The List

by Robert Whitlow

  Renny wiped his eyes and sat up in the chair. “I have a story only you can fully appreciate.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “I don’t know how to begin.”

  Jo put her index finger to her cheek. “Either ‘Once upon a time’ or ‘It was a dark and stormy night.’”

  “That’s an easy choice,” Renny responded. “It was a dark and stormy night … ” Renny talked until they brought Jo’s lunch and finished his summary of the past days’ events as she ate the last bite of dessert.

  “All right,” Jo said after asking a few questions. “Would it be accurate for me to tell my mother that I’m in love with an unemployed, convicted felon with an outstanding warrant for his arrest?”

  “As long as you keep the I’m-in-love part, you can tell her whatever you want.”

  “So, when do we get married?”

  Renny jumped up from the chair. “Do they have a chaplain on call here at the hospital?”

  “Let’s allow a few days for planning. Get Mom, and we’ll tell her.”

  Renny was unable to reach Mrs. Stokes with the news, but he called Mama A to let her know.

  “Congratulations. Have you set a date?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Have you talked to Mrs. Stokes?”

  “No, she didn’t answer.”

  “She called me a couple hours ago. She wasn’t feeling well and asked me to pray. I’m concerned about her.”

  “I’ll phone a friend in Charlotte and have him check on her.”

  When Morris Hogan arrived at the house, he had to break a pane in the kitchen door to get inside. Daisy Stokes was unconscious on the floor with Brandy lying beside her, resting her head on the old woman’s arm. Morris called 911, followed the ambulance to the hospital, and dialed the number for Jo’s hospital room. Renny answered.

  “She had a heart attack,” Morris said. “She was alive but unconscious at the time they admitted her to cardiac ICU.”

  “Oh no.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know yet. I need to be in two places at once. Can you take care of Brandy until I get back?”

  “Sure.”

  “Thanks, Morris. I’ll explain things to you as soon as I come home.”

  Renny put down the receiver and told Jo the news.

  “You need to go to her, Renny,” Jo said without hesitation.

  “But I just got here.”

  “And I’m fine. We’re going to spend the rest of our lives together.”

  Renny started to protest but knew she was right. “OK.”

  “As soon as I get out of here I’m coming to join you.”

  “Are you up to doing that?”

  “Yes. I’ll be able to do anything I need to do.”

  It was midnight when Renny’s plane touched down in Charlotte. He made it home, greeted a wildly excited Brandy, and fell exhausted into bed. The next morning he was not able to see Mrs. Stokes, whose status was critical but stable. He drove back home and called Mama A.

  “She’s in God’s hands, Renny. Whatever happens.”

  “There’s nothing I need to do?” he asked.

  “I’m sure she would like to see you. That’s all I can say.”

  Renny called Jo’s hospital room, and no one answered. He tried Carol at their house, and a familiar voice answered.

  “You’re home?”

  “Been here a couple of hours.”

  “How do you feel?”

  “A little weak, but I get stronger with every meal. I’ve already booked a ticket and will be in Charlotte at 5:05 this afternoon.”

  Renny wrote down the flight number. “I’ll meet you at the gate.”

  Just before lunch, Renny called A. L. “Any news?”

  “The whole town’s buzzing about the arrests. You wouldn’t believe some of the wild rumors. The funny thing to me is that the wildest rumor is nowhere near as bizarre as the actual truth.”

  “Did you talk to the judge?”

  “Yes. He’d already received a call from the U.S. Attorney’s office. Whoever talked to him must have told him you were some kind of national hero. He dismissed the warrants and told me he would entertain a motion suspending the balance of your probation and clearing your record under the first offender act immediately. I made an oral motion, which he granted. I expect to have an order by this afternoon.”

  “Great!” Renny felt another boulder roll off his shoulders.

  “That’s not all,” A. L. said. “Are you sitting down?”

  “Go for it.”

  “There is the possibility of a reward.”

  “Reward?”

