Members Only Read online

  Contents

  * * *

  Title Page

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Sunday

  Monday

  Tuesday

  Wednesday

  Thursday

  Friday

  The God of Removing Obstacles

  Acknowledgments

  A Conversation with Sameer Pandya

  Discussion Questions

  About the Author

  Connect with HMH

  Copyright © 2020 by Sameer Pandya

  A Conversation with Sameer Pandya © 2020 by Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company

  Discussion Questions © 2020 by Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company

  All rights reserved

  For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to [email protected] or to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 3 Park Avenue, 19th Floor, New York, New York 10016.

  hmhbooks.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Pandya, Sameer, author.

  Title: Members only / Sameer Pandya.

  Description: Boston : Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2020.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2019033955 (print) | LCCN 2019033956 (ebook) | ISBN 9780358098546 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780358100508 (ebook) | ISBN 9780358379928 (trade paper)

  Classification: LCC PS3616.A368 M46 2020 (print) | LCC PS3616.A368 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019033955

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019033956

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, organizations, and events are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Martha Kennedy

  Cover photograph: Gatsi / iStock / Getty Images

  Author photograph © Lauren Ross

  v1.0620

  For Emilie

  Sunday

  WE WERE JUST starting our third night of interviews, and I felt the kind of weariness that comes from having wasted time.

  “Raj,” I said, introducing myself to the first couple.

  The man was wearing a casual half-sleeve shirt, and his wife was refreshingly unremarkable—in a loose dress, her hair in a simple ponytail. I liked them for it, but only for about ten seconds.

  “Rog?” the wife asked, leaning in.

  It was a question I had been asked too many times in my life.

  “Raaaj,” I exaggerated.

  “As in Federer?”

  I feigned a smile, unsure if she was joking. They moved on, introducing themselves to the rest of the membership committee.

  The committee—Suzanne, the efficient and disciplined chair; Stan, a balding sixtyish lawyer; Richard, a leather-skinned club pro; Leslie, a childhood friend of my wife; and I—had a particularly difficult task. Over the course of two evenings the previous week, we had already spoken with ten different couples about why they wanted to join the Tennis Club, simple nouns elevated to proper status. Tonight, we would talk to still more and then choose five out of the total fifteen to let in.

  The club had opened several decades before, in the early seventies, when couples were riding high from breaking rules in the sixties and yet wanted to make sure their children knew how to slice a backhand properly. The original membership had been a mixture of old money and lawyers and doctors, all of whom downplayed the breadth of their bank accounts. But the past several years had brought the movie and hedge fund people, who’d bought up the old estates and come driving into town in cars that were never more than a year old. As the town’s gilding glowed ever brighter, the club—or the TC, as it was known among members—had continued on, a simple place with eight courts, a swimming pool, and a rustic clubhouse with worn wicker couches. No flat-screen TVs, no towel service; there was a soda machine that still charged fifty cents for a Coke. Simplicity was the brand. And the simpler it stayed, the more people wanted to join, perhaps to rub off some of their new-money sheen. The membership committee was tasked with bringing in families that had some sense of that earlier, understated ethos, as well as some of the newer sort, who paid their monthly dues but generally preferred to use their home swimming pools and tennis courts.

  My wife, Eva, had grown up coming here, her parents a little ambivalent about its clubbiness and yet appreciative of that selfsame simplicity. When we moved to town, we had joined together, though both of us were concerned by how quickly we were losing our urbanity. I, in particular, had fought the idea of the place, though quietly, somewhere inside, I knew I had been drawn to its luster. But for me, tennis courts and swimming pools were meant to be public. I had honed my tennis skills on muni courts in the East Bay, after my family had moved to California from Bombay. I was hazed into playing better by a group of Filipinos who worked the night shift at the post office, slept several hours in the morning, and then set up shop at the courts until they had to go to work again.

  In high school, I secretly hated the kids on our team, who, with their multiple, freshly gripped racquets and unscuffed Nikes, went off to private clubs after practice for further instruction. They had at least one parent who came to all their matches, while my parents were always working. I could sense then the deeper differences between us, though I didn’t yet have the language to articulate them, or the experience with which to understand them.

  But, somehow, now, I had grown to love belonging to my own club—or at least parts of it. I loved the late afternoon matches when the soft winter California sun lit up the surrounding hills in orange phosphorescence. I loved grilling meat with our friends while the children swam and swooped in for bites of hot dog. I loved diving into the pristine pool, swimming the length in one breath, and appearing at the other end, refreshed and alive. And most of all, I loved being there with Eva and our boys when the place was empty, hitting balls on a court and then jumping into the pool, the four of us a perfectly self-contained pod.

  In most every way, the club was not so different from the club my family had belonged to before we left Bombay. We’d joined a gymkhana—one of many clubs that had originally been made for British colonials, but later, by the time we were members, were populated mostly by Bombay’s upper middle class—after my father had gotten a big promotion. That was where I’d swum in a pool for the first time, and after swimming I’d lounge in the comfortable, dilapidated clubhouse with a mango lassi and a vegetable frankie.

