The List

by Robert Whitlow

“We’re negotiating a contract to buy it together with the Inlet Waterway, a local restaurant where I eat every Tuesday when I’m in town. I’ve spent so much money there, I decided it made sense to buy it and pay myself.” LaRochette chuckled. “Would you like to come along for the ride?”

  “No, thanks.” Renny had no interest in LaRochette’s personal business ventures. “I have an errand to run before tonight’s meeting.”

  “You’re welcome to stay here as long as you like,” LaRochette replied. “Is there anything you need?”

  “No. Thanks for your hospitality.”

  LaRochette and Roget left the kitchen. Renny poured another glass of orange juice and watched sand swirling in the stiff early morning breeze along the beach. He didn’t have any errands to run, but he knew LaRochette’s invitation was only a courtesy. Now, he had the rest of the day to occupy. He stared, unthinking, out the window for several minutes, then went upstairs and packed his bags.

  Downstairs, he stopped at the library entrance. One of the pocket doors was slightly open. Peering through the crack, he scanned the room. It was empty. Walking quickly to the front door, he opened it and looked outside. The silver Mercedes he’d seen the night before was gone.

  Treading softly back to the library, he took his bag inside and closed the door. He wanted to see the List. Glancing from side to side to make sure he was alone, he tried to open the front of the secretary. It was locked. Frustrated, he pulled harder, but nothing moved. He started to pick up his suitcase and leave, but the urge to see the List held him. Where was the key? There was a bookcase next to the secretary. Scanning the topics of the volumes, his eye fell on War and Peace. The thick book was turned upside down, and when he pulled it out to flip it over, a key fell out on the floor. Voilà! Picking it up, he compared it with the keyhole in the secretary, and in a second he opened the lid.

  It was there. He sat on a small brocade-covered chair and examined it with new respect. He read again the words of the original signers and placed his hand on the faded ink. The first meeting would have been a momentous event. The Rice Planter’s Inn. Horses and carriages drawn up in front. Daguerreotype images flashed through his mind of men with stern faces, made more solemn by difficulties modern Americans would find unthinkable. What was the discussion that first night? Impassioned speeches by men in peril of financial ruin and death. Men determined to protect their families.

  Renny sat bolt upright in the chair. What if Jo’s suspicions and his own uneasiness about the List were totally wrong? What if the List’s power for good was the same as the touches he’d had from God?

  As he flipped through the pages, Renny realized that he wanted the book. It wasn’t enough to see it at LaRochette’s whim or become custodian “after a proper period of preparation.” He wanted it now—to read and handle it whenever he desired. LaRochette’s insistence that he bring it to Georgetown made sense. The old man appreciated the book. Renny’s father knew its significance. Renny wanted it. He closed the leather cover. Why not take it now? After all, his father had been custodian, and Renny had as much or more right to than anyone else. Alone, he could experiment and develop the power that flowed from it, a power LaRochette said could be used for good.

  What good had come to Jo as a result of the previous night? He had a sudden urge to call her and find out. If she had received a blessing, would she reconsider her opinion about his continued involvement with the group?

  LaRochette had failed the test. A million dollars. Ridiculous. The old man’s parsimony negated his self-serving statements about unity. Layne was the man of the hour. If he agreed to let Renny become custodian, the die was cast. Renny put the List back in the secretary and returned the key to its place under Tolstoy’s monumental work. The List would be his soon enough, without the need to sneak it out like a thief.

  Slipping out of the library, he quietly shut the doors and left.

  The driveway gate opened automatically as his car approached. He turned north toward Pawley’s Island and dialed Jo’s number from the car phone. There was no answer, and he decided not to leave a message. Finding a deserted spot on the south end of Pawley’s, he put on his running shoes and ran on the beach, his face to the wind.

  Reaching the place where he and Jo had sat against the log and talked, he stopped, took off his shoes and socks, and waded in the surf. He missed her terribly. Today the waves contained no laughter, and the sandpipers were pitiful companions. Without her presence, the beach was sand, sea, and sun, inanimate objects without the spark of life she ignited wherever she went. Feeling melancholy, he reminded himself that he would see her soon. Then he would have the resources to give her everything she wanted and to surprise her with things she had yet to imagine.

