The Callahans: The Complete Series

by Gordon Ryan

  The third week in September, five months and four jobs after Tom’s arrival in America, the repair crew pulled out of the Bayonne switching yard. The twenty men settling into their claimed bunks in the crew car began grousing almost immediately about the quality of the food, which was prepared by a cook who operated a kitchen at one end of the car, alongside the small room occupied by the road foreman, Mr. Sutherland.

  A few days before Tom’s departure, he took the opportunity to return to lower Manhattan to pay a visit to Father O’Leary. A priest who was considerably younger than Father O’Leary, whom Tom hadn’t previously met, answered the rectory door, and Tom introduced himself, asking to see Father O’Leary.

  “Mr. Callahan, did you know Father O’Leary well?” the priest asked.

  “Not well, Father, we only had a brief acquaintance,” Tom responded, aware that the priest spoke in the past tense.

  “Father O’Leary has passed on, my son,” he said, crossing himself. “He had a heart attack about six weeks ago.”

  “Oh, I see,” Tom mumbled. “I’m sorry to hear it, Father. Did he have any family?”

  “None. Father O’Leary has been alone for quite some years now. His family,” the priest said, with a sweeping gesture of his arm, “were the people in this neighborhood.”

  “Aye,” Tom said. “When you visit with him, Father, you can tell him that one of his sons will say a rosary for him.”

  “I understand, my son,” the priest said, smiling at Tom. “Can I offer you a cup of tea before you leave?”

  “No, thank you, Father, but you could put this in the orphans’ box if you would, please, in Father O’Leary’s name,” Tom said, handing the priest a five dollar bill.

  “Thank you, my son. God’s blessings on you.”

  “Thank you, Father, I’ll be needing ’em. Good day to you.”

  “And to you, my son.”

  During his return trip across the river to New Jersey, Tom thought back on the two occasions when he had been with Father O’Leary. It hadn’t been a long association, as he’d told the other priest, but very significant, to Tom’s way of thinking. “Six months will tell the tale, lad,” Tom recalled O’Leary warning him about the path he was on. Well, Father, I’ve used up two of ’em, and the future looks better than it did. I thank you for that, Tom thought.

  The arrival of September didn’t provide any relief from the summer heat in Salt Lake, and Katrina, used to the early advent of winter in Norway, found it enjoyable to be able to continue the outdoor activities associated with pleasant weather. True to his word, Andy met with Harold Stromberg, and as he later explained to Katrina, found that Harold was almost as shocked by Mr. Hansen’s behavior as Katrina had been. Andy arranged a meeting for the two, unknown to Lars Hansen, and to her pleasure, Katrina found herself liking the newly returned missionary.

  “Klinka, please hurry. We’re going to miss the train,” Andy called out as he passed her room, bounding down the stairs, and causing Mr. Hansen to look up from his newspaper.

  “Going out, Anders?” Lars asked.

  “Ya, Poppa. Klinka and I are going to Saltair to swim,” Andy replied.

  “I wish that girl would become serious for once and see young Harold again,” Lars said, exasperation in his voice.

  “You know Klinka, Poppa. Headstrong, just like—” Seeing his father’s stern look, Anders thought better of his comment.

  “The Poppa has a responsibility to see his daughters are properly watched over, Anders, and married into a fine family. You’d do well to learn that before you think about becoming a father yourself.”

  “Ya, Poppa,” Andy answered, waiting impatiently for Katrina to come down the stairs.

  “Ready, Anders,” Katrina said, walking toward her father and giving him a kiss on top of his balding head, and then rubbing it into his bare spot, a habit Mr. Hansen tolerated as a show of affection from his daughter.

  “See you watch your sister, Anders,” Lars warned, “and don’t let any of the rowdies get you in trouble. I’ve been reading about the growing troubles at this Saltair. It might not be safe to go out there, if someone doesn’t put a stop to it.”