  I had easily blended into the background at the gymkhana; not so much at the TC.

  “Can we get you anything?” Suzanne asked, pointing to a side table spread with cheese, dried meat, and wine. The couple and their sponsors—every prospective new member needed a sponsoring couple—sat on one side of the center table, and we all sat on the other. They said no. The couples who declined a glass of wine were usually the nervous ones, the ones I tried to put at ease.

  “Why don’t you tell us a little about your family and your interest in tennis?”

  Suzanne exuded order—her milky, unblemished skin, contrasted by her shiny dark brown hair; her expensive outfits draped over her wispy body, always impossibly pressed; her immaculate Tesla. Suzanne easily fit in with countless other women at the TC who spent their days marinating in their luck and good fortune. But she was also something more: driven, smart, restless. She’d had a full, successful career as a management consultant before she stopped to have kids. Now, our older sons were in the fourth grade together, and she was the head of the PTA. She brought a certain fat-trimming zeal to that group, as well as the TC’s membership committee, several nonprofit b
oards, and her own home, none of which seemed to burn her substantial reserve of fuel. Eva liked her for who she had been, but not for what she had become—a sharp, skilled woman who now devoted too much of her time to the success of her children. I liked her for the impatience she was unable to hide from her face during some of the interviews. Like this one.

  “Who doesn’t love tennis?” the husband asked. At first it seemed like a rhetorical question, but then he continued, lowering his voice a bit and raising his eyebrows so that his eyes got bigger: “But actually, I do find myself getting a little bored after a while. Like, is this all there is? A game comprised entirely of hitting a yellow ball back and forth into a bunch of squares?” He was holding his arms out and his palms up in mock exasperation, as if he had just delivered the punch line in a comedy routine.

  I bit my lip not to laugh. I appreciated his honesty, but man, he’d gotten his audience wrong. His wife seemed to lean slightly away from him. Both Suzanne and Leslie gave him a tight, polite frown.

  “I know that feeling,” I said, trying to pull him away from the nervous wilderness he was entering. “I’m often thinking about other things on the court, but then a ball comes whizzing by and I’m back.”

  The husband just sat there, not taking my help. I wondered if he would have taken the lead if Stan or Richard had offered.

  Sensing that things might be going south, the sponsors interjected, talking about how wonderful the applicants were, how much their children would take to the game. And for the next ten minutes, the committee discussed family, tennis, and community, topics that had been preassigned to each of us by Suzanne. I talked about the strong communal sensibility of the club.

  As the fifteen-minute mark neared, Suzanne interlaced her fingers and placed them on her lap, her tell that she was ready to wind the interview down. “Thank you so much for coming in. We’re going to be meeting at the end of the week and we’ll let you know.”

  As we were all saying our goodbyes, the wife turned to me and said, “It was lovely meeting you, Kumar.”

  I looked straight at her for a few long seconds before responding. Messing up my easy name earlier was one thing. But this was something else entirely, not even in the same ballpark. I could feel my back tighten. “It’s Raj,” I finally said, feeling a sliver of heartbreak.

  The expression on her face changed. I couldn’t tell if it was embarrassment or defiance or indifference. At least if she’d been embarrassed, I’d know she felt bad. I noticed, too, that Suzanne was listening to the exchange. Her face had slightly contorted, as if she’d just witnessed a car crash and knew that I had gotten rear-ended. The rest of the committee had either not heard it or, as was typical with this group when something untoward happened, didn’t know how to react.

  The woman had leaned closer to her husband and was now cradled in his arms. They were amiably chatting with the other committee members.

  A few months before, Suzanne had asked me to be on the committee, saying that I would be “a perfect addition, a friendly face.” I remember the quote because the words, and their juxtaposition, had wormed through my ears for days. What exactly was I adding? I was, indeed, quite friendly. But was my presence also a show of diversity? Did they all think I was the token who wouldn’t rock the boat? I hated the idea that this was what they thought of me, and yet I’d proven them right by not barking at that woman for calling me Kumar. There were already too many TC events—Labor Day barbecues, Wednesday evening doubles socials—where I clearly stood out, but pretended not to. And that’s why at first I didn’t want to be on the committee. And yet I knew that if I didn’t do it, the TC would likely continue on the same as ever.

  Privately I had a plan: I wanted to darken the TC, which had only a handful of nonwhite members, all of whom had white spouses, as I did. It was my midlife project, after years of ignoring the fact that all of the social circles I had been part of—high school, college, graduate school, work—were overwhelmingly white. I had tried not to make too much of this fact. I had convinced myself that my presence in these circles was the start of the change I wanted to see in the world. But then that change never seemed to come. It was almost always just me and a lot of kind, well-meaning white folks. There are members here who still refer to “Orientals” and ask me about the “African mind.” And in the face of it, I’ve mostly said nothing, because I just want to play some tennis and not give a lecture.

