The List

by Robert Whitlow

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Jacobson,” a cheerful receptionist spoke before Renny could give his name. “Mr. McClintock will be with you in a minute.”

  Noticing a graduation photo of The Citadel’s class of 1958 on the opposite wall, Renny walked over for a better look at the black-and-white picture.

  “That’s our class, a good one,” McClintock remarked as he walked out of his office and shook Renny’s hand. “There’s your father, third from the left in the back, and me, second from the right in the first row.”

  It was easy to see why McClintock was in the first row. At five feet six, he was barely tall enough to gain admittance to a military academy. But to his credit, McClintock didn’t weigh ten pounds more now than he had almost fifty years before. He still sported a Citadel haircut and held himself erect, ready to snap to full attention. Renny knew his father’s classmate ran five miles every morning and jumped into the Atlantic Ocean every New Year’s Day in a Southern version of the famous Polar Bear Club’s annual dip in Lake Michigan.

  Renny leaned closer to see his father. Henry Lawrence Jacobson, H. L. to everyone who knew him, was tall and slim. The influence of early military discipline kept his back straight and shoulders square to the end of his days. Even in the grainy picture, H. L. exuded a sense of confidence and control. Not particularly handsome, but without any distracting negative features, it was not his physical appearance but an intangible presence that set him apart from his peers. Whether on the schoolyard or in the boardroom, it did not take long for the elder Jacobson’s internally generated power to pervade the atmosphere around him. If austere Southern aristocracy existed in the twentieth century, H. L. Jacobson qualified as Exhibit A. From the graduation photo, H. L.’s dark eyes seemed to probe the depths of Renny’s soul just as they did when he interrogated Renny after he was caught wandering away from school during recess in the second grade.

  Renny, with his dark hair, brown eyes, and wry, almost shy, smile, looked more like his soft-spoken mother than his father. Short and solid, Renny had played outside linebacker for three years at Hammond Academy, a private high school in Charleston. In his senior season, he received the Best Hit of the Year award for a play in which he tackled the opposing team’s punter. It was fourth down late in a game and the other team was behind ten points. Renny suspected a fake punt was in the works and ran as hard as he could toward the punter. Slipping between two players who were supposed to block him, he hit the punter so hard the punter was knocked several feet through the air. It looked great on the highlight film of the game, and Renny won the award. Neither of his parents attended the game. His mother was in the early stages of the Lou Gehrig’s disease that killed her three years later, and his father was out of town at a business meeting.

  McClintock ushered Renny into his office. “Come into the parlor. Some of the antiques here, including my desk, were purchased from the Stillwell Gallery,” he said, referring to the antique dealer located in the former Jacobson family home.

  McClintock sat down behind an eighteenth-century partners desk, a beautiful mahogany piece designed for two clerks to work opposite each other. Of course, McClintock had the desk to himself.

  The older lawyer picked up a heavy folder, set it down, and tapped a fountain pen against his desk blotter. “Well, let’s get down to business.” He hesitated, opening the folder on his desk then closing it again without taking anything out. “I’m not sure where to begin.”

  “I’ve reviewed my copy of the will,” Renny said. “Everything appears straightforward. Could we look over the documents you intend to file with the probate court?”

  “The documents I’ve prepared for the court?” McClintock said.

  “Sure, you said they would be ready.”

  “Oh, they are. I have them in here.” The lawyer patted the still-closed folder.

  Renny reached out his hand. “Yes. I’m sure everything is fine. I’d just like to skim through them.”

  The older lawyer didn’t budge. “Renny, did you study holographic wills in law school?” he asked, staring past Renny at a spot on the wall behind him.

  Renny stopped. “Of course. It’s a will in the testator’s own handwriting, usually without all the legal boilerplate language and the formality of witnesses.”

  “That’s correct.” McClintock paused. “I don’t know how to say this except to ask you point-blank. Did your father ever tell you he had prepared a holographic will?”

  A cold chill ran down Renny’s spine. “No. He gave me a copy of the will you prepared for him a few months after my mother died.”