  Renting a beach chair and an umbrella, he set them up along a wide section of the strand and lay down in the shade for a nap. Fanned by the breeze, he soon drifted off and descended into a dream. He was in an art gallery, but the pictures were unidentifiable blurs. Frustrated, he began searching for a place to buy a guide to the paintings on display. He came around a corner and saw an exquisite painting of Jo’s face framed in gold. While he was staring at the picture and wondering who had painted such a close likeness, a wisp of smoke came up from a corner of the picture, and in a few seconds, to his horror, the image was destroyed in flames. Worried that the gallery would blame him, he ran out as fast as he could. He woke up sweating more from the dream than the heat of the sun. The picture of Jo’s face in the frame looked similar to the mental image he’d seen the night before. Unable to go back to sleep, he went for a swim in the surf.

  After rinsing off the sand and salt water with a hose next to a beach walkway, he spent the rest of the afternoon walking and wandering through the business section of the island. He went into some shops but bought nothing. Time crawled by, and he decided to drive to Georgetown and register at the inn. He hoped to see Layne privately before the meeting.

  On his way into Georgetown, Renny passed a sign on Front Street for the Inlet Waterway Restaurant. Turning around, he drove a couple hundred yards to a dead end. The restaurant faced the street with its back to the river. Painted white with ornate ironwork on the windows, it had a decidedly French look. Just the type of place that would strike LaRochette’s fancy.

  It was only a few blocks to the Rice Planter’s Inn. The familiar desk clerk was on duty. He greeted Renny somberly, “Good afternoon, sir.”

  “Good afternoon. I’m J. F. Jacobson. There should be a room reserved in my name for the night.”

  The clerk went down his list, came to the bottom, and started over. “Ah yes, here it is. Room 6. It’s upstairs—”

  “Yes, I’ve stayed there before,” Renny interrupted, wanting to get upstairs.

  “Here is your key.” The clerk cleared his throat. “Is Mrs. Jacobson with you this trip?”

  Renny couldn’t help smiling. “No, but she’ll certainly be with me the next time I come. By the way, has Mr. Layne arrived?”

  The clerk looked puzzled, consulted his paperwork, and shook his head. “No, not yet, but he’ll be in room 8, next door to you.”

  “Thanks.”

  Renny settled into his room and lay down on the bed in an attempt to relax. He dozed slightly, but he came awake with a start when he heard a door open and close. He looked out in the hall, but no one was there. He hesitated, then decided to see if Layne had checked in. Knocking softly on Layne’s door, he waited and knocked again.

  Layne opened the door a crack, and when he saw it was Renny, quickly motioned for him to come inside. “What do you want?” he said sharply.

  “I just wanted to make sure everything was set for tonight.”

  “Of course, of course. Sorry I spoke to you abruptly. I’m nervous about the meeting.”

  “I talked to LaRochette last night—” Renny began.

  “You did what? You idiot!” Layne interrupted.

  “No, no. He had asked me to do some research about offshore banking. I didn’t me
ntion talking to you or even seeing you.”

  “All right. Sorry again. Did he say anything I should know?”

  “He talked to me about unity, etcetera, but it sounded like a stock speech he gives to all the freshmen. Roget was there, too.”

  “See, I told you they were comrades.”

  “You were right—the French connection, so to speak. Anyway, this morning at breakfast I asked LaRochette his opinion about the amount of the distribution. Guess what he said?”

  Layne looked at Renny coldly. “Don’t play games, just tell me.”

  Embarrassed by Layne’s rebuke, Renny said, “One million.”

  Renny thought Layne was going to have a fit. “See,” he sputtered, “it’s always like that. Well, tonight should take care of his stingy ways. I’ll try to let the others know before the meeting. That should fortify their resolve for change.”

  “How will I know when to make the motion?”

  “Keep your eye on me. At the appropriate time I’ll look at you and tap my glass three times. Make the motion, and we’ll go from there.”

