“Henry is the Bancrofts’ son-in-law. Let’s not forget who we’re talking about.” George’s voice steadied momentarily. “Louise breezed in as a junior member when she turned twenty-five. I don’t remember that there was a single voice of opposition.”
“That was before she chose her spouse,” Peter muttered, more to himself than the assembled group.
Custom, as well as practice, dictated that children of members became junior members when they attained the age of twenty-five. Junior membership gave them all the rights and privileges of membership at a slightly reduced cost. When junior members married, the newly constituted family had to apply on its own.
“No juniors have been turned down when they came up with their own families, have they?” Wallace turned to Gail as if she might keep track of such statistics.
Gail couldn’t be certain, but if her memory served her, no grown children had been denied other than one young man who, as a teenager, had destroyed the men’s locker room and been arrested twice for minor drug charges. “I can review the files if you think it matters,” Gail replied.
“Wally’s point is that we’re sending a very clear signal that Henry, and Henry alone, is the problem.” George clenched his fist.
“So what?” Clio replied. “I don’t want him around. Make him a member, and it won’t stop there. We’ll have no way to limit whom he brings into the club.”
“We could impose specific limitations on his guest privileges,” Jack suggested.
“There are considerable restrictions already,” Gail offered. “The same person can’t come more than twice in one month, or three times in a season. These limitations safeguard against abuse.”
“You know as well as I do that Henry is prominent among his people. He’ll have friends. We’ll be opening the floodgates,” Clio replied.
“There is a legitimate issue of whether Henry will be welcome. He is different, and we certainly don’t want him to feel isolated,” Jack remarked.
“Henry and Louise aren’t going to be isolated unless you force them to be,” George countered.
“Do we need to consider the possibility of a lawsuit?” Gail tried to remember an article she had read about an all-male undergraduate social club at Harvard University. A woman had sued the Fly, as it was called, claiming that its failure to admit women deprived her of important contacts in the business world. Gail couldn’t remember how it had been resolved, but she thought it might be relevant to the discussion.
“Henry doesn’t strike me as the type to sue. He’s not”—Jack paused to select his word—“militant.”
“He bloody well should be.” The anger in George propelled him to his feet. “What are we doing?” He looked around for the answer that no one would provide.
“Sit down, George,” Jack instructed. “You’re not suggesting that Henry be exempt from discussion because of his race, are you?”
George did not reply.
“Perhaps we should follow Gail’s suggestion and take a vote.” Jack exhaled. “Let the majority of the committee determine the outcome, as we always do.”
“A vote won’t be necessary,” Clio announced. “I’m throwing a blackball.”
Gail gasped. A blackball trumped any legitimate vote and prevented the candidate from ever seeking membership in the future. That act created a permanent scar that no amount of support could undo. Although the official club rules gave each member of the committee one blackball to cast per year, in the three years Gail had served as secretary, and for as long as she could remember hearing leaks of the supposedly secret Membership Committee meetings, no one had received such treatment. Even a candidate who had been indicted on charges of tax evasion at the time of his vote was deferred, not blackballed. He pleaded guilty and ended up in prison, a two-year sentence, if she remembered correctly. For a brief moment, Gail’s mind wandered, wondering if he would reapply upon his release.
“This is outrageous. You’re not even a member of this committee.” George’s already red face seemed to explode with rage. “Richard would never do such a thing.”
This mention of Clio’s husband silenced the group. Richard Pratt had been a member of the committee for more than twenty years. Gail, who served with him for his last two, admired his natural graciousness, his gentility. In retrospect, even his more draconian choices seemed well reasoned.
