The List (17 page)

“Is he with a big firm?”

“No, he has a small group, Berit and something. His name is Jack Berit.”

“I've met him,” Renny said, remembering a short, gray-haired man who had provided an audit for an acquisition Heywood handled at the firm.

“You don't say,” Layne said. “It is a small world.”

“Jack's a bean counter like you, Jerrod. You'd get along great.”

Weiss didn't look up from his plate.

“Aren't you glad Renny has been able to join us?” Layne continued.

Weiss muttered, “Sure, sure, welcome aboard.”

Layne leaned across the table and asked in a low tone, “What about the young lady? Do you think she should be on the ship?”

Weiss grunted with greater emphasis. “I know what I think.”

“What do you think?” Layne acted surprised that Weiss had a thought.

“I'll keep it to myself,” Weiss growled, vigorously cutting his prime rib.

Giving up on Weiss, Layne returned to Renny. “Tell me, did you meet Ms. Johnston before this evening?”

“Yes, we arrived at the same time yesterday,” Renny answered, not wanting to tell about the chance encounter in Moncks Corner.

“Her presence makes this meeting different from the previous ones I've attended,” Layne said. “Very interesting indeed.”

Dinner was superb. Renny counted four bottles of Tignabello, a Tuscany port, that made the rounds and were emptied of their rich, red contents. Jo's glass remained full, but by meal's end the rest of the group, with the exception of Weiss, who obviously could hold his liquor very well, were becoming more and more mellow and fraternal. Bart Maxwell was visibly intoxicated, and his stutter, now combined with a slur, was twice as bad as before the meal. The dessert cart rolled back into the kitchen, and LaRochette tapped his glass again.

“Gentlemen,” he began, then smoothly added, “and lady. I would like to call to order the 247th meeting of the Covenant List of South Carolina, Limited.”

The room settled into silence. Renny took a sip of water and peeked around Flournoy at Jo. Catching his look out of the corner of her eye, she gave him a quick smile and turned back toward LaRochette.

LaRochette continued, “As you recall, we were all here together at our regular meeting last November. Now, due to the deaths of H. L. Jacobson and Taylor Johnston, we are required by the rules of the List to call a meeting of the members to install successors. On behalf of us all, I have expressed our condolences to Mr. Jacobson and Ms. Johnston on the deaths of their fathers. Let us have a moment of silence to honor their passing.”

Everyone bowed their heads. Renny closed his eyes and imagined his father sitting in the room the previous year. It was eerie sitting in the same spot at the table as his father, grandfather, and back through time.

LaRochette broke the silence. “As is our custom when uninitiated members are present, I would ask the historian of the List to give a summary of our background and purpose.”

Renny felt like a freshman pledge during fraternity rush week.

At his cue, Harry Smithfield rose and opened an old leather-bound book thicker than the one Renny had found in the old trunk. Reading in a monotone, he said, “The Covenant List of South Carolina, Limited, was established on November 30, 1863, by our forefathers to provide financial stability for our families as the adverse outcome of the War Between the States became apparent….”

Smithfield, a short, rotund man, recited the original language of the Covenant in a friendly voice, making it sound more like the Four Laws of Rotary International than the foundation principles of a 140-year-old secret society with untold financial fortune. “Since the time of the original signers, all successor generations of the member families have subscribed to the Covenant without break except for Alexander Hammond.” He then read the names of the current members, giving the dates each signed the List, then sat down.

LaRochette took over. “The presence of Ms. Johnston raises a question regarding current applicability of the rule of primogeniture, the exclusive right of inheritance for the eldest male heir, established in the original List agreement. I have talked to Harry, and we believe the issue needs to be brought before the group for discussion. During dinner, I mentioned this to Ms. Johnston, and she is agreeable to proceeding in this manner. She has requested the opportunity to speak first.”

Jo began, “Thank you for your hospitality to me this evening. I know it was a shock when I walked through the door.” She smiled toward Gus Eicholtz. “It seems obvious that when my father named me Jo, he did so with participation in this group in mind. However, I realize there is a question as to whether my gender disqualifies me from participation, and I want to make it clear that I am not here to try to pressure or coerce you into accepting me. Primarily, I am seeking answers to some troubling aspects of my father's life, and my purpose is more personal than related to anything in my father's will.”

Roget, a short, pudgy man with a receding hairline and dark eyes, cleared his throat and looked questioningly across the table at Renny.

Taking the letter from her father out of her purse, Jo unfolded it and continued, “I suppose, like all of you, I learned about the List after my father's death. Before you discuss my status in this group, I would like to read the letter he left for me.”

The room listened in silence. When she finished, Jo took a deep breath and asked, “What can you tell me about my father's concerns?”

Michael Flournoy, a small man with gold-rimmed glasses, spoke first in a soft, Southern voice. “Ms. Johnston, I'm not sure the answers to your questions are in this room. Once the immediate threat to our families from the war and Reconstruction subsided, the List became nothing more than a business relationship we maintain from one generation to another. We are simply a group that has found the key to the accumulation of wealth: longevity of investment. I'm sure no one in this room had ill will toward your father, and while his failure to inform us of your gender violated our mutual trust, I think it is more superstition than fact to conclude that his personal problems have a relationship to his conduct vis-à-vis this group. I don't say this to denigrate his memory or hurt your feelings, but I believe you are seeking an honest answer, and I must give you my sincere opinion.”

