The only message of any sort that I’d received was a text from Eva, confirming that she could pick up the kids from school. She’d run some errands with them and meet me at the TC around five thirty. At least that meant I’d get to play a little tennis.
Every Friday afternoon, a revolving group of players gathered at the TC. One was in his eighties and in remarkable shape, but most were middle-aged. All had pretty decent games. Richard, the pro who was on the membership committee with me, was always there, pairing people up for doubles matches. We’d play a set and then rotate around.
I left the house not long after two thirty, with my tennis bag in one arm and the rifle in the other. I carefully placed both in the trunk of my car and went back into the house to get my swim things and a change of clothes. I had planned to return the gun before playing tennis, but even with so little to do, I still got going too late.
I drove to the TC and parked my car at the far end of the lot, in the shade. I took one more look at my email. I was trying my hardest not to read into their silence. I decided to send Cliff a text: “Haven’t heard from you. Assuming all is well and Alex and Holly are finally eating a proper meal. Did you see those videos I sent you?”
I had a few minutes before the other players would start arriving. I called my mother. She picked up before the first ring.
“Still on for lunch next week?” I asked. I guess her date was affecting me more than I wanted to admit.
“He was supposed to call today, but he didn’t,” she said, sounding a little disappointed, before changing course. “Are you going to play tennis?”
“I am.” I was usually the one to switch subjects so quickly.
“Enjoy. Your father never took time to enjoy things. I’m glad you are.”
I hesitated before hanging up.
“What is it, Raj?”
She’d always had a knack for sensing my tremors.
“Nothing.” I considered how much I wanted to share with her. As often as we talked, I was seldom fully honest about any problems in my life. I was her only son; I wanted to be confident and unblemished. But maybe what I was being was dishonest. “I’ve had a tough week, Ma. I’m pretty tired.” I gave her a rundown of all the terrible things that had happened in the past five days. The only thing I didn’t mention was my fear of being fired. For her, having a job was the best and greatest defense against chaos. Anything could be managed as long as there was a monthly check coming in.
“That does sound tough,” she said, clearly worried. “I’m glad you’re going to tennis. The exercise will make you feel better. Get on that court. I always feel so refreshed and clearheaded after my hikes. In a better state of mind to make decisions.”
“Could we all just move in with you?” I joked.
“Hot meals every night, and your mother in your business all the time.” She laughed. “I’ll come visit you soon.”
We said goodbye and hung up. I got out of the car and saw that someone had pulled in a few spaces away while I’d been on the phone. A red Mini. And Robert was in the driver’s seat, staring at me.
I walked toward him. “What the hell are you doing here?” I asked, with equal parts anger and bewilderment. He opened his door and stepped out. In the days that had passed since we’d first spoken, he’d come to look even skinnier. His face was gaunt. We were standing close to each other. He had me by at least two inches, but he seemed shrunken, slumped from his hunger strike. “How long have you been following me?”
“I haven’t been following you. I know you’re a member here. I assumed you would arrive sooner or later.”
“How do you know I’m a member?”
Robert didn’t respond.
“You followed me yesterday to the gas station,” I said, feeling relieved that my suspicions were true, that I wasn’t descending into unfounded paranoia. “I saw your car. Did you follow me home too? Are you the one who’s been calling me?”
“No,” he said, confused. “What calls?”
“Please tell me you weren’t in my yard last night,” I said, now feeling righteous. “Because if you were —”
“What would you do?” he snapped, a bit of light in his eyes.
I tried counting my breaths to calm down. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what he would do. I thought of the gun. I had my car keys in my hand; I could pop the trunk with the click of a button.
“I don’t understand what you want. Why are you taking these videos of me? Why are you sending them to me?” I softened my tone, trying to remember that this was a young man, a student. “What are you trying to say to me?”
He thought for a moment.
“You’ve challenged us in class constantly,” Robert said. “And I appreciate that. For so much of this term, I felt like I was a part of something when I came to your class. That you valued what I was saying. I don’t feel that way anymore, but maybe I want to. I guess I thought you might like those other videos. That’s how I see you, unedited.”
“I’m glad you felt welcome in my class, and I’d like for that to continue. But you can’t follow me around like this. It’s completely inappropriate. We could have had this conversation in my office.”
He looked around as if just realizing that’s not where we were. “This is a nice place. I wish I’d had a place like this when I was growing up. The tennis courts near my house were covered in weeds.”
“I’ve always wanted to play on grass,” I said, trying to bring some levity to the conversation.
He smiled tentatively. “I’m not sure I’d feel comfortable in a place like this, though. It’s too fancy. I’d always be nervous about what I was wearing and whether I was saying or doing the wrong thing.” He paused for a few seconds. “Aren’t you? There must not be a lot of people like you here.”
That certainly was true, but I didn’t appreciate the assumption that his discomforts were mine.
“I’m actually fine,” I said, knowing that he might not take that well. “I’m pretty comfortable here.”
“How can you afford all this?” he asked. Not surprising. He seemed always to lash out when he felt shut down or rejected. “I know you don’t want to talk about your salary, but I don’t get how you’re keeping all this together.”
