The Callahans: The Complete Series

by Gordon Ryan

  “You’ve done a bully job, you have,” Roosevelt had ebulliently announced to all in the hospital ward. “And these two lads have saved many a desperate trooper to return to their family, a life yet to pursue,” the former Assistant Secretary of the Navy had extolled.

  Sister Mary had explained in her letter that Roosevelt had personally informed Anders that if he could be of any help—anything at all—in the future, Anders Hansen was a name that would cause his door to open. Anders had failed to mention the incident in his personal letters to Tom and Katrina, but Sister Mary had filled in the missing parts.

  “Aye, so here they are, all together,” Bishop Scanlan professed. “And well they should be, too, eh, Sister Mary?” he laughed heartily.

  Her eyes glistening from the sight of Anders and Katrina embracing, Sister Mary simply nodded her head. Katrina pulled from Anders’s grasp and moved to greet the elderly woman. As they hugged, Katrina whispered in Sister Mary’s ear, “Thank you, Sister. Thank you so much for caring for my brother.” Sister Mary just gave a small squeeze to Katrina and remained silent.

  Tom shook Anders’s hand, then Stitch’s, and finally Bishop Scanlan’s. “Father Scanlan, with your permission, sir,” Tom said, reaching to wrap his arms around Sister Mary and holding her silently for a moment. The fullness of her habit hid her frailty, but Tom took note of how thin she’d become, and as he held her in his arms, he looked over her shoulder at Katrina and winced. His wife acknowledged him with her eyes, but they said nothing.

  “Well, then,” Tom said loudly, “I have been informed, that as of six o’clock this evening, at the home of Thomas and Katrina Callahan, a slightly belated birthday party will be held in honor of some Irish larrikin who has seen the error of his ways. If all those present would care to partake of the refreshments, which, I am certain, Mrs. Callahan has taken great care to arrange, we would be pleased to have your attendance. It is, in fact, a ‘command performance,’ in honor of this wonderful reunion of friends and family. Please come, one and all,” he laughed.

  Chapter 7

  The buggy carrying Tom, Katrina, and Anders pulled away from the train station and headed up South Temple. Henry had been left at the station to arrange transport of the luggage, and Sister Mary had gone with Bishop Scanlan, after promising to attend the birthday party.

  South Temple, or “Brigham Street” as it was more often called for the first several blocks east of State Street, was a divided boulevard, with separate pathways for carriage and foot traffic. A two way trolley track ran down the middle of the dual carriageway.

  Enroute to their home, Katrina sat holding tightly to Anders’s arm, while Tom drove the buggy.

  “Anders, you’ll just love our new home. It’s wonderful, and we’ve fixed a bedroom and a sitting area for you.”

  “I saw the initial construction before we left,” Anders replied, “while you were in Europe. It seemed awfully large.”

  “Oh, yes,” Katrina laughed. “I thought so too when I first saw it. On paper it looked ... well, it looked large, but when I first saw it—oh, my, was I surprised.”

  Completed on time and ready for occupancy when Tom and Katrina returned from their honeymoon the previous April, the elaborate home had been made ready by Alice Thurston. With her husband, Robert’s, help, she had stocked the food larder, filled the coal bunker, assisted the small staff in assuring the home was clean and tidy, and made certain plenty of wood was stacked out back in the shed and near each of the four fireplaces, even though spring had already graced Utah.

  The day Katrina got her first glimpse of the completed home, she was so taken by its appearance that she was unable for a time to step out of the carriage. She leaned against the cushioned backrest and, from the circular driveway, admired the exterior of her new home for several minutes. By the time she set foot on the ground, Henry, the butler and carriageman, and Tom had practically completed unloading the luggage from the wagon that had followed them from the train station.

  The architectural drawings had been nearly worn out by Katrina during her romp through Europe. The real thing, magnificently displayed before her eyes, surpassed anything she might have imagined.