  My family had arrived in America not long after my eighth birthday, and I had started the third grade in a threadbare public school. The first friend I made lived upstairs from us, his family recent refugees from Vietnam. Perhaps because of the basic lunches we all ate in the school cafeteria together or the small apartments we returned to at the end of the day, I got along with the white and black kids, moving easily between them. But starting around junior high, I noticed that there were classes filled with mostly white kids and classes filled with all black kids. I was placed in the “advanced,” white classrooms. And by the time I arrived in high school, the divisions felt cemented. I spent the school hours with my white friends, who, at the end of the day, walked home up the hill, while all the black kids and I took buses back to our neighborhoods far away. It was only some years later that I connected the image of all those buses lined up after school with the policy of busing. The black students were brought in to diversify the school, but remained very much separate within it.

  And throughout this time, there was only the smallest handful of Indians. In that environment, I’d come to see myself as the person in the middle, someone who could talk to everyone, translate across the aisle, and bring people together. Maybe it was that I hated conflict, or maybe I could genuinely empathize with different points of view, find some common ground.

  When we’d first started the interviews the previous week, it was a thrill to sip local wine, sit back, and watch how the machinery operated. Couples came in, some nervous, others overly confident. Their sponsors peacocked, we dog-whistled about the importance of family and the culture of the club, and I pulled out my go-to phrase about how this was “our shared backyard.” I was very aware of the fact that, for once in my life, I was in a position of judgment, and I could sense—like a dog can sense a coming earthquake—that this made a lot of the potential candidates uncomfortable. When a couple first walked in, they would chat easily with the other committee members, but with me they seemed at a loss for how to make small talk. I enjoyed it all in the way my historian friends enjoy discovering a hidden corner of an archive, a trove of formerly redacted documents returned to their original integrity that finally prove whatever they’d long been hypothesizing about a certain time, place, and event.

  Now, as we were reaching the end of the selection process, not having interviewed even one Asian-American couple, I had the sinking feeling in my belly that I was on a small raft, trying to make my way up the white water instead of down. I knew most of these sponsors. I liked many of them. We tended to share similar views on organic produce and politics. And yet, no one had sponsored a couple who did not, in some much more literal way, replicate themselves. I couldn’t help but feel that my efforts at darkening the TC were going to be thwarted despite my best intentions; at the end of this whole process, I’d still be one of the darkest folks around, which didn’t say much. And thus, as the next couple and their sponsors filtered into the room, I continued to be struck with the weariness that comes from having wasted time.

  For the next three interviews, I kept mouthing incensed lines to myself: “It’s Jane, right? Oh, Amy? Sorry, they sound so similar.” “No, it’s Raj, not Kumar, but I do a pretty decent brownface, if that makes it easier for you.” “Why is ‘Raj’ so hard to pronounce? I get ‘Becky’ right.” I couldn’t quite parse the source of my anger. I was mad at that woman for getting my name wrong twice, but perhaps even angrier with myself, for hoping that, given time, I could be part of this club without losing some vital part of myself and my dignity.

  Another couple left
and I gazed out the clubhouse window at the fading daylight. Before I could catch myself, I let out a full, uncontrolled yawn.

  “Are we boring you?” Suzanne asked in a tone that seemed to cut and soothe at the same time.

  Of course I was bored. And disgusted. But I didn’t want to let Suzanne or anyone else in on how vulnerable I felt. “No, no. The kids haven’t been sleeping well lately. Bed-wetting.” A lie, but the first excuse I thought of.

  Suzanne’s boys seemed as if they had never peed or eaten or talked out of turn. On the court, they mimicked perfectly the strokes the pros had taught them; they seemed destined to become either the Bryan or the Menendez brothers.

  I could sense a slight tremor on her face, as if my fibbed account of our familial chaos would rub off on her.

  “There are ways to stop that,” she said.

  “I’m sure there are,” I said.

  I got up, walked over to the food, poured myself more wine in a plastic cup, tossed a sweaty piece of aged Gouda in my mouth, and went back to my seat.

  “The Browns are our last family,” Suzanne said. “And funnily enough, their sponsors are the Blacks.” She let out a slight snort.

  It was a stupid joke, one I wished she’d not made. But unlike the woman who’d come in earlier, I could clearly sense Suzanne’s embarrassment. If I were to be charitable, perhaps she’d said it because she recognized that, in fact, there had not been any browns or blacks in these interviews. But where before I might have smiled, wanting to make her feel OK about it, wanting to be part of the joke even as I felt guilty about smiling and thereby offering my approval, now I ignored her as I sat back down. If there was one of us who was going to say something stupid and inappropriate, it was Suzanne. For all her decorum, she had a need to elicit laughter. But then again, so did I.

  Eva had warned me that this tendency would get me in trouble, and it had, on more than one occasion. In Suzanne’s case, of course, we would all laugh it off and move on. I didn’t always have that luxury.