Eicholtz followed on Flournoy's heels. “Your father seems to have been burdened with guilt, a rare commodity in our day, but as Michael said, a guilt that had no foundation in fact. He mentioned God punishing him in the letter. I frankly don't know if the Almighty cares, but if he does, I doubt he would be concerned with such a trivial offense. There are a lot more serious criminals on the loose. As I told you before dinner, Taylor Johnston saved my life. I'm sorry he allowed this issue to prevent him from being a part of my life, and I'm sorry it kept us from spending time together.”

Layne piped in, “I would ditto what Michael and Gus said. I think it is a question of misplaced emphasis. We are responsible for our future and our fate. Life is simply a matter of choices. The List is designed to help us financially and has no other significance.”

“So there is no record of unusual problems in your family backgrounds?” Jo asked.

Smithfield spoke up, “I may know more about the families of everyone in this room than anyone else. I've read the records of our family histories. There is a lot of tragedy in the past, but I don't think you can give a comprehensive reason or explanation. My father died before he was forty, and I was the only one of five children to reach age twenty-one.”

Renny remembered his conversation with Aunt Margaret and the tragedies that had plagued his ancestors.

“I would say it's just a part of Southern melancholy and malaise,” Michael Flournoy interjected dryly. “Every Southern family with roots and history has a lot of insanity in the back sitting room and illegitimate children in the woodshed.”

“What a happy thought, Michael,” Eicholtz grunted.

“There's no way you could prove or disprove any idea or theory,” Weiss growled. “Each man is entitled to his own opinion, and everyone's got a different one. I don't think we are going to be able to answer Ms. Johnston's questions. I think we are wasting our time.”

“I don't want to waste your time, Mr. Weiss,” Jo said quickly. “I was troubled by my father's letter, and this seemed the place to come for information.”

Weiss responded in a gentler tone, “I didn't mean your questions are not important. I mean that we”—gesturing to the men around the table—“do not have the answers.”

“I must say Jerrod is right,” LaRochette said. “The answers to your questions do not lie in this room. We are ordinary people with ordinary problems. With all due respect to your father, I do not think his failure to tell us about you had any connection with his personal problems. As to the supernatural, we do not bring our personal religious beliefs into this meeting. We are tolerant, not coercive. All we require is that we enter into covenant with one another under the terms and guidelines set out long ago. This protects and benefits everyone. It always has and always will.”

Jo opened her mouth, closed it, then said, “Thank you for your comments. I guess I will need to look elsewhere for insight.”

LaRochette took the floor. “This brings us back to the question of primogeniture and Ms. Johnston. She is willing to leave the room while we discuss this matter. Is that agreeable with everyone?”

Renny wanted to say no, but remembering his previous conversation with Jo, he kept quiet. A general nod of heads supported LaRochette's suggestion.

Eicholtz motioned toward Renny. “I suggest young Jacobson stay since his succession to the List will be in the usual way.”

“Any problems with Gus's recommendation?” LaRochette asked.

No one spoke.

“Fine. Mr. Jacobson, please take Ms. Johnston to the parlor adjacent to the main dining room. It would also be an appropriate time for you to bring in the original documents in your father's possession as custodian.”

Everyone stood as Renny pulled back Jo's chair and escorted her to the door. The parlor, down the hall from the main dining room, was furnished with a love seat and two comfortable chairs. A pair of windows overlooked the back porch, the parking area, and the bay beyond. The wind was picking up, and it was obvious the storm offshore was going to dump some rain on land before the night was over.

“This is perfect,” Jo said. “I can sit in here with my friends.”

“What friends?” Renny asked.

“The angels. They hang around with me,” she said, laughing as Renny rolled his eyes.

“I think you might be an angel,” Renny responded. “However, we don't have time to debate about angels. What do you want to happen in there?”

“That's not the question, Renny. The question is, what do you want to do?”

“But you're the reason for the discussion. What do you want me to say on your behalf?”

“Nothing. I've said what I wanted to say. I know what I am supposed to do.”

“What is that?”

“I'm not saying, but listen to what they say about me with your own situation in mind.”

“Why should I do that?”

“So you can get a clearer picture of what is really going on here.”

“It seems simple enough.”

“Really?”

“Don't be so obscure,” Renny said with a hint of frustration. “I understand what is going on in the meeting better than I do this conversation.” “There are some powerful forces in that room, and I don't know where they are coming from.”

Jo was not making any sense, and he didn't want to keep the other men waiting any longer. “Well, I've got to go. I need to get the trunk from my room.”

“I'll say this much,” Jo said slowly and deliberately. “If you don't know what to do, I would say don't do anything.”

“OK. I've got to get the trunk. I'll see you later.”

“I'll be here,” Jo said as Renny turned to go.

Renny bounded up the stairs in an effort to release the tension he felt. Angels, family tragedies, riches, powerful forces. What was going on? Why was an intelligent, twenty-six-year-old woman acting this way? Who could know if there was a “right” thing to do? Reaching his room, he entered and grabbed the trunk. The old clerk glanced up as he passed by the desk with the old box in his arms. Opening the door, he reentered the dining room.

Layne had lit a pipe. Eicholtz was puffing a huge cigar, and LaRochette snuffed out a cigarette as Renny came into the room. Every man had pushed his chair back from the table.

LaRochette motioned for Renny to bring the trunk to the head of the table. Renny deposited it at LaRochette's feet.

“Let's have a quick look inside,” the old man said eagerly.

Before Renny could offer to help, LaRochette leaned over, quickly twirled the lock, and popped it open.

“You know the combination?” Renny blurted out.