The Callahans: The Complete Series

by Gordon Ryan

  John nodded. “That’s good, Tom. You’re probably saving the kid’s life.”

  Tom got in his car, slammed the door and smiled at John. “Tell him to meet me at eight o’clock tomorrow morning in front of my hotel. And John, try to keep these guys apart, eh?” he laughed. “We’ve got guaranteed contracts for delivery of this coal.”

  “And what would you have done if they’d called your bluff about closing the mine?”

  “Bluff?” Tom replied.

  “You were serious?” Milner blanched.

  “Well, I’d have called Robert first and had him sell my stock,” he smiled.

  John threw his head back and laughed, then patted the hood of Tom’s car.

  “Want to change jobs, Paddy?” Milner quipped.

  Tom smiled broadly as the engine roared to life. “I’ve swirled a few gold pans around, John. It’s your turn now,” he laughed. “See ya.”

  “Till next time, boss.”

  “Let’s not have a next time, John,” Tom called out.

  Chapter 2

  By mid-March, 1916, it seemed even more certain that the United States would eventually become embroiled in the war in Europe, although many antiwar groups were even protesting the aid being provided to the combatants by the United States. Mine orders for both coal and iron had soared and, smelling blood, union leaders had held the knife to management’s throat. Concessions in the form of higher wages and safer working conditions had been given and production continued.

  Teresa was in her second quarter at the university, and Tommy was continuing to attend college near Washington, D.C. where Uncle Anders had helped him obtain a part-time job in the Department of the Treasury. Although only sixteen, Tommy was already over six feet tall, handsome, and solidly built. Uncle Anders’s chief legislative assistant noted to the congressman that as a result of the time and attention Tommy was receiving from the secretaries in the government office, the lad had demonstrated an unusual willingness to work extra hours.

  With the Callahan brood away on their adventures throughout the world, Katrina had the house to herself once again. Her spiritual resilience and depth of belief had sustained both herself and her marriage following the loss of Benjamin and of Katrina’s parents. When Tom had withdrawn into silent anger, frustration, and, known only to himself, fear, Katrina had carried on raising the children, tending to household duties, and trying to support her husband, for whom work and the next bank deal had become paramount.

  It was not that Tom didn’t show love for her or his family, but his priorities had changed, and it was as if work were the only way he could mitigate the agony resulting from the loss of his youngest son. The one discussion Katrina had been able to generate, late one night in the quiet darkness of their bedroom, had consisted of a terse exchange.

  “Do you still believe that Benjamin is with Momma and Poppa, Thomas?” she whispered in the stillness.

  Tom lay quietly, causing Katrina to think he had gone to sleep. Then he moved, slightly. “I know that believing he is has made your life more bearable. And I am grateful for that. But the fact that I don’t know, and that God has not chosen to speak to me, has put me through a hell on earth.”

  Tom had then rolled away from his wife and gone to sleep without another word.

  Thoughts about his comment to Katrina occupied Tom’s mind for some time following his cynical response, and after several days, he had found the courage to take her in his arms one morning before leaving for work, to tell her that although his confusion was real and disturbing, it in no way diminished the love he felt for her, or the joy his life otherwise brought to him. Somehow, he sighed, they would all find their answers, and he asked her to continue to be patient with him.

  “Thomas, after nearly nineteen years being married to you, do you think I haven’t learned patience?” she smiled.

  “You are the very soul of patience, Katie, m’darlin’,” he laughed, relieved that she had forgiven him in her continuing way of loving him unconditionally, as she had been advised to do by David O. McKay so many years before.

  As Tom arrived for work later that morning and entered the lobby of the bank, the head teller smiled and gestured to him for a moment of his time.

  “Good morning, Albert,” Tom said.

  “Good morning to you, sir,” he said. “Mr. Callahan, a Mr. Antonio is waiting to see you if you have a few moments.”

  “Certainly. Please show him into my office. I’ll be with him shortly, after I speak with Mr. Thurston.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mr. Antonio rose as Tom entered the office through the side door that connected his office with that of Robert Thurston’s. “Good morning. Mr. Antonio was it?”