Gail looked across the table at Jack’s pensive expression. She imagined he was racking his brain for snippets of conversation, if any, that he might have had with Richard over the years about race relations, about the issue of whether the Fair Lawn Country Club should be integrated. It was unlikely. Richard was a private man, that Gail knew. In the myriad charitable lunches, cocktail parties, and dinners where their paths had crossed, he rarely gave opinions or discussed personal matters. No one knew why his first marriage to Aurelia Watson, the mother of his two daughters, had ended. He never uttered a bad word, or even a snide remark, about his ex-wife, and rumor had it that his generosity toward her far exceeded his court-imposed obligations. He had been a bachelor for several years, longer than most men of comparable wealth and stature, before he met Clio, his second wife, to whom he had been married now for nearly thirty years. His devotion to her had been apparent from the very start, after they met at a brunch arranged by Jack and his wife, Constance. The look in Richard’s eye when he spoke of Clio, the gentle way that he rested his hand on the small of her back when they stood together, the quiet smile that crossed his lips when she entered a room, served as windows to his adoration.
Gail hadn’t seen Richard since his stroke the year before. She had heard reports that it had physically incapacitated him almost completely and that his mental acuity remained unpredictable, with periods of lucidity followed by moments of disorientation. Because of his condition, Clio stood in for him on the Fair Lawn Country Club’s Membership Committee and its Board of Governors. The allowance of a proxy was an unprecedented gesture. It served as a living tribute, a sign of the deep respect and fondness for Richard that was nearly universally shared.
“I spoke to Richard about it this morning. I’m simply exercising his choice,” Clio clarified.
Could Richard Pratt actually have directed such a course of action in the state he was in? If so, did he appreciate what he was doing? Gail looked around at the group of baffled faces.
“Shall we move along?” Clio asked, glancing at her gold wristwatch.
The bang of George’s fist on the table reverberated, sending a chill down Gail’s spine. She flinched.
George rose from his chair. “I have greatly misjudged you,” he said, looking Clio straight in the eye. His voice was low. He appeared to be struggling to steady its quiver. “I urge the members, in light of this development, to abstain. Henry is too good a man to fall victim to your small-mindedness. Abstention of a vote on his application to membership at least gives him an opportunity to reapply. Give Henry Lewis the decency he deserves.”
“You are assuming I’ll change my mind next year.”
“No, I don’t expect miracles.” George spoke slowly, each word articulated. “I’m merely hoping you won’t be here next year.”
Clio laughed.
After a few moments of awkward silence but for the creaking of wicker seats as their occupants stirred, Gail spoke. “Do I hear a motion to abstain on the application of Henry and Louise Lewis?” She tried to sound official.
“Yes,” George said.
“I’ll second,” Wallace added.
She sighed in relief. “All right, then.” She wanted a gavel to punctuate the decision, but her job as secretary came with no such trappings. Instead, Gail flipped open the next folder in her pile. “Bruce and Nancy Sullivan.”
From opposite sides of the table, George and Clio settled back in their chairs, their stalemate permeating the air. The remaining business transpired quickly. At half-past five, Gail reviewed the accepted applicants, recorded the time, and dismissed the group. There had been no further dissension, no mention of Henry Lewis. She hoped that the entire incident would disappear quickly from the collective memory of the committee.
George Welch stood first. “Good evening, all,” he declared as he headed toward the door. Then he stopped and turned to face Clio, who still sat in her chair. “I won’t forget this,” he warned, hovering above her. “I just hope Henry Lewis can wait long enough to see you gone.”
Clio smiled a truly beguiling smile of white teeth and full lips. “And I thought you liked me.”
Paul Murphy opened the screen door to the pub at the Fair Lawn Country Club and stepped inside. He surveyed the rectangular-shaped room with its green-and-black-plaid carpeting, fieldstone fireplace at the far end, and polished wood bar along one side. Three women Paul knew sat at one of the many square tables.
“Hi, Paul,” said a thin, freckled thirty-year-old with a long red ponytail.
“Hey,” Paul muttered, trying to remember her name. He had given private lessons to her, and each of her three children, once a week for ten weeks last summer, but despite the $6,000 bill he sent, he could recall only her account number: 327.
“When are you starting the ladies’ clinic?” she asked.
“When do you want it to start?” He flashed his cater-to-the-clientele smile.
“We’ll be out for good at the end of June.”
Typical, Paul thought. Fair Lawn Country Club wives and their children moved out from New York City to spend the summer in Southampton once the private schools closed. They left their husbands behind with the choice of a lengthy commute or long weeks alone.