“I think it’s time for you to leave, Robert. Come see me on Monday if you’d like. We can talk more.” I could see a few men assembling on the court. The better players would arrive first; I wanted to make sure I got a good game. I also wanted Robert to leave.
“I don’t have to go anywhere,” Robert said like a petulant child. “This is America. I have the right to peacefully assemble.”
I shuffled the keys in my hand, wanting to get my tennis bag. How well hidden was the gun? “Indeed it is,” I said. “But this is a private club, and nobody has invited you here. As a member, I have the right to ask you to leave. So please leave.”
We had no security guard or anything of the sort. The place policed itself. If you weren’t invited, you didn’t come in. I doubt that, in the history of the TC, anyone had ever had to be asked to leave.
I popped the trunk. There was my worn Babolat tennis bag and, next to it, the rifle. Not very well hidden. I grabbed the bag and closed the trunk as fast as I could. I looked at Robert, who was eying the back of the car. He had obviously seen. “I’m going to go play some tennis,” I said, turning away.
He got back into his car, and I headed to the courts. I noticed Richard standing nearby; he’d been listening to the exchange. I wondered how much he’d heard.
“Grade dispute,” I said, trying to lighten the mood.
I thought Richard might laugh at the joke, but he didn’t crack.
“Raj, why don’t you take my place?” Phil, one of the better regulars, asked when I got to the court. “My knee feels weak.”
Without considering it, I ripped open my bag, pulled out a racquet, and did some cursory stretching.
“I’m good to go,” I said, signaling that I didn’t need any war
m-up. While none of these players seemed to be avoiding me, they weren’t openly friendly either. I hoped my play would take care of everything.
Despite all the noise in my head, I hit a crisp first return. But it was a struggle to stay focused on the game while I could see Robert’s car, still parked in the shade. He’d started the engine but hadn’t gone anywhere.
I lost the first game; I wished I’d taken the time to warm up properly. It was my turn to serve, which required more warming up than any other shot; it used every part of your body, each muscle working as a separate lever in a complex, sequential machine. And yet, I waved off offers to take some practice serves; I couldn’t slow down, not today. The first serve I hit bulleted to the court to the right of us. I had no idea how I’d done that. I tried again, with the same result, and double faulted the first point. And the second. I could sense my partner and opponents growing impatient. Winning or losing didn’t matter here. But getting in a proper game did.
Richard was watching me. He motioned to toss the ball higher and farther to my left. I finally got one in, spinning it so that it traveled along a high arc and landed right in the middle of the service box. The guy returning it stepped in and crushed the ball back. It was past me before I’d taken a step. And then I double-faulted the fourth point. I turned to Richard, but he turned away.
In the changeover, I saw the backup lights go on in Robert’s car. He swung out and drove away. Some semblance of focus returned to me. For the next several games, I played as I’d envisioned myself playing when I ran onto the court. I wasn’t sure it was enough to make up for that terrible start, though.
When we were done with our set, I checked my phone. There was a message from a number I didn’t recognize. I was about to listen to it when another call came in. It was Cliff.
“You playing?” Richard asked, annoyed.
I stuck up my index finger to signal that I needed a minute. I answered the phone.
“I got your email,” Cliff said. “Can you talk?”
“Sure.” I couldn’t tell from his tone what he was going to say. “I just got finished talking to Robert.”
“Are you on campus? Is he?”
“No,” I said. “He followed me to this place where I play tennis.” I didn’t want Cliff to know I belonged to a tennis club. Even though I was pretty sure Cliff wouldn’t judge me for it, I felt guilty about the life of leisure it suggested. “As you may have noticed, he likes following me around.”
“You play tennis?” Cliff asked. This had always been the hallmark of his writing: the artful digression.
“I do.”
“Why don’t I know that? We should play.”
“That would be great,” I said, trying not to sound impatient with this tangent.
“What happened with Robert?” Cliff asked.
“I just had a mild shouting match with him. That’s what I’ve become. A shouter. I asked him to stop following me.”
“Those videos are completely inappropriate. It’s bad enough that he took them, but to send them to you like that is beyond the pale.”
I appreciated Cliff’s clarity.
“I want a restraining order placed against him. I think he was at my house last night.”
“We can certainly look into that,” Cliff said. “I did a quick check of his records. He’s a junior who has taken three terms off at different points during his time here. He’s been on and off financial aid. Mostly on. His grades are substandard. Academically, he’s unremarkable.”
“He’s been following me in this nice car. How does a kid like that afford it?”
“It’s not his. His roommate’s girlfriend just reported it missing. He took the keys yesterday when she was staying over. I’ll let the campus police know that he came to see you.”
At that, Cliff paused. By now, I knew the pregnancy of that pause.
“What else?”
“I’d have preferred to do this in person,” he said, now sounding resigned with having to deliver the news. “Cynthia asked me to tell you that you should take the next couple of weeks off. Dan will fill in for you. We need to let things cool down.”
I knew this was coming. And yet I still felt blindsided.
“Am I out of a job, Cliff ?”