  “I see,” McClintock said. “He never gave you an updated will prepared by another lawyer?”

  “No. You were the only lawyer he used. Tell me, Mr. McClintock, what’s going on.”

  McClintock sighed. “After your father’s death I had my secretary pull his file to prepare the documents for the probate court.” He opened the folder on his desk. “Inside was this.” He held up a plain white envelope. “As you know, in the will I prepared you were the residual beneficiary of almost all your father’s estate. Apparently, a month later he brought this envelope by the office and asked my secretary to put it in his file. I don’t know what he told her—she doesn’t remember and probably thought it was a list of assets or the location of important records.” He handed the envelope to Renny. “Read it.”

  Renny took out three sheets of paper. No question, it was his father’s handwriting, a familiar pattern of printing and cursive. It was dated one month after the lengthy will prepared by McClintock. There were only four paragraphs:

  I, Henry Lawrence Jacobson, being of sound and disposing mind, do hereby revoke all prior Wills made by me and make this my Last Will and Testament.

  ITEM ONE

  I hereby will, devise and bequeath to my son, Josiah Fletchall Jacobson, all my personal belongings and the gold coin collection contained in my safe deposit box at Planters & Merchants Bank. I further will, give and devise to my son all my right, title and interest to any and all assets, tangible and intangible, in the Covenant List of South Carolina, Ltd. This bequest is subject to the usual and customary conditions precedent.

  ITEM TWO

  I hereby, will, devise and bequeath all the rest, remainder, and residue of my estate, including all real estate, stocks, bonds, certificates of deposit, cash, or other property of any type, tangible and intangible, in equal shares to the Medical College of South Carolina, The Citadel, the Charleston Historical Society, and the Episcopal Parish of St. Alban’s.

  ITEM THREE

  I hereby appoint Jefferson McClintock as executor of my estate.

  Henry Lawrence Jacobson

  The other sheet was a report from a local psychiatrist, Dr. Lewis Abbott, dated the same day as the will.

  To Whom It May Concern:

  I have this day examined Henry Lawrence Jacobson and can state that he is mentally competent to handle his legal affairs. He understands the natural objects of his affection and has informed me of his intention to prepare a Last Will and Testament in which the majority of his assets are bequeathed to charitable institutions. He has indicated that he will make a bequest to his son, Josiah Fletchall Jacobson, consistent with his desire and intentions for him.

  Lewis Abbott, M.D.

  Diplomate, American Board of Psychiatry

  Renny let the papers fall into his lap and stared for several seconds at the floor in front of McClintock’s desk. Every ounce of hope for the future drained out of him in the two minutes it took to read the papers. In shock, he didn’t even have the strength to ask why.

  The lawyer cleared his throat and broke the awkward silence. “We know the law doesn’t favor a holographic will or one that disinherits family members. There was little doubt that your father wrote the will, but to be sure, I obtained a handwriting analysis. The results came back just before I called you yesterday.”

  “And?” Renny managed weakly.

  “It’s as close to a 100 percent match a
s possible. I also had an extensive interview with Dr. Abbott. Do you know him?”

  “No.”

  “He is a former president of the South Carolina Psychiatric Association with impeccable credentials. He had detailed records of an interview with your father and stands completely by the report issued at the time of the will.”

  “Does he have connections with the Medical College?” Renny ventured.

  “I thought of that, too. No, he doesn’t, and there is no way to claim any self-interest on his part that would raise a question about his medical opinion of your father’s capacity.”

  “ I don’t care what the psychiatrist says. This is crazy. Why would my father do this to me?” Renny asked, desperation and hurt creeping into his voice.

  “I don’t know. I’m a father, Renny, and I don’t understand.”

  “But item one is nonsense. I didn’t know he had a gold coin collection, and I’ve never heard of the Covenant List of South Carolina, Limited. What is it? What are the conditions precedent?”

  “I was hoping you might shed some light on it. We’ve gone over every inventory of assets three times and found no record of this company. Since your father was involved in so much commercial development, it could be a real estate limited partnership.”

  “But you don’t know.”