  “It’s fine, Poppa,” Anders said. “The papers exaggerate everything. Besides, some of Klinka’s friends will be there too,” he continued, winking at Katrina from behind her father’s back.

  Closing the front door, Andy took Katrina by the arm as they headed off down the street toward the trolley stop. “Klinka’s friends will be there too,” Katrina mimicked. “You should have said, ‘one special friend,’ right, Anders?”

  “Don’t be giving me a hard time, little sister. We just might see someone else at Saltair, mightn’t we?” he teased.

  “Is Harold . . .”

  “He just might be,” Andy laughed as the trolley arrived.

  “This would be so much easier if you’d just tell Poppa you’re seeing Harold. He’d turn the house upside down to help you if he knew.”

  “Please, Anders, I don’t want Poppa to know, at least until I know how I feel. I like Harold, of course, but I still want to keep this between us. Harold agrees to that, why can’t you?”

  “I have agreed, in case you didn’t notice, little sister. I’m here, aren’t I?”

  Katrina smiled, tugging at his arm as they sat side by side on the trolley seat. “Ya, you’re here, Anders, but so will Martha Young be.” Andy remained silent in the face of Katrina’s teasing him about Martha.

  After leaving the trolley and entering the Union Pacific Rail depot, Andy left Katrina by herself while he went to buy tickets for the excursion train to Saltair. The station was crowded with Saturday revelers, and trains ran every fifteen minutes to accommodate the crowds.

  Saltair had become the most enjoyable attraction in the Salt Lake Valley, for young and old. Situated on the southern shore of the Great Salt Lake, a large Moorish style building, with onion-domed towers, housed an enormous dance pavilion, rides, and bathing facilities for swimmers, and weekend visitors now often numbered in the thousands.

  The first time Katrina and Andy had gone to Saltair, she had been amazed by the thousands jammed into the dance pavilion. In that crowd, she was also astonished when Harold Stromberg suddenly appeared. Andy’s knowing smile made it evident to Katrina that Harold’s arrival was no coincidence. Still, she had thanked Andy on the train ride home for his efforts in arranging the meeting. Today, she had done the same thing for Andy, by inviting Martha Young to meet them at Saltair.

  When Andy returned with the tickets, he was accompanied by Harold, but this time, Katrina was not surprised.

  “Good morning, Katrina,” Harold said, removing his hat.

  “Good morning, Harold,” she smiled.

  Each weekend now, for four weeks, Andy and Katrina had gone off together to a prearranged meeting where Harold had joined them for the day’s outing. Katrina’s feelings for Harold were beginning to concern her. Everything Andy had said that night, after Poppa had humiliated her was true. Harold was smart, he came from a well-respected family, and his education toward becoming a lawyer was just getting under way at the university. He supported himself by working afternoons in his father’s law firm, and his future seemed secure. He treated Katrina with the utmost respect and courtesy, and he had even agreed, although he was reluctant to deceive Mr. Hansen, to meet with Katrina in secret until she determined to tell her father that she was seeing Harold.

  Harold Stromberg was everything a girl could hope for, something that was confirmed by the way other young women looked to him in the places he and Katrina went. Some of the local girls were resentful of the new immigrant girl, who seemed to have the inside track on the eligible Harold. Katrina knew he could shift his attentions to any of a dozen girls, yet he seemed content to wait until she found her way, or decided how her feelings were developing.

  Given Katrina’s beauty and the feelings he had for her, Harold was willing to be patient. He sensed also that if he pushed her for a commitment, s
he’d run. As for Katrina, herself, she still didn’t know whether she’d run toward, or away, from Harold Stromberg.

  “What’s it to be today, Katrina? Rides, swimming, or just sunning outside?” Harold asked, smiling.

  “Oh, yes! All of that,” Katrina answered, laughing, “and dancing tonight, please.”

  “The young lady’s got an iron constitution,” Harold said to Andy.

  “And an iron fist when she’s mad,” her brother quipped. “C’mon, let’s get a seat on the train, or we’ll have to stand all the way.”

