The List

by Robert Whitlow

  “O God, who declarest thy almighty power chiefly in showing mercy and pity; Mercifully grant unto us such a measure of thy grace, that we, running to obtain thy promises, may be made partakers of thy heavenly treasure; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who liveth and reigneth with thee and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.”

  A deacon read the New Testament lesson for the day, the story of the Prodigal Son from the book of Luke, and the rector delivered the sermon with quiet but relentless intensity. Two things impressed Renny as the priest talked about the story. First, he was chagrined by the misguided eagerness of the son to receive his inheritance before he was mature enough to handle it. But more powerfully, he was touched by the father who, keeping a constant vigil while the son was away from home, looked with unwavering longing for the son’s return. The love of the father even after the son had blown it staggered Renny. The rector’s points hit around Renny like bolts of lightning. Love based on relationship, not performance. Love without the expectation of control. Love for love’s sake, not expecting anything in return. Unconditional love. The type of love Renny had never received from his earthly father. God’s love. Renny heard the words and felt the power of the story; yet even so, something inside kept him from believing that it applied to himself. In a world of five billion people, how could God have a specific, personal interest in him?

  The priest called the people to Communion as an invitation to meet with a Father God who loved them.

  “None of us are as close to the Lord as we could be. None of us can see him as he sees us. All of us can draw closer to him. All of us are in the center of his vision. Come, come, come.”

  For Renny, Communion had always been a ritual without reality. But as with the readings from the prayer book, he had an almost tangible awareness of God as he moved deliberately to the Communion rail, knelt, and tried to picture himself as a son before the Father, receiving a feast prepared for him upon his return from a far country. But the image remained fuzzy.

  The service closed with a blessing. Lois Berit touched his arm lightly.

  “Do you have any plans for lunch?”

  “Not really.”

  “Would you like to join Jack and me? We’re going to go to La Jolla.”

  “That’s nice of you, but I don’t want to intrude.”

  “Don’t be silly. We invite visitors to lunch all the time.”

  “OK, thanks.”

  Most of the people were not in a rush to leave the sanctuary, and Renny shook several hands on his way to the door. The other priest was standing at the exit.

  “I’m Chuck Southgate. Thanks for coming.” Reaching inside his robe, he pulled out a card and handed it to Renny. “Here, call me if I can ever be of help to you.”

  Jack Berit walked up. “We’ll meet you at the restaurant. Lois is praying with someone.”

  Renny glanced back in the sanctuary and saw Lois Berit and another lady seated, their heads bowed. “Sure, I’ll put in a reservation.”

  La Jolla, named for an exclusive suburb of San Diego, was a California-style bistro with a spacious seating layout and a sense of outdoor dining. The restaurant’s windows allowed the sunlight to form shifting patterns on the Spanish tile flooring. The only thing missing was the roar of the Pacific.

  The hostess wrote Renny’s name on the list, and he sat on a wooden bench to wait. The after-church crowd was streaming into the restaurant, and in a few minutes Jack and Lois Berit walked up the sidewalk.

  They sat at a table in an area laid out like a greenhouse, with hanging plants and white orchids in pots on the floor.

  “We’re glad you came this morning,” Jack said when they settled in their seats.

  “Me, too. It’s certainly different from my parents’ church in Charleston. A good difference.”

  “That’s right, Lois. I forgot to tell you—Renny is originally from Charleston.”

  “How long have you been in Charlotte?”

  “About four months. I went to undergraduate and law school at Chapel Hill. My parents are deceased, but my father’s family has been in the Charleston area forever.”

  “I lived in Charleston until I went to college at Converse in Spartanburg,” Lois said. “Jack was at Wofford and we met while in school. My brother still lives in Charleston.”

  “Really?” Renny said casually.

  “Yes, my maiden name was Layne, L-a-y-n-e. I was teased a lot, Lois L-a-n-e, you know,” she said, laughing.

  Renny took a sip of water and played dumb about his knowledge of Lois’s family. “What’s your brother’s name?”

  “Thomas Layne V. Sounds like old-time Charleston, doesn’t it? Have you ever run across him?”