  The five-story residence, four above ground and one below, was the equal, with only a few exceptions, of any other house on South Temple. The architect had employed all the latest innovations from East Coast builders, including electrical fixtures that were designed to receive the electrical current, which was soon to be extended the length of South Temple. In the interim, gas-fired lighting fixtures graced the walls and tables.

  The five stories included a full basement divided into shelf-lined rooms that remained at a fairly constant, cool temperature. Vegetable storage was planned for one of these rooms, and another had been designed as an insulated ice-block storage area, served by a ground level delivery chute.

  The English Tudor exterior, then so popular in the British Isles and in some places on the Continent, had been one area where Tom and Katrina had immediately agreed. Thereafter, Tom had limited his involvement to choosing the wood paneling for what would become his top floor study and library.

  The rooms on the main floor and all family quarters were furnished entirely with furniture built by Scandinavian craftsmen who worked in Katrina’s father’s factory. As she had ascended the stairs that April day, briefly walking through each room, Katrina had immediately seen the loving care Lars Hansen had lavished on each of the exquisite pieces. Even Tom, whom Lars had yet to fully embrace as a son-in-law, had to admit that the elder Hansen had taken this opportunity to express his love for his daughter and his pride in his work.

  Seen from the outside, the fifth floor appeared as opposing towers of a great castle. It was occupied by a vast library and by a massive fireplace that dominated the center of the room. In each of the corner alcoves, tall windows opened onto a majestic view of the Wasatch Range to the north and east. Positioned between the fireplace and the eastern alcove sat Tom’s new desk. Ornately carved and hand polished, again by Lars, the magnificent desk was obviously a first peace offering from his stubborn father-in-law—a gesture Tom immediately recognized as such. Richly appointed with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a thick carpet, and comfortable leather chairs, the study was by any standard a princely or presidential retreat.

  The house provided the overall personal effect that Katrina had desired—crowned by a massive ballroom, furnished with a grand piano and located on the third floor. An elaborate circular stairway led to an expansive landing, guarded by an oak railing and overlooking the main entrance and foyer below.

  A formal dining room occupied the rear of the first floor. The centerpiece of the immense room was a huge, European style, dark walnut grained dining table, with seating for twenty-four in deep-cushioned, high-backed chairs. An Old English ‘C’ was carved into the topmost back piece of each chair. In the front of the home on the ground level, a large, gracious parlor adorned one side, and a smaller library/combination meeting room, with a more formal business atmosphere, sat opposite.

  The home, then as yet unveiled to Salt Lake society, presented a masterful work of architecture, rivaling the grandest homes on Brigham Street. During a weekend-long Pioneer Day celebration party in July, the Callahans had finally opened their home to friends, neighbors, family, and society reporters from the Tribune and the Deseret News. Editorials in both newspapers had appeared, lauding, in addition to the grandeur of the home, Tom Callahan’s no-longer-secret philanthropic gifts to the Holy Cross Hospital.

  A week after the Callahans got home, Henry picked up Katrina from her shopping downtown at ZCMI and drove her home. She arrived to discover a massive wooden placard that Tom had ordered attached to the wrought iron entrance, which brought a lump to her throat. Without consulting his wife, Tom had named their home “Valhalla,” in honor, he said, of “those ancient Viking warriors who had raided Ireland for centuries.” Having won the love of such a beautiful Norwegian woman, Tom, as a modern-day Irishman, wonde
red why those seafaring Vikings had ever left home. Perhaps that was why they were often called “squareheads,” he had thought. Valhalla was now their home, and if Tom had his way, it would ever be so.

  New mansion might have been a more accurate description, Anders thought as he stepped from the buggy. His balance was still shaky as he continued to adjust to the loss of his arm. Katrina resisted the impulse to offer her hand, but once he had alighted from the carriage, she led him through the double-door entry.

  “Welcome home, Anders,” she said with a little cuddle. “Tom and I hoped you’d stay with us for awhile. At least until you get your feet on the ground and decide what you intend to do.”

  Anders smiled and stepped quickly through the ground floor rooms. “You haven’t lost your touch since marrying an Irish ruffian,” he smiled. “It speaks of love everywhere, Klinka.”