  “Yes, something through the DEA. A bureaucrat from Washington phoned and asked me some questions about the information that led to the arrests. Your name was the only one worth mentioning.”

  “How much?”

  “If they obtain a conviction or guilty plea, it would be $150,000.”

  Renny laughed. “Is that per defendant?”

  “I asked that myself,” A. L. responded with a chuckle. “It’s per transaction, and the government considers this whole matter a single transaction.”

  “Of course they do. Well, at least I can pay my lawyer and my credit card bill.”

  “And have a little left over, I’d imagine,” A. L. said.

  Renny and Jo drove directly to the hospital from the airport. On the way he told her about the possibility of the reward. “It’s better than nothing,” he said nonchalantly.

  “Nothing! That’s a lot more than nothing, and, unlike the millions you didn’t get, it’s clean.”

  “You’re getting your spunkiness back, I see.”

  One of the nurses in ICU asked them to wait while she checked Mrs. Stokes’s status. In a minute she returned. “She’s very, very weak. You can both go back for a couple of minutes.”

  Daisy Stokes’s small figure looked even smaller wrapped in intravenous tubing and surrounded by banks of monitors. But she was conscious and managed a weak smile when Renny walked into view. Jo followed, and when Mrs. Stokes saw her, a tear glistened in the corner of her eye. She motioned them to come closer.

  In a hoarse voice she said to Renny, “Let me have your hand.” She held it and looked at Jo, who extended her hand as well. Mrs. Stokes put Renny’s on top of Jo’s and then rested her own hand on top of them both.

  “Blessing,” she said. “Blessing,” she repeated, a little stronger.

  Renny and Jo waited as she closed her eyes and breathed heavily a few times.

  “On the nightstand in my bedroom—” She paused, attempted to speak further, but slipped into unconsciousness.

  Jo gently picked up Mrs. Stokes’s hand from its place on top of theirs and laid it beside her. A nurse came in and indicated that time was up.

  Renny and Jo rode in silence to the house. Jo sat in the kitchen while Renny went to Mrs. Stokes’s bedroom. He returned with a single sheet of paper. Written in Mrs. Stokes’s handwriting, he read the following:

  Last Will and Testament

  I, Daisy Kenilworth Stokes, make this Will to dispose of all my earthly possessions.

  1) I give all money in my bank accounts to the Chinese Evangelization Society for use in the work that is dear to my heart at Kaohsiung. I also direct that my automobile be sold and the money given to CES for the same purpose.

  2) I give all the rest of my estate, including my house and land located in Mecklenburg County, North Carolina, to Josiah Fletchall Jacobson. It is my hope that this house will serve as a home for him and Jo Johnston upon their marriage.

  3) I ask that Sharon Watson serve as legal representative of my estate.

  Renny shook his head and handed the piece of paper to Jo. “It’s a holographic will, signed and dated by Mrs. Stokes just a few days ago.”

  “What?”

  “A will in her own handwriting. Completely legal. I should know.”

  Jo read the document silently. “Who is Sharon Watson?”
/>
  “A lady Mrs. Stokes prays with at her church.”

  “What do you think, Renny?” Jo asked, handing the paper back to Renny.

  “I don’t know what to think about this. Mrs. Stokes has no family that I’m aware of, and she’s known me less than six months.”

  “She loves us,” Jo said simply. “She wants to bless us.”

  “My lawyer said Mrs. Stokes and Mama A carried us through this situation by their prayers.”

  Jo thought a moment. “It was more than that. In a way, I think Mrs. Stokes gave her life for us.”

  Renny went upstairs to check his answering machine while Jo put her things in the blue bedroom. She looked in the prayer closet and whispered, “Thank you, Mrs. Stokes, for giving this room to me.”

  She and Renny sat down in the quiet of the living room.

  “Guess who left a message on my answering machine?”

  “Who?”

  “Gus Eicholtz. He said he wanted to talk with me. He’s turning himself in to the authorities and said he was going to cooperate with them. What do you think?”