  The last train back from Saltair ran at midnight, but Lars Hansen had strictly instructed Andy that he was to have his sister in the house before midnight, so they took the ten forty-five train back to the station, Harold accompanying them and parting company as Katrina and Andy prepared to board the trolley toward their home. Harold politely kissed Katrina’s hand, the first gesture of affection he had made toward her. It was sufficient to make her blush and get a little light-headed. She recognized the boldness of his growing interest, and it both thrilled and concerned her.

  “Katrina,” he said, “I hope your day was as enjoyable as mine, and I’d like to think we could have many more together. Would you consider coming to church with my family tomorrow and having dinner with us afterward?”

  “Thank you, Harold, but I’d better not. I should help my mother with the dinner for our family. Some other time, perhaps.”

  Harold smiled and released her hand. “I hope so, Katrina. God kvell,” he said in Norwegian.

  “Tusan tak, Harold,” she replied.

  As the trolley rolled east on South Temple, Andy stared at Katrina until she responded. “What?” she asked.

  “He may not wait until next year, you know.”

  “Next year?” she said, feigning ignorance of his intent.

  “Ya, next year, when your promise to wait for Tom is over.”

  “Oh, Anders, I don’t know what to do. I like Harold, really I do. But I still think of Tom. You like Tom, too, you know you do.”

  “Ya, I like Tom Callahan, but we may never see him again.”

  Katrina was silent, looking out the open air trolley window as they passed Temple Square and admiring the magnificent six-spired temple, gleaming white with the newness of its completion just two years before. She thought of how much she desired to be married in the temple, something Harold offered, but that Tom . . . “I know, Anders,” she said, plaintively. “But he did ask, and I did promise. I must wait.”

  “Ya, I suppose you must.”

  Katrina turned back to look at Andy, taking his arm again and leaning her head on his shoulder. “God has given me such a wonderful brother, Anders. Thank you for understanding.”

  “It’s Harold’s understanding that should concern you, Klinka.”

  “Ya,” she replied, looking again out the window.

  21 September, 1895

  Dear Nana,

  Today we spent the day at Saltair, the bathing place I told you about. Anders and I met Harold Stromberg and Martha Young for the day. Anders thinks Martha Young is wonderful, but just between you and me, Nana, she is not for him.

  As for me, well, Harold is really a good man. He is considerate and patient, and has not made me feel embarrassed over the time Poppa announced him as the suitable candidate. The truth is, Nana, he is in every way a suitable candidate, and offers much more than the life I think Thomas could, but still, Nana, you understand, I know. In my heart, I still think of Thomas. Perhaps it’s just a dream, since I haven’t seen him and we can’t write, but, still, I promised to wait.

  What if he comes, Nana, and I don’t feel the same? What if I come to love Harold and Thomas has come all this way because I promised to wait? What if Thomas doesn’t come, Nana?

  Jeg elske du.

  Trina

  Chapter 8

  By early November, the New York, Baltimore, & Ohio rail repair crew had worked its way to Omaha, making faster time than anticipated. Tom thoroughly enjoyed the trip, seeing parts of America that he had only read about or seen in magazine pictures. The only negative aspect of the trip was the assistant crew leader, a disagreeable Englishman named Max Tooney, who had taken a dislike to Tom and made it his mission to make life miserable for the young Irishman. Still, the crew all worked hard when rail repair was in progress, so Tom ignored the intentional taunting about Irish “Paddy’s” and “hooligans,” and chalked it up to what he privately considered a bloody, ignorant “Brit.” Only when Tom’s name had appeared on the galley roster short of his normal rotation had he complained, and on that occasion, he was told by Tooney he could take it or leave it. The crew could do without him, anyway, Tooney had said.

  Tom swallowed his pride on that occasion and accepted the additional galley assignment, aided by the knowledge that the cook liked him and thanked him for being one of the crew who didn’t complain about the cooking.

