“Do you understand that there are legal implications? He could sue the club.”
“For what?”
“Hostility. Racial bias. Discrimination.”
“Then I should have sued this club long ago.” But I didn’t want to talk about my grievances right then. “You don’t understand, Suzanne. I wasn’t being hostile.”
“What else do you call that? I saw the way you stared at him when he came in, when he was talking about choosing medical school over pro tennis. The envy was pouring out of you.”
It took me a few seconds to register what she was saying. I wanted to hang out with Bill; I wanted to be him. And so yes, I was envious. But it wasn’t a hostile envy. Is that what they all thought I was feeling? “Are you kidding?” I asked, my voice louder and more forceful than before.
“Raj, I’m not going to argue with you about this, but I think you need to resign from the committee. We all do. I’ll call Mark and let him know. And you’re going to have to apologize. To both the Browns and the Blacks.”
“Fuck that.” The words came out, once again, before I could stop or soften them. All of them wanted me to resign? I trusted Leslie with my kids. I’d had an insightful conversation with Stan the other day about Dostoyevsky.
I was certainly going to apologize to Bill. I’d stop by the hospital in the morning, or send him and Valerie an email. But I wasn’t going to let Suzanne and the rest of the committee dictate how that apology went. I needed to do it on my own terms.
“Sorry. Let me start again.” I ran my fingers through my hair, this time feeling like I had more control of my racing thoughts. “As I said earlier, I know I messed up. Big time. But I’m not resigning.”
“We like you, Raj. We like your family. Please don’t do anything to jeopardize that.”
These words, more than any others that had been uttered that evening, felt as sharp as a knife, slicing the dark space between us.
“Are you threatening me?”
I couldn’t see her face. And she didn’t immediately respond.
“No,” she finally said, in a steady, slow voice that I’d never heard from her before. “I’m just trying to make things right.”
“So am I. I’ll see you at that meeting on Friday.” I walked to my car.
Once inside, I sat in the dark of the driver’s seat and watched as Suzanne walked back to the clubhouse. My hand was unsteady as I tried to fit the key into the ignition. I turned on a light.
For years, I had been meticulous about my car, keeping it clean and organized, washing it inside and out every weekend. Now, granola bar wrappers littered the floor, shattered potato chips ground into the folds of the seats, and a layer of thick dust caked on the dashboard. I put the key in, started the car, and then noticed a headless Lego man near the gearbox. I examined it for a few seconds and, unsure of what else to do with it, put it back. I pulled out of my spot, my front left tire screeching against the body of the car where I’d gotten into a fender bender several months before. Mine was the anti-Tesla, noisily announcing itself everywhere it went.
There was no gate at the entrance of the club. As I waited to merge onto the street, I closed my eyes for a few seconds, hoping to gain some clarity, as Bill seemed to from his prayer beads. When I opened them again, I glanced in the rearview mirror. There was no one behind me. But I saw a small wooden sign attached to a stake in the ground, one that I had seen a hundred times before. Eventually, I had stopped noticing it. Now it was as if it were lit up only for me—THE TENNIS CLUB—and right below, in smaller letters, two words shining in the glow from the lamp on the ground beneath it: MEMBERS ONLY.
I put the car in reverse and drove close to the sign. When I got out, I saw the committee through the large bay window of the clubhouse. Suzanne was saying something to the rest of the group. They were all listening, but then Leslie noticed that I was outside. She turned toward me. One by one, the rest of them did as well, as if they were all on shore and I had boarded a ship set to sail. What were they all thinking? Did they think I was one of them? I looked back at the sign, still glowing, still proudly announcing its intent. I had hated that sign when we’d first joined the club, and the layers of meaning in those two simple words. And yet, I would be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy being on the inside, being part of a club that others wanted to join.
I got back into my car and drove home.
Monday
WHEN I WOKE UP the next morning, it took me a few seconds to focus on the red numbers: 5:24. My eyes were parched, as if I’d slept barely an hour, though I’d been in bed by ten and fallen off instantly. I felt around on the other side of the bed with my feet, but the sheets were cool. I stayed under the covers for another half an hour, hoping I might catch just a wink more.
Still in a morning haze, with pieces of the previous night scattered in my head, I allowed myself to think, for as long as I could, that none of it had happened. I hadn’t seen Eva and the boys before bed. I’d gone from the meeting to a restaurant, where I sat at the bar, drank a very quick beer, ate dinner, and sloppily graded some papers. I couldn’t concentrate. I’d stayed out until I knew they’d all be asleep.
When I finally got up, I made the bed, brushed my teeth, and walked down the hall. I peeked into Neel’s room and, from the bit of morning light coming through his curtains, saw an open toolbox, plastic tubing, a hammer and nails, scattered Matchbox cars, and a stack of books on the floor. A sign made of toothpicks and nails spelling out NEEL hung on his door. Across the hall, Arun had written out his name in crayon and drawn a picture of himself, and carefully taped it to his door. The floor of his room was bare; on one bookshelf, his books were organized by size, and on another, he had every Lego he had ever built, organized by genre. On his bedside table was a glass of water for when he got thirsty at night. He often called for Eva in the very early hours of the morning, and now she was spooning him, and he was spooning a large, stuffed wolf.
As names go, “Neel” and “Arun” were pretty unremarkable. But we had put a lot of thought into them. When my parents were naming me, all they considered was what the name meant. Rajesh, “ruler of kings.” Raj, “king.” After two daughters, the king had finally arrived. The choice was easy: they assumed that the name would only ever need to roll off Indian tongues. But then we had immigrated and I was lucky. “Raj” was easy. The question for Eva and me was how to maintain some cultural specificity for our brown boys without risking complete destruction on the playground. Thus, Neel and Arun. Both easy to pronounce, both vaguely ethnic.
Though my name meant king, as a child I’d often acted a little prince—as my sisters liked to remind me. In Bombay, on our walk to school every morning, I insisted that they each clasp one of my hands the entire way. In the rainy season, they both had to hold an umbrella over me because I hated to get wet. Once when I did, I had one of them go home and get me a dry shirt. Since then, they often bought me umbrella-themed birthday gifts—actual umbrellas, T-shirts, industrial-sized packs of cocktail umbrellas. As far as I could tell, the teasing was playful; they were both too busy, successful, and well adjusted to hold a grudge—Swati, the eldest, most of all, maybe because of how old she’d been when we arrived in America, or maybe because of her naturally sharp focus. Two years in an American high school; Berkeley undergrad; straight into marriage and a child; and then Silicon Valley, before they called it that. Now, her one daughter had graduated from Wesleyan and was working for Swati at the microlending startup she’d founded after cashing out at two different companies. My other sister, Rashmi, had followed in our paternal grandfather’s footsteps and become a lawyer. She lived in San Francisco, had two kids, and usually worked deep into the weekends.