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  As I sat there burning, I wondered just how bad this was going to be.

  On those bus rides home in high school, I had teethed on the details and matters of black life. After some headbanging to Ozzy and Black Sabbath in middle school, listening to N.W.A for the first time felt like genuine rebellion. I certainly didn’t live in Compton. But I understood Ice Cube’s rage, and listening to it through cheap headphones in my bedroom gave voice to my confusion, my feeling that I was on the outside, unsure of how to get inside, of where inside would even be.

  In college, I’d made a personal religion out of Ralph Ellison, the outward anger of N.W.A now replaced by a considered philosophical probing of not being seen. The first time I read the last line of Invisible Man, it brought me to tears. Who knows but that, on lower frequencies, I speak for you? You do, Ralph. Yes, you do. And maybe, on some other frequency, I speak for you, Bill? If Bill knew the invisibility that I’d felt, which I suspected he did, then I hoped that would mean he and I could see each other clearly. That he would know exactly what I meant—that I was nothing like the others on the committee, that I was reaching out to him, albeit in a stupid way.

  I was staring down at my feet, and when I finally raised my head up, I noticed that Bill was running his thumb and index finger over each of the prayer beads he wore around his wrist. I couldn’t bring myself to turn away from the movement of those beads, hoping somehow they would bring me peace too.

  The silence lasted somewhere between a few seconds and forever. My entire back was soaked in sweat; my ears were ringing. Outside, the last of the daylight was gone.

  “No, honestly,” Bill said at last, flashing an absurdly handsome smile. “I’m that rusty. But let’s hit some balls soon, Raj. We can team up.”

  It was the kindest thing anyone had done for me in a very long time. I now wanted desperately to be his friend, but I knew that the next time I saw him, he’d turn away and keep walking. I’d done something so stupid and wrong, made so much worse by the fact that I’d done it in front of this particular audience, forcing Bill and Valerie to choose between the anger that was their right and the compassion Bill had shown.

  Suzanne said nothing. She just sat there horror-stricken, trying to figure out how to manage the situation and bring the interview to a close.

  I don’t clearly remember the minutes that followed. It felt like I was underwater, that there was conversation going on above that I couldn’t piece together. But it seemed like everyone was trying hard to put the moment behind them.

  “Those earrings are beautiful,” Valerie said to Suzanne.

  “Really?” Suzanne said, fiddling with them. “I designed them myself. They’re inspired by a trip my family took to India. I so loved the place and the people. They’d look beautiful on you. I’ll send you some.”

  I suppressed the urge to roll my eyes. She loved all of the one billion people in India? A lot of dumb stuff had been said that night, and that was definitely near the top of the list. But I knew that I, of course, was by far at the top.

  “No, no,” Valerie said, “I couldn’t.” She seemed taken aback by the intimacy of the offer.

  “I’d like to,” Suzanne said, an almost pleading tone in her voice, as if a pair of fancy earrings could ease the awkwardness of the moment.

  “That’d be nice. Thank you.”

  “Did you play a sport in college?” Stan asked Valerie.

  “I didn’t,” she said, turning to Stan, and added before he could ask: “UCLA. Just a fan.”

  There were a series of conversations going on around the room. Leslie was busy talking to Mark and Jan about their time in Spain, telling them how much she’d loved her study abroad year in Seville. Bill was talking to Richard about the rigors of junior tennis. I was having trouble getting Bill’s attention. Somehow, I needed to get him alone so that we could talk.

  We were now well past the fifteen-minute mark that we allotted for each couple. Suzanne didn’t place her interlaced fingers on her lap. Instead, she let the conversation die down naturally. And when it did, she said, “Thank you so much for coming. We’ll be in touch very soon.”

  The meeting came to a close. Once again, the Browns shook hands with everyone, and when they got to me, Valerie had a kind, calm expression on her face, perhaps the one she typically reserved for when a skinhead with a bullet-­ridden chest rolled into her operating room. Bill shook my hand as well, gave me a muted smile. When they left the room with the Blacks, I wanted to follow, to apologize in the privacy of the darkening evening outside.

  “I’m going to see if I can catch the Browns before they leave,” I said. I didn’t expect any opposition. This was precisely what they all wanted to hear.

  And with that, I ran out of the clubhouse, into the night and toward the cars. There were no lights in the parking lot, but at the far end I could see an SUV backing out of its spot. As it came toward me, I stepped forward, hoping it was the Browns. I wasn’t sure if they knew I was out there, but as the car got closer, the headlights shined directly at me. The car slowed down. Thank god, they were going to stop. But then they maneuvered away from me, and as they passed, I could see Valerie in the passenger seat, illuminated from the light of her cell phone. Bill was saying something to her, with his eyes on the road. They drove out of the lot before I could catch their attention.