“Well, I guess that’s when we’ll begin, then. Ladies’ clinic wouldn’t be the same without you.”
“And we want you to give us a real workout,” another of the women interrupted. Paul remembered her: Shelby Mueller, with her four-carat yellow diamond ring and ruffled tennis panties. Watching dozens of women in short pleated skirts with tanned legs crouch in the ready position or run after balls had its moments, but he could have gone without the sight of Shelby, one of the few women at the Fair Lawn Country Club who hadn’t found some way, whether a personal trainer, an annual month at Canyon Ranch, or liposuction, to get rid of cellulite.
Despite his repulsion, though, catering to Shelby was in Paul’s best interest. Last year he had made a quick $20,000 when Frank Mueller, a forty-two-year-old founder of an Internet company, gave him stock shares as a tip for teaching him top-spin and an effective slice backhand. “You gotta have a hundred million to be a player,” Frank, a short, balding fellow with thick glasses and a stomach that hung over his monogrammed tennis shorts, had remarked. “Here’s a start.” The price per share had risen several hundred points by the end of October, allowing Paul to cash out and splurge on a long-awaited trip to Australia.
“Really make us sweat,” the red-haired ponytail remarked. The women giggled.
They got up from the leather-upholstered chairs. “See ya,” they chimed.
Paul sighed. Another summer in Southampton.
He pulled himself up onto a bar stool and, instinctively, rubbed at his muscular thighs. He had spent the better part of the day checking net heights and line spacings, then unpacking the boxes of inventory that filled the Pro Shop. As of this Memorial Day weekend, the Fair Lawn Country Club would be swarming with people once again, a sea of starched white sportswear, V-neck cotton sweaters, Tretorn sneakers, and color-coordinated tennis peds.
“What can I get you?” asked Arthur, the bartender.
“Transfusion.” The quick fix of grape juice and ginger ale would get his juices flowing. Although, given his fatigue, he craved a beer, club policy prevented employees from drinking on the premises, and he couldn’t afford to get in trouble with management so early in the season, when there still was time to find a replacement.
Arthur set the glass of purple bubbles in front of him.
“You’re the man.”
“Any time.”
The screen door slammed, and Paul turned to see George Welch enter the bar. He had known George for years. A reasonably skilled athlete, he was much in demand as a doubles player because of his strong serve, aggressive net game, and constant humor. George seemed to regale his partners and opponents alike with stories, jokes, and witty remarks.
George took a seat without acknowledging Paul’s presence. His face was red. He unbuttoned his collar and barked, “Get me a vodka. Straight up.”
“The Membership Committee meeting’s over?” Arthur asked.
“In more ways than one,” George replied. His subsequent silence made clear that he did not intend to elaborate on his oblique comment.
Paul took a long sip of his transfusion, then smacked his lips. “So, will this season be the best ever?”’
Arthur wrinkled his forehead. “Economy’s booming. I don’t see why not. What do you think?” he asked George, obviously trying to engage their sullen companion in the somewhat idle conversation.
“I don’t give a shit, is what I think.” George tilted his head back and drained his glass. Then he pushed the empty tumbler toward Arthur, indicating he wanted a refill. Arthur obliged. “Hypocrites. All of them. All of us. I don’t know who we’re trying to fool,” he muttered.
“The meeting went that badly? Who got axed? Don’t tell me. Some poor schmuck whose net worth dropped to only ten million.” Paul tried to sound clever, but he knew his attempt was feeble. George glared at him. “What’s the news from the winter?” he said, changing the subject.
Arthur jumped in a little too quickly. “Barry Edwards died. His wife donated a marble fountain in his memory for the rose garden. There’ll be a dedication in June.” He paused, appearing to consider what other information he could share. Although George stared at the bottom of his glass, seemingly not to hear the conversation, Arthur had to avoid gossip in front of members. “Dave Flick bought a yellow Lamborghini. He’s driven it over here a couple of times, but no one’s been around to see.”
“Except for you,” Paul said.
“Right.” Arthur removed several lemons from a drawer under the sink and began to slice them into thin wedges. “Same old, same old, I guess you could say, huh, George?”
George didn’t respond.