  “Si, Señor. Sebastian Antonio.”

  Tom extended his hand. “Care for a cup of coffee, Mr. Antonio?”

  “Gracias, Señor, that would be most kind.”

  Tom stepped to his doorway. “Janice, would you be so kind as to bring a couple of cups of coffee?”

  “Right away, Mr. Callahan,” she said.

  Tom walked back to his chair, smiling at the younger man seated in front of the carved, walnut desk, another gift from Lars Hansen prior to his departure for Norway. “How may Utah Trust Bank be of service, Mr. Antonio?”

  “Señor Callahan,” Sebastian started, “can you tell me the current condition of this account?” he said, leaning forward and providing a slip of paper with an account number written on it. “You will see, Señor, that the account is under the name of Sebastian Cardenas or Sebastian Antonio.”

  “I see,” Tom replied, accepting the slip of paper. Janice entered the room with a coffee tray and placed it on the side of Tom’s desk.

  “Tilly brought some wonderful Danish rolls this morning, Mr. Callahan. I’ve placed several on your tray.”

  Tom smiled at the young woman. “Mrs. Callahan will be in to see you, Janice, about my weight, if you keep taking such good care of me,” he laughed.

  “Yes, sir,” she smiled.

  “Janice, would you please bring me the file for this particular account?” he asked, handing her the slip of paper.

  “Yes, sir. Right away.”

  “Mr. Antonio, Janice will have those records in just a moment. Are you from Utah?”

  “No, Señor, I come from Mazatlan, Mexico.”

  “I see,” Tom stalled, his face expressing some recognition of the name and place.

  “Señor, it is not my intent to deceive. My full name is Sebastian Antonio Cardenas ... Stromberg,” the young man said, drawing out his Anglican surname.

  Tom nodded, recognition dawning. “I thought there was something familiar about the name. It’s been a long time, Mr. Ant ... uh, Mr. Stromberg, since I heard the two names connected.”

  “Si, Señor.”

  Janice returned with the account records and placed them on Tom’s desk, smiling politely at the visitor as she left, closing the door behind her. Tom quickly scanned the records, his eyebrows rising slightly, while Sebastian waited quietly in front of the desk.

  “Opened in August 1914, with a deposit of $500,000,” Tom reiterated softly, perusing the records, “with three additional deposits totaling, let’s see, just over two million dollars. No withdrawals, or deposits since the last, which was November 1915, some four months ago.”

  “Si, Señor. My grandfather, Don Sebastian Antonio Cardenas, suffered a fatal heart attack in December of last year.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. . . . uh, Stromberg. I met your grandfather. As I recall, he was a most gracious gentleman.”

  “Thank you, Señor. I believe some explanation is in order.”

  Tom poured Sebastian a cup of coffee, took one for himself, and sat back in his chair, sipping slowly. He gestured for the young man to continue.

  Some two hours, three cups of coffee each, and four Danish later, the story of the Mexican revolution, the destruction of their hacienda, Don Sebastian’s death, and the earlier death of Don Sebastian’s
only son, Miguel Antonio, killed while riding with government forces against the rebels, had been revealed.

  “You’re lucky to have gotten out, Mr. Stromberg. And it was very wise of your grandfather to have secreted some of his fortune in this country. But why Utah Trust Bank?”

  “Señor, my grandfather told me the story of the brave Yanqui woman who saved my life when my mother died in the buggy accident. He kept track of her, and her marriage to you, as best he could. He knew of your banking ventures, and felt that, should the situation worsen, he and I—that is until his death—that we could move north to re-establish the Cardenas estate. At least until Mexico is able to determine her future.”

  “As I said, Mr. Stromberg, a most wise gentleman. How can we help?”

  “I would be honored, Señor, if you would call me Seby,” he smiled.

  “Seby, it is,” Tom laughed. “Where are you staying?”

  “I am presently at the Peery Hotel.”