  Hearing her nickname, first applied by Anders when she was born and he was four, Katrina felt a pleasant chill rush through her body.

  “Anders, I have missed you so. I hadn’t realized how important my brother is,” she said, sitting on the divan and patting the seat next to her. “Come, sit down and tell me about your adventures.”

  “Hold on, lass,” Tom said, coming through the parlor door. “Maybe the returned brother would like to see his room, wash his face and hands, and, well, you know,” he laughed.

  “Of course,” Katrina said, blushing. “How insensitive of me. Excuse me, Anders. I’m just so happy to have you home safe and sound,” she said, hugging him yet again. “You clean up and have a rest if you’d like. I’ll have a sandwich and a cool drink sent to your room. Remember,” she pointed her finger, “it’s your brother-in-law’s birthday party at six.”

  “I didn’t know, Tom, uh ... and I didn’t get ...”

  Tom wrapped his arm around Anders’s shoulder and started to lead him from the parlor. “Yes, you did, Andy. Just look at Katrina’s beaming face. That’s present enough for me. We’ve put you on the far side of the second floor—our family floor. It’s a nice room with eastern exposure and a small sitting room off to the side with a fireplace.”

  “It’s not covered by a tent, is it, Tom?” he laughed.

  “Those days are over, Andy.”

  “But first,” Katrina interjected, “Uncle Andy needs to peek in and see little PJ.”

  “Oh, yes. The next generation. What kind of child comes from an Irishman and a square head?” he teased.

  “We’ll leave that to the uncle to decide,” Tom rebutted. “But, I can assure you that those who don’t appropriately ooh and aah, get no dinner.”

  While Anders was resting, Katrina sent a message to her parents, asking them to come early to the birthday party. When they arrived and discovered that Anders had returned, Mrs. Hansen nearly fainted. In a tearful reunion, Anders hugged his mother and gracefully accepted his father’s awkward embrace.

  By six-thirty, most of the guests had arrived and Katrina was entertaining them in the ballroom on the third floor. The Tabernacle Choir’s assistant organist had agreed to play for the gathering, and soft strains of some of the popular tunes of the day drifted from the grand piano situated in the western alcove.

  As Katrina had promised, the affair was small, with less than two dozen people in attendance. Since receipt of the telegram advising of Anders and Sister Mary’s return, Katrina had decided to limit the party to family and close friends. The neighboring residents, invited to previous functions, had been advised through the informal network of household staff that this was to be a family affair to welcome Katrina’s brother home from the war. The Callahans had quickly learned that feelings were easily hurt when status was involved. To not be invited to one of the soirees on Brigham Street was tantamount to a snub. However, private family affairs enjoyed an unspoken exemption from such societal rules.

  The last to arrive were Bishop Scanlan and Sister Mary. Downstairs on an errand for Katrina, Tom saw their buggy approach and met them at the front door. He watched as Father Scanlan physically helped Sister Mary climb the polished granite stairs to the entrance. When she observed Tom at the door, her countenance brightened, and she tried to pretend that all was well.

  “I’m glad you could make it this evening,” Tom greeted the two clergy. “What good’s a party without my two closest Catholic associates?”

  “Don’t forget, young Thomas, that ye also be me cousin,” Father Scanlan said, speaking in the Irish brogue he had mostly eliminated many years earlier.

  Tom laughed and offered Sister Mary his arm as they ascended the stairs. Father Scanlan paused at the downstairs library entrance. Climbing the spiral staircase, Tom noticed he was not following and stopped to look back.

  “Not to worry, Tom,” he said with a wave of his hand. “I’d just like to browse your book collection for a minute, if I may. There’s something I believe I’ve seen in here that I’d like to review. If that’s all right with you, of course,” he smiled.

  “Certainly, Father. Join us when you’re ready,” Tom said, continuing the climb. On the second floor landing, Tom gently ushered Sister Mary into a small room, off the stairs. Immediately they began speaking in the thick, Irish brogue both of them enjoyed using in the privacy of their conversations, a sort of humorous way of reclaiming their origins.