  “The name sounds somewhat familiar, but I can’t say I’ve seen him in Charleston.” A lousy liar, Renny felt his deception must have been obvious to everyone in the restaurant.

  Lois continued, “He’s quite a bit older than you and doesn’t work a regular job. He’s been very smart in some investments.”

  “Has he ever visited the church?” Renny asked, seeking a way to change the subject.

  “No, but he is coming to visit in a couple of weeks, and we hope to take him. Frankly, he doesn’t see a need for God.”

  Renny thought about Marx’s statement quoted by Layne at the meeting in Georgetown: “Religion is the opiate of the masses.” Wrong. “Money is the opiate of the wealthy” was closer to the truth.

  Jack Berit spoke up. “How did you find out about St. Catherine’s?”

  “Reading the ads in the Sunday paper. I haven’t been to a church since I moved to Charlotte and hadn’t planned on going anywhere today.”

  “We’re glad you came.”

  “I am, too. I think I heard God calling me today.”

  The waiter came to take their order.

  Two hundred miles away in Charleston, Mama A had not been able to stop humming all morning. Something good was happening somewhere. “What’s up, Lord?” she asked out loud as she prepared for church. “Are you messin’ with somebody I’ve been praying for? Who is it?”

  She ran down a list of people she carried like babies in the cradle of her heart. Pausing at Renny’s name, she felt the confirmation of the Spirit. “So, is that boy thinking about meetin’ with you today? Well, do it, Lord, do it!”

  14

  Pray to thy Father which is in secret.

  MATTHEW 6:6, KJV

  Renny arrived an hour early at Charlotte’s Douglas Airport. It was one of the hottest days of the year. Finding a parking space near the crosswalk to the main terminal, he let the car idle for a minute, the air conditioner on high in a life-and-death struggle against the oppressive heat. In an hour, Jo would be sitting in the car with him. And he was glad.

  There were several telephone company vans parked along the edge of the roadway between the parking lot and the airport entrance. Workmen were climbing in and out of two manholes on opposite sides of the road like ants on a mission. Communication was vital to the life of the airport. Communication. Before he met Jo, Renny had considered it a buzzword used to sell women’s magazines at the grocery store. Now, it was beginning to have a new, richer meaning. Was he turning into one of those sensitive male types, just a shade this side of effeminate? Remembering Jo’s legs stretched in bas-relief against the Pawley’s Island sand, he smiled. Not likely.

  Beyond the sliding glass doors of the terminal, he checked an overhead monitor for arriving flights. Four out of five flights listed were USAirways, the dominant air carrier in Charlotte and one of the city’s biggest employers. Jo was on a connecting flight from Detroit, flight 409, gate C-14, arriving at 2:20 P.M.

  Unlike Hartsfield, O’Hare, or LaGuardia, Charlotte’s airport did not overwhelm a traveler with a vastness that made the trip to the proper concourse more intimidating than an overseas flight. Rocking chairs lined the walls in the main lobby and gave it a homey look.

  Renny stopped at a novelty shop to admire a popular University of North Caro
lina T-shirt that proclaimed, “If God Isn’t a Tar Heel, Why Did He Make the Sky Carolina Blue?” Tar Heel religion had its adherents, and he considered buying one of the shirts for Jo, but it wasn’t her. Maybe after she visited the campus.

  While waiting at the gate for the plane to land, Renny leaned against the wall and read the newspaper headlines over the shoulder of a short, bald man. Outside the plate-glass windows, three USAirways jets, their tires smoking as they made contact with the tarmac, landed in quick succession and streaked past like silver fish with red-and-blue streaks down their sides. One of the planes taxied ponderously toward the gate. Renny waited impatiently as the first-class passengers came through the skywalk. Jo was behind a huge man with an XXXL T-shirt and the largest Nike swoosh Renny had ever seen.

  “Welcome to Charlotte,” Renny said when she popped into view. He gave her a quick hug. “Flight OK?”

  “A lot faster than driving my truck. Sometimes it’s nice seeing America from the air at 600 miles per hour.”

  “Baggage claim is this way.” Renny led the way into the concourse and turned left.