  I turned back toward the clubhouse, and through the windows I could see that the rest of the committee was still there, in animated conversation.

  In the dark, I felt so horribly alone, with the light from the bright stars above not quite making it down to me. It was the first cool night after a long summer, and the damp air felt refreshing on my skin. How had I become the one who, again and again, filled every last bit of silence with some stupid joke? Why was I incapable of learning a simple lesson? Shut up, Raj.

  I headed to my car.

  “Raj.”

  The sound echoed in the parking lot, the voice coming from the dark, as if a hellhound were barking my name. I heard heels tapping on the ground in quick succession. I stopped and waited. Finally, Suzanne appeared. The only light came from the clubhouse, and when she stood close to me, I couldn’t see her very clearly.

  When I had first met her and her husband Jack, it had been a very hot day and our kids were all swimming in the pool. We were talking in the shallow end, and after I told them what I did for a living, they spent the rest of our time together trying to persuade me that a liberal arts education was a waste of time and money.

  “If they want to read books, they should go to the library. They should be learning to do something when they’re in college. Be a doctor, an engineer.”

  I had reduced Suzanne to those words, convinced that she thought all human endeavors had to have utility. And yet, every time I saw her after, she did and said things that surprised me, often inquiring about and showing a genuine interest in what I was teaching that term.

  The previous week, we’d been the last ones left after the membership meeting, cleaning up together. In the parking lot, as we were about to get into our cars, a little drunk off the wine and the power to say yes or no, laughing and making fun of the couples we had seen that night, she had told me about her visit to the Taj Mahal. “What a luminous place,” she’d said. “I was so happy to have Jack and my boys at my side. But as I gazed at all that marble, I realized that no one would ever build something so majestic in honor of me. I know it sounds ridiculous. Of course they wouldn’t. But still I was left with such a deep, profound melancholy. It was almost like my whole body was melting away.”

  Several seconds passed without either of us saying anything.

  “Maybe it was the summer heat,” I finally offered.

  There were a few more seconds of silence and then she belted out this wild, beautiful laughter that echoed in the empty parking lot.

  Now here we were again, though I imagined the conversation would be rather different.

  “Did you catch them?” Suzanne asked in a soft v
oice.

  “No.” I’d wanted to so badly. And now I wished I’d gotten in my car immediately after the Browns had driven away. I needed to be by myself, and I certainly didn’t want to talk this through with Suzanne.

  “What happened back there?” Suzanne asked in a gentle yet stern tone that I suspect she used with her children after they’d thrown a temper tantrum.

  My mind felt like a hive of bickering bees. I ran my fingers through my hair, as if that might help order my thinking. “I said something terrible. I didn’t mean to, it just came out. Now I feel sick to my stomach.” Much as I desperately wanted to, I couldn’t take this back. “I get the sense that you and the rest of the committee are very concerned about it.”

  “Yes, we are.”

  I mean, who wouldn’t be? But still it rankled that after years of turning the other way, they were finally taking a stand on something.

  “I’m not making an excuse for myself here, but I didn’t see that same concern from everyone when that woman called me Kumar. I know they’re not the same. But still.”

  “I’m sorry about that. She’s an idiot and they’re going on the bottom of the list. But you know this is of an entirely different magnitude. You just called—you called an African-American man, an African-American doctor . . .” Her voice dropped off.

  “I didn’t,” I said. “And what does it matter that he’s a doctor?”

  “Several people in there would disagree with that. Everyone heard it. We’re all horrified. And no, it doesn’t matter that he’s a doctor, but you know exactly what I mean. It would have been equally bad if you said it to someone else.”

  I wasn’t going to explain to her the difference in intention and the crucial replacement of the “er” with an “a” in what I had said. But then I did.

  “I’m not your student,” Suzanne said, snapping at me. “And I don’t live under a rock. And neither do you.”

  I was figuring out how best to reply, but Suzanne continued on, as if reciting a script the committee had hastily put together for her.

  “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.

  Between loans and legal help, I was covered in case of emergency.

  We all got together a few times a year and always at Thanksgiving, at the family house in the East Bay, where our mother still lived. It was a simple tract home we’d moved into several years after we immigrated. Before that we’d lived in a dingy apartment behind a Kmart and then in a brand-new condominium that was eventually too small for a family of five. In the bare backyard of the new house, my father had dug holes and planted roses, grape vines, and peach, plum, and pear trees. After long days of work, he was happiest tending to his flora. He’d been dead a decade, but still I often thought of him, lingered on his precise movements in the garden, especially when I was working in my own backyard.