  “I think he is seeking God, and you should help him find him.”

  “You’re right.”

  They sat in silence, letting the peace that followed victory wash over them.

  “Renny?”

  “Yes.”

  “I can probably get a job at one of the hospitals in town.”

  “Do you want to do that?”

  “I think so.”

  “I could see if one of the other law firms would take me in.”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?”

  “I want you to write your book.”

  “About the best barbecue restaurants?”

  “No, that would be your second book.”

  “What about?”

  Jo sat up straight and looked Renny in the eye. “I think we just lived it.”

  Renny nodded. “I’ll start tomorrow.”

  EPILOGUE

  “Blessing, and honour, and glory, and power, be unto him that

  sitteth upon the throne, and unto the Lamb for ever and ever.”

  REVELATION 5:13, KJV

  The hall was so vast that its dimensions could not be calculated in units of measure understood on earth. Millions were present—a host on the right and a host on the left—yet the room remained mostly unfilled, waiting for the great final harvest at the end of the age to sweep the full measure of the redeemed into the place prepared for them before the foundation of the world. Then, the wedding feast could begin.

  The focus of all in the room never strayed far from the One who sat on the throne. From his Presence came a light and glory that never faded in brilliance nor lost its captivating beauty. To earthly eyes, the light was blinding, but to those qualified to behold with heavenly vision, even a fleeting glimpse of the glorified Messiah was reward enough for lives lived in sacrifice for others.

  Three figures, two male and one female, stepped from the throng on the left and came together in an open space. Though still recognizable to those who knew them on earth, they now possessed a pure beauty that caused worldly perceptions of attractiveness to appear cheap and tawdry. No longer bound by the earth, they reflected the light of heaven. They were overcomers. They were part of the great cloud of witnesses.

  “It is finished,” the eldest said.

  “Yes,” the others answered.

  “Did you know the manner in which the Master would fulfill the word he gave you?” the woman asked.

  “I was not shown the exact nature of the conflict the young one would face. I knew he would come forth from my lineage, but I did not know he would also be descended from one who signed the Covenant.”

  “The battle was intense,” the other man said.

  “He was in the crucible of good and evil. Warfare from competing generations reached its climax in his struggle.”

  “Yes, but there was prayer,” the woman said.

  The two men nodded in agreement. The elder spoke, “Yes, the enemy’s allies and our Lord’s children often make the same mistake— they both underestimate the power of prevailing prayer.”

  A fourth figure, a dark-skinned man, joined them.

  “She persevered, Clarence,” Katharine said.

  “Yes, together with the other one, she won the victory.”

  “Ah yes, the other one will join us soon,” Amos Candler said. “I saw her soul laid on the altar. She, too, has overcome.”

  “And she will receive a crown on the final day,” Nathaniel Candler added.

  The four figures faced the throne where they had spent uncountable seasons in worship and intercession. Of course, petitions presented in the great hall were different from those that originated on earth. Intercession by the overcomers did not focus so much on the situation or circumstance that needed divine intervention as upon the majesty of him who sits upon the throne. They knew that in him alone rested the ultimate authority and power to effect change on the earth.

  Prompted by a common awareness, the four turned and watched as another figure walked gracefully toward them from the grand entrance to the hall.

  Katharine stepped forward to greet her. “Welcome home, Daisy.”

  Lifting their hands, the group of five faced the throne and released themselves in unhindered adoration and praise.

  SPECIAL PREVIEW OF

  RObERT WHITLOW’S

  ThE SaCRIfICe

  1

  Roll, Jordan, roll. Come down to the river and be baptized.

  Roll, Jordan, roll. Pass through the waters to the other side.

  Roll, Jordan, roll. In dying you’ll become alive.

  Roll, Jordan, roll.