  “Well, I’m sure this will be quite a surprise to her, but Mrs. Callahan—Katrina—will not allow the grandson of Don Sebastian, or,” Tom hesitated, “the son of Teresa Cardenas Stromberg, her best friend in Mexico, to stay in a hotel. Let’s see what we can do to have your things moved to our home.”

  “Señor, I wish to cause no disruption of your family.”

  “Seby,” Tom said, rising, “we have enough of our own, as do most families. But your presence will greatly brighten Mrs. Callahan’s day, I’m quite certain.”

  “You are most gracious, Señor,” Seby said.

  Tom noticed immediately that as they entered the foyer and looked around the downstairs area, Seby accepted Valhalla in stride. But, as he thought back, Tom remembered Don Sebastian’s palatial Mexican hacienda where he and Anders had stayed for several days following Katrina’s jungle ordeal. Clearly, Seby was used to fine surroundings. Henry met Tom and Seby downstairs.

  “Henry, is Mrs. Callahan or Teresa home?”

  “No, sir. Mrs. Callahan has gone out to Sugar House with the Ladies Guild. She advised that she would be home about six. Miss Callahan left just a couple of moments ago. She intended to run up to her sorority. She said she’d be back in about thirty minutes and certainly before dinner.”

  “Fine. Thank you, Henry. Mr. Stromberg will be staying with us for the weekend. Please show him to the guest room.”

  “Certainly, sir. Right this way, Mr. Stromberg.”

  Seby carried his own suitcase, a hand-tooled, brown leather piece, with silver buckle straps. As he started to follow Henry up the stairs, Tom called out after him, “Oh, Seby, I’ve got a few errands to run. Please make yourself at home. There’s a library in here,” Tom indicated, “or you can take a walk around the neighborhood if you’d like. We’ll have dinner at seven. Informal dress is fine,” Tom thought to add.

  “Si, Señor,” Seby smiled and continued to follow Henry.

  Shown to his room, the same small suite of bedroom, sitting room, and toilet facilities that Anders had occupied during his stay so many years earlier, Seby splashed water on his face, laid out a fresh shirt and trousers for dinner, and descended the stairs. He lingered for some moments in the library, considering Tom’s extensive collection of literature, and then departed the house.

  The homes on South Temple were impressive, and as he strolled through the neighborhood, he saw several people who were quite well dressed. His thoughts flashed to his boyhood in Mexico and the privileges and prestige he had enjoyed as a consequence of his birth and upbringing at the hacienda. But the destruction of the ranch, the loss of the family assets, and his grandfather’s death, had brought about more Spartan living conditions for the better part of a year.

  He returned to the house about six-thirty and went immediately to his room, where he washed up for dinner and changed clothes. As he left his room, Seby hesitated on the second floor landing before descending the stairs. He could hear music wafting up the stairwell from the front parlor—a popular tune of the day. Reaching the main floor, he stood just outside the entrance to the parlor. Teresa was lying on the divan, her feet dangling over the end of the armrest as the gramophone cranked out one of the latest songs. Teresa noticed Seby in the doorway and sat up, smiling at him.

  “Pardon me, Señorita. If I am not intruding?” Seby inquired.

  “No, of course not, please come in. You just startled me,” Teresa replied. “I’m Teresa. Teresa Callahan,” she added, waving for him to take a chair in the parlor.

  “Thank you, Señorita. My name is Sebastian Antonio Stromberg. Seby, if you like,” he smiled, taking the seat. “I am a guest of your father’s, although perhaps I should have waited until he was able to introduce us properly.”

  “Nah, we don’t stand on such formality around here, Mr. Stromberg.”

  “Seby, please.”

  “Okay, Seby. You know this song?” she asked, gesturing toward the Grammy and bobbing her head to the tune.

  He nodded. “I’ve heard it since coming to Utah.”

  “How long have you been in Utah?” she asked, continuing the conversation.

  “I came into Arizona nearly a year ago with a small group of immigrants, and my friend and I came further north to Utah last August.”