  As the crew started the southerly run from Omaha to Kansas City, snow began to fall and soon a full-fledged prairie blizzard encompassed the train. Finding the narrow passageway between two hills drifted-in with snow, the train came to a stop while crew were assigned to clear the track ahead. As shovels flew, and the rails began to be cleared, Tooney sent Tom up the hill to a nearby grove of trees to obtain additional firewood for the potbellied stove in the crew quarters. He did so on the pretense that they might be snowed in farther up the track and have to remain overnight on the prairie, where no wood could be obtained.

  In a stand of dead trees, located several hundred yards uphill from the train, Tom swung his ax in the snowstorm, felling several smaller trees, allowing the physical exertion to dispel his anger as well as keep him warm. There was plenty of firewood on board in the coal tender behind the engine, and Tom felt Tooney had once again used his authority to push him into an unnecessary, extra assignment. Not until Tom heard the engine make steam did he realize that Tooney intended to leave him on the prairie, somewhere between Nebraska and Missouri.

  Dropping his ax and shouting for them not to leave him, Tom began bounding his way through the waist deep snowdrifts, down the hill to where the train was slowly gathering steam and beginning to make slow headway uphill, against the newly cleared track.

  Stumbling every few feet, Tom realized that if he didn’t reach the last railcar before it crested the top and began to pick up speed down the far side, he’d likely freeze to death. His clothing was soaked with perspiration and melting snow, and he was gasping for breath. Nearing the railroad right-of-way, Tom was blocked by the bank of snow the crew had piled up as they cleared the tracks. Stumbling and slipping, he fought to clamber over the top, then sliding down the other side, he sprawled headlong in the snow next to the tracks, just as the last car crawled by. He scrambled to his feet and began running behind the train, down the middle of the newly cleared tracks. The blowing snow blinded him, and he strained to catch hold of the ladder on the back of the flatcar used to transport extra rails, which was the last car on the train. Finally, just before his strength gave out entirely and the last railcar rolled over the top of the grade, he was able to grab the railing on the rear steps, and with a strength summoned from desperation, he pulled himself up onto the bed of the car and lay there, gasping for breath and shaking with rage, as the train gathered speed and rolled down the far side of the hill.

  Exhausted, he lay there for a minute, until he began to lose the feeling in his face and hands and feet. The wind kicked up by the speed of the train made it even colder, and his wet clothing began to freeze.

  Tom knew he was in a desperate situation. He needed to traverse the flatbed railcar to reach the crew compartment, one car ahead.

  Crouching and moving unsteadily on top of the snow-slick stack of rails, he made his way forward, lurching from side to side as the train rocked on. When he reached the front of the flatcar, Tom paused to gather his strength, and then leaped across the gap above the swaying couplings, to the back of the crew car, where he fell through
the door, face down on the wooden floor and unconscious.

  Several minutes later, he became aware that his hands were being rubbed and someone was trying to pour hot coffee down his throat. He was wrapped in a blanket and two or three of the men supported him as he sat on a stool next to the potbellied stove.

  “What happened, Tom?” the foreman said. “We thought everyone was on board.”

  Tooney was standing behind Mr. Sutherland, and Tom glared at him until Tooney looked away. Tom’s face was so cold he couldn’t speak, so he said nothing, but sat quietly, content for the moment to soak up some heat from the stove and let the hot coffee do its work.

  The men gradually drifted away to their bunks and other interests, leaving Tom to warm up and regain his strength. After a while, the cook brought him some soup, and he eventually felt strong enough to stand and walk about.

  Tooney was lying on one of the top bunks, looking at a magazine when Tom approached him. The rage that had filled Tom when he realized he was being deliberately left behind, suddenly roared up, and he grabbed Tooney by his shirt and dragged him off the bunk to the floor. Placing his knee on the struggling man’s chest, Tom struck him a vicious blow in the face and would have hit him again, except that he was restrained by several of the crew.