  The members of Hall’s Chapel weren’t in a hurry. In some cases, friends and relatives had prayed and waited decades for this moment. Prodigals had come home; those wandering in the wilderness of sin had come to the edge of the promised land. The celebration of salvation was a time to be savored. The voices of the congregation gathered along Montgomery Creek flowed over the water in triumph. Refrain followed refrain in affirmation of a faith as unrelenting as the force of the current rushing past the white frame church. Tambourines joined the voices. Hands clapped in syncopated rhythm.

  Dressed in white robes, the five candidates for baptism walked forward to the edge of the stream and faced the rest of the congregation. The small crowd grew quiet.

  A heavyset woman in a baptismal garment lifted her hands in the air and cried out at the top of her voice, “Thank you, Jesus!”

  Her declaration was greeted with a chorus of “Yes, Lord!” and “Amen!”

  Bishop Moore joined the converts and introduced each one using their new first name—“brother” or “sister.” From this day forward they would be part of the larger family of God’s children who had met on the banks of the creek for almost 150 years. The former slaves who founded the church took seriously the command to love one another and passed on a strong sense of community that had not been lost by subsequent generations.

  Each new believer stepped into the edge of the water and gave a brief testimony of the journey that had brought him or her to the river of God’s forgiveness. The stories were similar, yet each one unique.

  When it was her turn, the woman who had cried out shed a few tears that fell warm from her dark cheeks into the cool water at her bare feet. Some who knew her had doubted she would ever let go of the bitterness and unforgivingness that had dominated her life for more than twenty-five years, but the chains had been broken, the captive set free. Other testimonies followed until all five confirmed their faith in the presence of the gathered witnesses.

  Bishop Moore waded into the water. Much of the stream bottom in the valley was covered with smooth rocks that made footing treacherous for the trout fishermen who crowded the stream each April, but the church deacons had cleared away the rocks and made a safe path to the small pool where Bishop Moore waited for the first candidate. A teenage boy walk
ed gingerly forward into the cold water that inched up his legs to his waist. His family looked on with joy.

  Bishop Moore held up his right hand and said in a loud voice, “Michael Lindale Wallace, I baptize you in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.”

  Then, putting his hand over Mike’s face, the bishop laid the young man back into the water. Bishop Moore didn’t do a quick baptism. He wanted people to remember their moment under the water, so he went deep and stayed long. The five had been cautioned by the lady who gave them their robes to take a deep breath.

  After several seconds, the bishop lifted Mike out of the water and proclaimed, “Buried in likeness to his death in baptism; raised to walk in newness of resurrection life.”

  The sputtering boy managed a big smile. His father shouted, “Hallelujah!”

  Mike splashed through the water toward the shore. The next in line was the woman who had shed the tears. She stepped deeper into the water.

  The first shot didn’t cause a stir. One of the elders later told the police detective, “I thought it was a firecracker.”

  The second shot knifed through the water about three feet from the woman wading toward the bishop. The bullet left a line of bubbles before disappearing into the sandy bottom.

  The third shot shattered the windshield of a car parked next to the sanctuary. At the sound of the splintering glass, pandemonium broke out. The air was filled with screams. People began running away from the water. Some ran toward the sanctuary. Others hid behind cars and trucks. Several children who were not standing near their parents froze, unsure what to do.

  The fourth shot passed through the bottom of the new dress Alisha Mason was wearing. At that moment, the teenager didn’t know how close she’d come to serious injury. (It was several days before she took out the dress and saw the place where the bullet almost nicked her left calf.) She hid behind a tree.

  The fifth shot hit the church above the front door. It was the only bullet recovered by the sheriff ’s department.

  Hurriedly glancing over his shoulder, Bishop Moore scrambled toward the bank as quickly as his aging legs could carry him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a figure running downstream through the dense underbrush on the other side of the stream.

  Papers from a real-estate development contract were neatly stacked in rows across the wooden surface of Scott Ellis’s desk. He ran his fingers through his short brown hair as he searched for a paragraph that he wanted to move from one section of the document to another. Stocky and muscular, the young lawyer had taken off his coat and hung it on a wooden hanger on the inside of his office door. The phone on a small, antique table beside his desk buzzed.