  They walked rapidly past a couple of gates until Jo grabbed Renny’s arm. “Where’s the race?”

  “Sorry.” Renny slowed. “My natural gait is a little fast, isn’t it?”

  “No kidding.”

  “I run for exercise; it’s my great stress reliever. I love to take my dog for a no-time-limit run through the neighborhoods where I live.”

  “Well, I like to jog, too, but let’s save it for later.”

  “Did you bring your running gear?” Renny knew Jo would be cute even when she was sweating up a hill.

  “Yes, maybe I can join you and your dog—Brandy, isn’t it?”

  “I’ll ask Brandy. If she says no, I’ll leave her in the backyard.”

  They rode down an escalator to baggage claim and found the zone assigned to Jo’s flight. The luggage was still on its way from the plane.

  “Guess where I went Sunday?” Renny asked as Jo’s blue suitcase rolled into view.

  “Well, it’s too early for football, and we’re not close to the ocean.” Jo paused. “You went to church, didn’t you?”

  “Bingo.”

  “You played bingo?” Jo replied, smiling. “I thought they did that on Friday night.”

  “No bingo, but it was different from the high church services I went to as a child. Something happened.”

  “How? What?”

  “The rector spoke on the love of the father in the story of the Prodigal Son.” Renny lifted her blue suitcase and set it between them.

  “And?”

  “It was powerful the way he talked about the love of God.” Renny slid the cardboard box protecting Jo’s garment bag from the beltway and set it next to the suitcase. “That’s not all.”

  “Yes?”

  “I met someone at the church with a strong Charleston-Georgetown connection.”

  “Who?” Jo picked up the garment box and Renny grabbed the suitcase.

  “Do you want to guess?”

  “Let me think.” Jo followed Renny through a labyrinth of taxis and airport shuttles. As they crossed under the shade of the parking deck, Jo said, “I don’t know anyone in Charlotte except you, so it must have been someone from the meeting. I’ll go with Gus Eicholtz.”

  “Not bad,” Renny said as they walked up behind his car. “It was Thomas Layne’s sister, a lady named Lois Berit. She and her husband attend the church, and I sat with her during the service. Afterward we ate lunch together.” Renny put the luggage in the tiny trunk, and they drove out of the garage, the air conditioner blowing full blast in their faces.

  “Did you tell her you knew her brother?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “The secrecy thing, I guess. It caught me off guard.”

  “Group paranoia.”

  “Whatever. Layne is coming to Charlotte for a visit in a couple of weeks. His sister wants me to meet him.”

  “That should be interesting.”

  Renny turned onto Billy Graham Parkway, and the Charlotte skyline rose into view to the east.

  “Are you going back to the church?” Jo asked as Renny shifted into a higher gear.

  “Probably.”

  “Maybe we could go together sometime.”

  “If I can convince you to stay until Sunday, we could go this weekend. When do you have to be back at work?”

  “I am off duty until Saturday night, but that could probably be changed to Sunday night. I told another nurse about the trip, and she offered to help if I needed her.”

  “I can call the travel agent tomorrow and change your return ticket.” “I just got here. We’ll see.”

  Along both sides of Queens Road, the main access road into the Myers Park neighborhood, huge oaks mingled leaves forty feet overhead and created a green canopy that blocked most of the sun’s rays from the street below.

  “It’s beautiful,” Jo said as the car entered a long stretch of green tunnel. “Somebody eighty years ago planted these trees for people to enjoy today.”

  “It was before electricity, that’s for sure. The utility company agreed to build its lines behind the houses so that the trees could be spared.”

  “Is this close to your house?”

  “Yes. I often run through this area on Saturday mornings. Sometimes there are more joggers and walkers than cars.”

  Renny turned into Mrs. Stokes’s driveway and turned off the engine.

  “This is it.”

  Jo got out and walked over to the backyard fence, an old chain-link completely covered by English ivy. Brandy was on the other side, barking and turning in circles.

  “Brandy, meet Jo, that’s J-o not J-o-e,” said Renny, carefully spelling the two names.

  “So she’s a good speller.” Jo reached over the fence and let Brandy sniff her hand. After a few seconds, the dog gave her knuckles an approving lick.