  “And would you be abducting an elderly nursing Sister now, Thomas?” she grinned.

  “No, Sister Mary, but I’ll be havin’ the truth, if you please.”

  “The truth?” she hedged.

  “Aye.

  “And what would you be meanin’, Thomas Matthew Callahan?” she said, tilting her head downward to peer over her glasses at him.

  “Aw, c’mon, Sister. You’re in desperate need of some rest. It’s clear to all who know you, you’ve worn yourself out in this bloody war.”

  “I’ve a touch of the malaria. Just a bit short of breath, Thomas. Nothin’ a’tall, lad.”

  “And that’s how you’ll be havin’ it then?” Tom questioned.

  “Aye, Thomas, and you’ll be keeping your mouth shut, as I have for you these past years.”

  “Aye, that ye have, Sister. That ye have. And can I be of no help then?”

  Reaching past Tom to open the door and taking a step toward the stairway, Sister Mary took Tom’s face in both of her hands. “You’ve been of more help to me than you’ll ever be knowin’, Thomas Matthew,” she smiled.

  “If that’s the way you’ll have it, Sister, we’ll be goin’ upstairs then and to the party. But you’ll be takin’ a seat in the corner, and I’ll have refreshments brought to you. And that’s an order from the master of the house.”

  “Between you and Father Scanlan, all I’ve been getting is orders, but that sounds lovely, yer honor,” she replied.

  Katrina saw them enter the ballroom and came straight to greet them. “We are so honored to have you in our home, Sister Mary. Tom was disappointed when Father Scanlan came to bless the house after we returned from Europe and you were not here to participate.”

  “’Tis a lovely home, too. What an exquisite pendant, my dear,” she commented, noticing Katrina’s necklace.

  Katrina fingered the small golden cupboard and glanced up at Tom. “Thank you, Sister. I doubt it shall ever come off,” she said. “It’s my anniversary present from Thomas.”

  “I see,” Sister Mary replied, glancing quickly at Tom and then taking a closer look at the unique design. “That would be a thoughtful Irishman’s way of telling his lass she is ‘Top Shelf,’ I presume.”

  “Oh, Sister, then you know the saying?”

  “Aye, although I’ve never seen it so lovingly represented before.”

  Tom nodded toward the corner and from behind Sister Mary pointed his finger at a chair and mouthed the words “sit down” to Katrina. Catching on, she took Sister Mary’s arm and moved her toward the grand piano and several chairs lined against the wall around the alcove. “To be sure you get close to the music, Sister Mary,” she said, offering her
a seat. “Can I get you anything?”

  “Perhaps a wee cool drink, if you please.”

  “Certainly. I’ll be right back.” As she walked toward the sideboard and the Waterford crystal punch bowl, Tom fell in alongside Katrina.

  “She’s very ill, Katie,” he whispered as they walked.

  “She certainly is. Is there no way to keep her from returning to her job immediately?”

  “I’ll have a word with Father Scanlan before he leaves this evening.”

  “Good.”

  The sonorous baritone of Captain Masterton echoed through the ballroom as he took a place next to the grand piano and called for attention.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, if you please.” Assuming the role of master of ceremonies, he waited for the guests to give him their undivided attention. “In honor of the host for this splendiferous occasion, I, together with three of my associates, will be pleased to provide some light musical entertainment.” He arched his eyebrows and feigned a mournful expression. “It pains my Welsh heart to render such atonal sounds.” He paused and then sighed, holding the small gathering in rapt attention. “We have specifically been requested to perform a medley of,” again he paused, shaking his head dramatically and looking toward the ceiling, “dare I say it, Irish ballads.” His listeners caught the drift of his taunt and broke out in polite laughter.

  “It is my sincere hope,” Captain Masterton continued, “that you will find no insult in the delivery of this, shall we say, music, but given my regard for the gentleman to whom we pay respectful homage, and my even higher regard for his lovely and musically talented spouse, we shall try to overlook the geographical origin of our selections.”