  “That’s right. I’m guessing.”

  Renny put the papers on the edge of McClintock’s desk. “We can’t tear this up and probate the other will can we?”

  “I’m sorry, but you know the answer to that. Since I’m the executor, I can exercise as much leeway as possible in interpreting ‘personal belongings.’ There are several valuable antiques at the Isle of Palms house. I’m going to consider those items personal belongings so that you can have them. Also, I would advise you to consider getting another legal opinion about the legitimacy of the will.”

  “I understand, but the handwriting is on the wall, or actually on these sheets of paper,” Renny said bitterly. “Being on the receiving end of a lawyer telling his client what the client doesn’t want to hear is painful.”

  “I can’t blame you for anything you feel,” McClintock responded. “I didn’t want to have to give you this news.” He handed Renny a key. “This is the key to safe deposit box 413 at the Planters and Merchants Bank downtown. You are a signatory, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “There’s one other puzzling thing.”

  “What else?” Renny asked, bracing for more bad news.

  “Nothing substantive. Included with some routine postmortem instructions was a letter.” McClintock read aloud:

  Dear Jeff,

  The enclosed information will assist you in probating my estate. As soon as possible, please send a copy of my obituary notice to the people on the attached list.

  H. L.

  Handing the second sheet to Renny, McClintock asked, “Do you know any of these individuals?”

  Renny quickly scanned the names. No one was immediately familiar. As he read over it more slowly, he counted nine names with post office box addresses—no street names, no phone numbers. All men, no women.

  “I don’t know any of these men,” Renny responded slowly. “I recognize several family names, families with a long history in the Low Country.”

  “It was the same with me.”

  “As far as I know, none of them are relatives. I don’t see the names of any of my father’s business associates either.”

  “Exactly my conclusion as well,” the lawyer responded.

  “But, this is just like the unknown company mentioned in the will. All we know is that we don’t know anything.”

  Renny and McClintock stared at each other across the desk, each letting his mental wheels grind, both coming up empty.

  McClintock spoke first. “Pursuant to your father’s instructions, I sent a copy of his obituary to each person. I enclosed a short cover letter notifying them that I was following your father’s last wishes.”

  “Did anybody respond?” Renny asked.

  “Not yet,” said McClintock, shaking his head. “I’ll let you know if they do.”

  “Should I ask if there’s anything else?”

  “Fortunately not, I guess. My secretary has duplicates of everything for you.”

  Still numb, Renny nodded.

  “Of course, I will delay sale of your parents’ house as long as you need me to.”

  “It’s hard to believe the house will be sold. That everything will be sold and given away,” Renny said dully.

  McClintock came around the desk and put his hand on Renny’s shoulder. “Call me if you need me. I’ll contact you as soon as I know anything else.”

  “Thanks.” Renny got up to leave. When he reached the door, he stopped. “I forgot to ask. What is the value of the estate?”

  McClintock paused. “Depending on the value of securities at time of probate, approximately $8 million.”

  2

  He being dead yet speaketh.

  HEBREWS 11:4, KJV

  Going down the steps in front of McClintock and Carney, Renny walked a block to his car, which was parked next to a palmetto tree. His shirt was damp by the time he opened the door. Throwing the folder of information about the estate on the passenger seat, he turned the air conditioner on full blast and drove toward the Battery. Turning down King Street, he slowed in front of St. Alban’s Episcopal Church and found a shady parking space under an oak tree beside the entrance to the church cemetery.

  The church was one of the oldest in Charleston, and its mottled gray stone walls and muted stained-glass windows often graced the pages of guidebooks and pictorial tours of the city. For families like the Jacobsons, who had lived in Charleston for over two hundred years, St. Alban’s was a family gathering place on Christmas Eve, Easter morning, and the site for marrying and burying. The rest of the time it was primarily a brief stop for busloads of hot tourists seeking a cool place on a steamy summer day.