  “Mr. Ed has nothing on Brandy. You’ll see.”

  Renny opened the trunk and carried Jo’s luggage to the side entrance. “Mrs. Stokes is nice, but don’t expect her to run in circles and give your hand a lick.”

  Daisy Stokes opened the door. “Come in where it’s cool,” she said as she ushered them into the kitchen.

  “Mrs. Stokes, this is Jo Johnston.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Stokes. Thanks for letting me stay with you.”

  “A little hospitality is my pleasure.” Renny noticed the always neat kitchen was more sparkling than usual, and Mrs. Stokes had an arrangement of fresh flowers on the table in the breakfast nook. “Have a seat for a minute. Would you like something to drink?”

  “Do you have some iced tea?” Renny asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Mrs. Stokes makes the best iced tea.”

  “I’d love some,” Jo replied, choosing a seat that provided a view of the backyard. “You have a beautiful yard. Do you have many hummingbirds? I see at least three feeders.”

  “Yes, there are two pairs zipping around from spring to fall. Sometimes I wonder how they ever finish a meal. Every time one comes to the feeder, another one dives down to run him off. It’s been a little better since I put in the third feeder, but I don’t think anything will convince them to tolerate one another.”

  “My mother is a bird-watcher. Do you have a lot of different birds visit?”

  “Quite a few. I feed the local varieties all year, and they’re loyal to me. I can recognize my long-term guests, and they add color, sound, and personality to my corner of creation.” Mrs. Stokes set down two glasses of tea.

  Jo took a long drink. “This is good. I didn’t realize how thirsty I was. What did you put in it besides tea?”

  “A little grape juice. I stir it in after brewing the tea and pouring it over ice and sugar in the pitcher.”

  Renny just sat at the table smiling. Everything in his world was right.

  “Renny tells me you’re a nurse.�
�

  “Yes, in the cardiac section of the main hospital in our area.”

  “I roomed with a missionary nurse for five years in Taiwan in the early 1950s. She was from Michigan, too.”

  As Jo and Mrs. Stokes talked, Renny let his mind wander, daydreaming about things he and Jo could do over the next few days.

  “Renny, what do you think?” Mrs. Stokes said.

  “About what?” Renny came out of his fog without knowing where the conversation had gone.

  “I was suggesting we eat around six-thirty. That will give Jo time to rest a little bit.”

  “Sure, sure. I’ll take your luggage into your room.” Renny led Jo down a hall lined with black-and-white photographs of people and places from Mrs. Stokes’s many years as a missionary. “The bath for the room where you’re staying is on the left, and here’s the blue room,” he said.

  “She’s a sweetie, Renny,” Jo said as he put her suitcase on the white chenille bedspread. “This room is perfect. I’m going to enjoy it here.”

  “I knew you would hit it off. I’ll see you later.”

  Jo took her clothes from the garment bag and opened the closet door to hang up her things. The closet was not the small cubbyhole typical in older homes built before massive walk-in closets became common. It was more like a long, narrow room extending at least ten feet to the back wall. There was even a tiny window two-thirds of the way up the wall toward the ceiling. A beveled-glass Star of David the size of a man’s hand was suspended on a string in front of the window. The little room was totally empty except for a clothes bar, a narrow chair facing the window, and a deep blue cushion on the floor in front of the chair. There wasn’t a speck of dust or hint of a musty smell in the little enclosure. Jo hung up her clothes and stared curiously at the chair and cushion for a few seconds. Then it dawned on her—It’s Mrs. Stokes’s prayer closet.

  She could imagine the elderly woman, isolated and insulated from outside distractions, sitting in the chair with her Bible open on her lap as the early morning sun sent its first rays tumbling through the beveled glass of the star, which diffused cascading colors against the wall and floor. Then a passage of Scripture would speak to the old woman’s heart, and she would carefully slide to her knees on the cushion and bow down with her face to the floor. Motionless, her lips moving in silent petition or intercession for others, she would wait before her God. Jo guessed the tiny window faced east—toward Jerusalem. It had to. She stepped back, whispering, “This is a holy place; there must be angels in this room.”