  Teresa got up and cranked the gramophone, then replaced the needle against the roll. As she turned, her mother entered the room and Tess quickly stepped to give her a kiss.

  “So, home for the weekend is the college girl,” Katrina teased. “As I came in, Henry said we have a guest for dinner,” Katrina said, looking over toward Seby and smiling. “Welcome to our home.”

  Seby immediately stood and bowed slightly to Katrina.

  “Mom, this is Seby, uh, Stromberg is it?” she asked.

  “Si, Sebastian Antonio Cardenas Stromberg,” he said softly. “It is most gracious of you, Señora Callahan to have me in your home.”

  “Stromberg!” Katrina exclaimed. “Sebastian?” Katrina stared wide-eyed at the handsome young man.

  “Si, Señora. I am sorry for the abrupt introduction. I think that Señor Callahan had planned to meet with you first.”

  Katrina sat down on one of the hassocks, and let out a deep breath. “My goodness, Tess, this is, uh ... this is quite a surprise.”

  “Do you know Mr. Stromberg, Mom?” Teresa asked.

  “If I’m correct, I think I did—once—” she laughed. “Your grandfather was Don Sebastian Cardenas, of Mazatlan?” she asked, turning to look at Seby.

  “Si, Señora,” he smiled.

  “My goodness, Seby,” she laughed, tears brimming in her eyes. “I had no idea I would ever see you again.”

  “Nor I, Señora, but again, I appreciate your hospitality and I hope not to intrude. I was at the Hotel Utah, but Señor Callahan, well, he offered ...”

  “And rightfully so, Seby. This is your place to stay, if I have any say-so, for as long as we can be of assistance. As your grandfather said to me, once upon a time, Mi casa es su casa,” Katrina offered.

  Seby’s head lifted and he smiled. “Se habla Español, Señora?”

  “No, Seby, I’m sorry for the pretense,” she laughed. “But I did learn a few phrases many years ago, and your grandfather, a most wonderful gentleman, taught me the meaning of ‘my house is your house.’ We try to practice that wonderful Mexican tradition here and make our guests feel welcome.”

  “Thank you, Señora. It is a wonderful home.”

  Scarcely able to comprehend who this young man was, Katrina stared at him for a long moment. She had often wondered what might have happened to Seby, and to have him standing in her home as a grown man was quite overwhelming. Gathering her thoughts, she said, “Well, I think dinner should be ready. Shall we go to the dining room?”

  Tom came through the front door just as the three exited the parlor and were crossing through the foyer into the dining room.

  “I see you’ve met our guest, Katie,” he said before Katrina had a chance to speak.

  “Thomas Callahan, you sc
alawag. How dare you pull such a surprise without warning me,” she scolded.

  “Hey, when Seby walked into my office this morning, I was just as surprised, and, in my defense, I did try to tell you first, but Henry said you’d gone out to Sugar House.”

  Katrina smiled at Tom, taking his arm and walking toward the dining room. “My heart nearly stopped when he said his name,” she said, turning to smile at Seby.

  Tom laughed. “I’ll bet it did. A ghost from the past.”

  Teresa took her seat at the side of the table, unfolding her napkin and placing it on her lap. “What are you guys talking about, Mom. How do you know Seby?”

  “Oh, my goodness, Tess,” Katrina stalled, looking furtively at Tom. “That’s such a long story, sweetheart. Perhaps we can talk about it after dinner.”

  Tom interjected. “Seby, you sit here on my right if you will.”

  Seby continued to stand behind his chair while Katrina moved to the far head of the table. She noticed Seby’s exaggerated Mexican formality, and quickly took her seat, followed by Seby. Katrina gave Tom a sort of, ‘did you notice that, Mr. Callahan?’ look, smiled, and rang a small bell for the cook to serve.

  “Seby, I’m dying of curiosity. Tell us about yourself and what brought you to America,” Katrina said.

  “There is not much of a story, Señora,” Seby evaded. “I merely came looking for work.”

  “Actually, Katie,” Tom interrupted, “young Seby here came into the bank today, to transact some business,” Tom said.