  There had not been any new plots available in the original cemetery since World War I. To handle the ongoing tide of death, the church purchased land outside the downtown Charleston area and sold burial plots in what Renny called the “cemetery annex.” With the burial of Renny’s father, the Jacobson plot at the main cemetery was at maximum occupancy, and Renny guessed he would have to reserve a space for himself at the annex.

  The parish had no debt or financial needs—what the vestry would do with a $2 million gift from his father’s estate was beyond Renny’s comprehension. Buy more cemetery space? Hire an additional worker to keep the hedges trimmed and the few tufts of grass cut? Renny shook his head in shock and disbelief as he gingerly made his way around the ancient markers and tombstones, some so faded it was hard to decipher the names and ages of those who rested under the sandy soil. Maybe he could get a free burial plot. It would be the least the parish could do.

  Surrounded by an ornate wrought-iron railing, the Jacobson plot was easily identified by a ten-foot-tall monument with the family name chiseled into all four sides at its base. His father and mother were side by side, his father’s grave still a mound of light brown dirt. A few dead flowers from the funeral were strewn on the ground.

  Renny stared at his father’s name on the headstone and asked the question that had reverberated in his mind since he read the handwritten will at McClintock’s office. “Why?” he whispered. “Why?” he said a little louder. “Why?” He wanted to scream at the top of his lungs.

  Nothing. A breeze stirred the leaves in the old trees, but it didn’t cool Renny’s rising anger or assuage his inner pain. Eight million dollars. He had known it would be a lot of money, but the actual amount surprised him. His father had done better financially than he had realized. But for his only child—nothing. It was one thing for H. L. to deny Renny the things he needed while alive; it was almost more painful to experience rejection from beyond the grave. Rage and resentment boiled inside his soul. “Why?” he cried. “Why did you do this to me?” Nothing.
Picking up a dead flower stem, he threw it at the headstone. There were no answers here.

  Next to his father’s fresh mound of dirt, the level grave of Katharine Candler Jacobson was covered with green grass. Turning toward her gravestone, Renny continued his questioning. Wherever she was, did she know what her husband had done to their only child? “Why?” he asked her resting place. Nothing. Shouldn’t she share some of the blame? “Why didn’t you outlive him?” Nothing. She died first, and the scant protection she offered Renny died with her. She would have done differently, or at least tried to, but she was gone.

  He resented her abandonment. But his mother couldn’t answer his questions and didn’t deserve his blame. She had endured much herself. Although skewed by a child’s naturally positive perceptions of his parents and their flaws, Renny knew his mother’s relationship with his father was trying. But in the midst of a difficult marriage, Katharine gave her only surviving child memories worth preserving. She sat with him and listened when he told her about his day at school. She was there when he needed wise counsel as a teenager. She kept the lines of communication open until the ravages of disease robbed her of her voice. Even then her eyes had continued to speak of a mother’s love…until their light went out, too. Now nothing responded to Renny’s gaze but marble and memories.

  Because of her and her alone he would come back to this place. Retracing his steps to the car, Renny’s anger gave way to dejection. How many steps were there down to the depths of hell in Dante’s Inferno? How much more would he have to endure?

  Shortly after Renny drove away, another car parked in the space Renny vacated. An older man with a younger man’s vigor and energy opened the door and walked briskly to the spot where Renny had stood beside his father’s grave. Looking at the tombstone, he smiled. To him, H. L. Jacobson’s grave was not a place of rejection, anger, and frustration; it was a place of triumph. Sure of the irrefutable evidence of his victory, he lingered for a moment, savoring his conquest, then left.

  It was not yet five o’clock, so Renny decided he might as well stop at the bank and examine the gold coin collection before driving out to the Isle of Palms. In earlier times, Planters and Merchants Bank, an ancient, square, dark stone, three-story building, contained a waterfront counting house. It was the financial center where traders, planters, and factors— the men who lent money secured by future rice, indigo, and cotton harvests—transacted their business affairs and “counted” their money. Most people viewed banks with a mixture of fear, awe, and distrust, but to Renny, the old bank was familiar territory, and Planters and Merchants Bank, locally known as P&M, was like an honored old grandfather, black and hoary on the outside, but noble and sedate on the inside.