  Layne opened the door and almost pushed Renny into the hall.

  “One other thing,” Renny whispered hurriedly.

  “What?”

  “I want to be custodian of the List, like my father.”

  “Sure, sure. Just do as you’re told.”

  “Without waiting.”

  “Yes,” Layne hissed. “We can’t be seen talking like this.”

  He shut the door in Renny’s face.

  Renny went back to his room. He didn’t like the man, but an alliance with Thomas Layne V was the only logical solution. LaRochette was nobler, but his views were ridiculously conservative, and he was unwilling to release the money. Renny knew what he would do. He had to go for the money and the List.

  25

  All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.

  AS YOU LIKE IT, ACT 2, SCENE 7

  As he straightened his red-and-gold silk tie, Renny practiced making the motion nominating Thomas Layne as president of the List. He wanted a calm and confident tone of voice—not belligerent but firm and sure. When he had achieved the desired effect, he programmed it into his memory and put on his jacket.

  Downstairs, the doorman outside the dining room greeted him by name, “Good evening, Mr. Jacobson.”

  The drinks were already flowing for Roget and Smithfield. LaRochette, a glass of wine in his hand, waved Renny over.

  “Good evening, my boy. I hope you had a pleasant day.”

  “A little slow. I drove up to Pawley’s Island.”

  “Yes, what do they call it? Shabbily elegant.”

  “Yes, that’s it. On my way into town this afternoon I drove by the Inlet Waterway. Nice-looking place.”

  “I’m glad you approve. Robert and I made great progress today in our negotiations with the sellers. Excuse me. Harry!” LaRochette called to Smithfield, who dutifully responded, and the two men began a private conversation. Renny slid back to a spot near the door.

  He missed Jo, wished she were with him, then quickly decided this was not the place for her. He also missed Gus Eicholtz. The big-voiced man would have lightened the atmosphere with his boisterous laugh and spontaneous outbursts.

  Layne, Weiss, and Flournoy had not yet arrived. Roget and Smithfield were drinking martinis as fast as they could refill their glasses. At this rate, they would spend the evening under the table. Renny poured a mineral water. He wanted all his wits about him this evening. He was nibbling from the hors d’oeuvre table when Layne, Weiss, and Flournoy made a grand entrance. Layne waved to LaRochette, grabbed the older man’s hand, and gave him a hearty hello. Renny was mystified. In a few minutes, LaRochette would have ample reason to say, “Et tu, Brute,” but for now Caesar remained unsuspecting of the conspirator’s plot.

  Weiss pounded Renny on the back. “How have you been?”

  “Fine. And you?”

  “Couldn’t be better.” The morose Weiss of the previous meeting had apparently not come to this one.

  “What’s the reason?” Renny asked.

  “My wife is pregnant, and we just found out it is a boy!”

  “Congratulations.”

  “Thanks. I have four daughters, and I never thought we would get it right.”

  “You have four daughters?”

  “Right, but for obvious reasons I’ve been hanging on for a son. My wife has given me fits about enduring another pregnancy, but it looks like my persistence has paid off.”

  “Reminds me of rural China,” Renny said.

  “What in the devil are you talking about?” Weiss asked.

  “You know. In some areas unwanted baby girls are taken outside the city and tossed into empty silos to die. Only boys are considered worth keeping.”

  Weiss glared. “What are you trying to say, Jacobson?”

  “Your attitude toward your daughters, Weiss. It stinks.”

  Before Weiss could respond, Flournoy yelled across the room, “Jerrod! I understand you have good news. Come over here and fill us in.”

  Renny let him go and poured another glass of water. He ate a few more hors d’oeuvre and cooled off by the time Smithfield joined him at the end of the table. “Desmond tells me you and Ms. Johnston may walk the aisle.”

  “Yes, I hope so.”

  “As historian, I can tell you such a step would be a first,” the old man said studiously. “There has been very little intermarriage among the member families, never in which both parties knew about the List. It’s somewhat surprising considering the relatively small number of aristocratic Southern families.”

  “Any reason?”