I thought he would respond immediately: Of course not, you’ve got nothing to worry about, this is temporary. But he provided none of these assurances.
“Let’s take this one day at a time,” Cliff said. “If it was up to me, you’d be back here on Monday morning. But Cynthia is managing this now.”
I needed the job. Not only for the money and the health insurance, but because it gave me a place to go week after week, year after year, spending my time among students, a majority of whom appreciated what I was teaching them. I was a pretend intellectual who stood above all the glittering gold around me. Without the job, I didn’t know who I would be.
“Please help me with this,” I pleaded. “I need this job.”
“I’m doing all I can,” he said. “I’ll be in touch if anything else comes up.”
I hung up the phone and looked around, feeling dazed.
“You want to step out for a set?” Richard asked.
I shook my head and ran back onto the court. I could barely feel my legs. I’d thought playing would take my mind off the conversation with Cliff, but there was nothing quite like worrying about how you were going to pay your mortgage, and what you were going to do with the rest of your life, to ruin a set of tennis.
At a quarter to five, I stopped. I put my tennis bag away, grabbed my change of clothes, and headed to the shower, no energy left for the conversation ahead, after days of being jacked up for the fight with Mark.
I walked into the bathroom, which was empty, and stripped down. I turned on the shower and checked my email while the water warmed up. Nothing interesting. I listened to the voice message.
“This is a message for Raj Bhatt. It’s Dr. Brewer. You came to see us earlier this week. It’s about three o’clock on Friday. I’ll be here for another few hours. Please give me a call at the office.”
I was naked. My mouth filled with bile. Good news came from the nurse, bad news from the doctor himself. That’s how it worked, right? I dialed the number, and the longer the phone rang, the worse I felt. Finally I reached the answering service. I asked that the doctor call me back immediately. Then I got into the shower and turned the water to cold. I needed to cool off. I tried convincing myself, as I dug deep into my scalp with shampoo, that there was some rule that doctors couldn’t give test results in voicemail messages.
I got dressed, walked out of the bathroom, and went to put my tennis clothes in the car.
Years earlier, when I was first starting to teach, a friend had given me a useful piece of advice: on the first day of class, when the seats are packed, arrive a couple of minutes after the scheduled start. It created a sense of anticipation. I wanted to make an entrance.
I walked into the clubhouse several minutes after five. Everyone turned to me, and I flashed back to stepping into that frat house room years earlier. What would my name tag say now? Hi, I’m Raj Bhatt and I so wish all this had turned out differently.
In all the other meetings we’d had, Suzanne had arranged for a large cheese plate and brought along several bottles of wine. Neither the cheese nor the wine was anywhere to be seen this time, as if the conversation required a certain purity of mind that the light consumption of dairy and alcohol would impair. Everyone had arrived already, and after that initial glance, none of them looked at me again. I hoped they were trying to signal that the meeting wasn’t that big a deal, that they were merely engaged in everyday conversation, too distracted to wave hello. All of the seats on the two couches were taken. One lone chair remained, which felt entirely appropriate. I took my seat on the witness stand.
Suzanne looked at me as if this were the last thing in the world she wanted to do. “Thank you all for coming,” she began. “As you know, we’re here to make some
decisions about all the wonderful couples we’ve met in the past few weeks. We have fifteen couples and five open spots, so some difficult decisions need to be made. But before we get to that, we have other business that requires our attention. Mark is going to be here for the first ten minutes. He has asked to address the committee.”
Mark was in his scrubs. In all the years I had seen him around, he had exuded a forced formality. He never did anything without purpose. And there was such clear purpose to showing up in scrubs. What he needed to say was serious enough to pull him away from the real work of making hearts beat—as if the collective heart of the TC needed salvation. If I’d had any inkling that he was going to show up like this, I would have gone out and bought myself camo fatigues; obviously, he was ready for war.
“Thanks, Suzanne,” Mark said.
He had not yet made eye contact with me. I locked in on him.
“Many of you know that Jan and I are deeply involved in some philanthropies around town that we hold near and dear. Even though we didn’t have much growing up, I was raised with the idea that service is as important a virtue as anything else. It is the single most important value we have instilled in our children. I’ve been working at the same hospital for my entire career. Years ago, when I got the job offer, I accepted on one condition—that I could have a gap year of sorts. During that year, I traveled with a group of doctors to sub-Saharan Africa where we tended to the basic health needs of the population. Then I spent some time working at a hospital in the Bronx where I treated early cases of young men dying of AIDS. Both those experiences were extremely formative. They taught me that we must always strive to do better for the people around us. Years later, I heard of a young senator from Illinois who wanted to help us find that more perfect union, and I sent him as much money as I could. I’m sharing this not to pat myself on the back, but because I want you to know exactly where I’m coming from. That you all understand that I only want what is best for us.”
Mark had a stirring speaking voice. I’m sure he could deliver one hell of a eulogy, or give an inspirational speech to his residents about the healing power of touch when administering medical care. Now he was playing lawyer, giving his opening statement. Had the speech not been all about me, I might have been more willing to weigh the good with the bad.
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