly seeping into the air. Hovering over the park, backlit, were the tall apartment buildings of Central Park South. The thick red letters of the Essex House sign hugged the skyline in the same way that the “Hollywood” letters clung to the hill in L.A. It had been a deceptively warm day for late January: faces were flushed; left and right, people had taken off their coats, stripping down to turtlenecks. A hopeful afternoon. Jody would meet Claire’s family; she would exchange greetings and then, as soon as politely possible, break away.

A long line of would-be skaters curved up the path leading to the rink. From above, the ice was crowded, as though all of New York had come out for a skate this particular Sunday afternoon. Jody climbed a rock and looked for Claire, working the line from back to front. She was there, halfway down, also looking. There was no reason to rush. Claire was at least thirty people away from the entrance. When she was within fifteen, Jody would start down the path, pressing through the line—“Excuse me, coming through … Meeting someone up front, par don me.”

Then Claire spotted her and waved frantically. Jody automatically waved back and went forward.

“I thought you might be standing us up,” Claire said.

“Running late,” Jody said, not sure which of the strangers surrounding them were Roths. Claire tapped the backs of a man and two children in front of her. Jody expected her to say, Please allow me to introduce the recalcitrant, resistant, deeply neurotic Miss Goodman. Instead she patted the hair on top of the smaller boy’s head and in a clear and happy voice said, “Guys, this is Jody.”

Sam turned and faced her — not a vampire, not a gorilla, just a guy. “Good to meet you,” he said.

“Yo,” the elder boy said.

The younger one, Adam, looked down at his shoes. “I don’t wanna wear skates. Just my shoes.”

The line moved forward. At the admissions window, Jody took out her wallet, but Claire stopped her and let Sam pay for all of them. “My treat,” she said. “All day.”

The clubhouse was noisy, filled with shouting children, out-of-date pop songs, and people in a hurry. Jody focused on putting on her skates. She could feel herself disappearing into a haze.

“Pull the laces tight,” Claire said.

Jody looked at her blankly.

“Pull the laces tight,” Claire said again, this time reaching over to help. “It supports the ankle.”

Sam, Claire, Jake, and Adam. Real people, only better, like a family from a TV commercial. Handsome and cool compared with Mr. and Mrs. Goodman, who were getting ready to apply for Social Security. Claire in her off-duty clothes — faded jeans, turtleneck, with her blond hair held back with a thick barrette. Sam in wide-wale cords, a hand-knit sweater, hair just a little long, a little gray. By contrast Jody felt dark, black, mismatched. It wasn’t their fault. Claire’s family didn’t look at her strangely, didn’t treat her as if she were peculiar or contagious. Nothing about their actions screamed, Oh my God, it’s a patient— be careful.

“I’m not sure I can do this,” Jody said, remembering that one year for Chanukah her mother bought three pairs of skates, packed meat loaf sandwiches and thermoses of cocoa, and drove Jody and her father down to the C&O Canal. For the first hour it was wonderful, right out of a Norman Rockwell painting: Mom, Dad, and Jody in mittens and long scarves, gracefully sawing their way back and forth across the ice. Then Jody’s father fell, landed on his coccyx, rode home facedown sprawled across the backseat, and spent the next month sitting on inflatable rings intended for infant use in swimming pools.

“Of course you can,” Claire said, pulling her toward the rink. “Tell me when you get tired and we’ll take a rest.”

Jody and Claire wobbled out of the clubhouse walking on the thin blades like demented ducks. The skaters whirled past, and the only way to get onto the ice was to take a running start, a flying leap. If you hesitated, they’d crush you.

“Have you ever jumped rope?” Claire asked.

“Not recently.”

“Well, it’s like that, like jumping in.”

Jody was looking at the skaters, trying to gauge the pace, when Claire grabbed her hand and jerked her onto the ice. Jody pulled back. Around them three people fell. “Skate,” Claire said. And Jody did, at first in odd, jerking motions, and then more evenly, using her arms to swing herself forward.

“Odie,” Adam said. “Odie, take me around. Slow,” he said. “I like slow.” A three-foot, chestnut-haired, blue-eyed ladykiller. Jody took him around a few times, and then he said, “Okay, Odie — now Mom.”

Claire had introduced her and now she was on the inside, one of the gang. It wasn’t that they gushed over her or went out of their way to be nice. In fact, it was almost the opposite: she was nothing special, just a girl.

Jody delivered Adam to Claire and then took a break by the side of the rink, watching them skate as a family, Claire with Jake, Adam with Sam. It all came together — the music, the end of a winter afternoon, the perfect family. Everything they did was easy, effortless. They just did it and it came out right. Jody wanted life to be that easy. She wanted to be like them, and if she couldn’t be, then at least she hoped that maybe something would rub off. For the first time, she wanted all that Claire had been offering, that and more.

“Go on, go with Sam,” Claire said, pushing her toward where he stood a few feet away, arm already extended. “Go on.”

Jody slid her hand into Sam’s and they took off. They skated, they sailed, steering with the swing of their arms and the tilt of their legs. Jody was along for the ride, taking off on the even glide of the skates, taking in the skeletal trees against the sky, the horse-drawn carriages in the distance, the winter city near dusk. The sensation of motion, round and round, breathed life back into her. Round and round, skating the great wide circle, in matching rhythm and stride. They passed Claire and Adam, waved and called out to them, then took off again, skating faster, legs working harder, wheeling their way around. Jody imagined that people were watching them, thinking they were together. She pushed her hand farther into Sam’s. His palm was large, rough. The way he wrapped his fingers around her hand but didn’t squeeze, didn’t crush, made Jody feel good.

“Can I tell you a secret?” she asked him as they skated. “I didn’t want to come here today. I was dreading it.”

“Why?”

“Scared to meet you.”

Sam smiled. “Am I as bad as you expected, or worse?”

“I’m not sure. Do you have twelve toes, thorny toad bumps, hornrimmed glasses, and disfiguring leprosy?”

“How’d you know?” Sam asked.

“Wow,” Claire said when they finally came in for a landing, stopping only because the guards were clearing the rink so the ice could be resurfaced. “You two are fantastic together.”

Jody blushed.

Jake lifted his nose into the air. “Hot dogs,” he said. “I smell hot dogs.”