  Smithfield furrowed his brow. “None that I can guess except to protect confidentiality. Most members have limited contact with one another outside these meetings. You know how it is; people get together, and before you can blink, the upstairs maid is talking to the butler and the butler is talking to the cook.”

  Smithfield was unquestionably a nineteenth-century anachronism.

  The headwaiter rang a little silver bell, and everyone took his assigned seat at the table. A few glanced awkwardly at the empty seats reserved for the Eicholtz, Maxwell, and Johnston families. Weiss didn’t look in Renny’s direction. Including the seat reserved for the Hammond family, there were four vacant places.

  LaRochette broke the silence. “I know we all feel regret at the additional empty spaces at our table this evening. Of course, Gus Eicholtz is out of the country and could not attend. However”—he looked at Renny and raised his left eyebrow—“can I share your good news about Ms. Johnston?”

  Caught off guard, Renny couldn’t think of a reason to say no. “Sure.”

  “Renny and Jo Johnston are engaged to be married. So, in a sense, the Johnston seat will still have a voice at the table.”

  Before Renny could sputter a correction, Flournoy lifted his glass in the air. “A toast, a toast. To Mr. and Mrs. Renny, er—what is your given name, young Jacobson?”

  LaRochette stepped in, “Mr. and Mrs. Josiah Fletchall Jacobson. Long life, prosperity, and many sons.”

  “Hear, hear.” Everyone but Weiss joined in with exuberance.

  Soup and salad were followed by roasted leg of lamb rubbed in mustard, seasoned with garlic and accompanied by crisp green beans with almonds and fresh mint jelly. The dinner wine perfectly matched the meal, and dessert was a lemon crepe so light it dissolved as soon as it touched the tongue.

  While he ate, Renny tried to maintain occasional eye contact with Layne but had the uneasy impression the older man was avoiding his gaze. As soon as the staff of the inn cleared the table and disappeared into the kitchen, LaRochette stood, tapped his glass, and conversation around the table died down.

  “Gentlemen, I am pleased to call to order the 248th meeting of The Covenant List of South Carolina, Limited. I would ask Mr. Smithfield to review the minutes of the last meeting.”

  Smithfield rose and coughed. “As
all of you know, the last meeting was abruptly adjourned following the tragic death of Bart Maxwell. The only business conducted involved our rejection of the claims of Miss Johnston based upon the requirements of our founding documents. Our offer of compensation to her in the amount of $1 million was refused. Is that still her position, Renny?”

  “Yes, I’d say so. She was only interested in learning about her father and has no further interest in this group.”

  “Except for yourself, of course,” Smithfield added with unintentional humor that caused a ripple of laughs around the table. “You know what I mean,” he sputtered. “At any rate, we never reached a decision about a distribution from the corpus. It has been several years since the last distribution, and under the terms of items four and five of the Covenant we can decide an appropriate amount.”

  Renny was not watching Smithfield. His eyes were glued to Layne’s hand. At that moment Layne picked up a spoon and almost imperceptibly tapped his glass three times. Swallowing his nerves, Renny cleared his throat. “Excuse me. I would like to make a motion.”

  Everyone turned and stared.

  Smithfield looked at LaRochette and said, “I was about to turn the meeting back over to Desmond, but if you have something to bring up, go ahead.”

  Renny set his expression as he’d practiced in the mirror upstairs. Looking solemnly around the table, he said, “I move for the election of Thomas Layne as president of the List.”

  Smithfield sat down as if he had been shot. Renny avoided LaRochette’s gaze and focused on Jerrod Weiss, who calmly said, “I second the motion.” “Why, it’s treason,” Roget blurted out.

  “Hold on,” LaRochette responded. “A motion has been made and seconded. Does anyone want to speak to the issue?”

  Renny waited anxiously for Layne to give a speech outlining the progressive changes he envisioned for the List, the most important being a massive, immediate distribution of wealth to them all. All he said was, “I’m honored and will serve if elected.”

  LaRochette said, “You all know, except for Mr. Jacobson, the leadership my family and I have provided since the founding of this group. I stand on our record.”