The Callahans: The Complete Series

by Gordon Ryan

  “I hear you’ve been to Europe, Tom.”

  “I have, D.O. My son, PJ, got into a bit of a scrape over there. Actually, he’s the reason I’ve come. I don’t want to take too much of your time, so I’ll get right to the point.”

  The young Apostle, his shock of brown wavy hair beginning to turn slightly gray at the temples, leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs, and smiled at Tom.

  “I hope there never comes a day when a visit with you will take up too much of my time, Tom. I’ve valued our friendship ever since we met.”

  Tom laughed. “I remember that day, D.O. If you hadn’t grabbed me out of the way, that horse would have made short work of me.”

  “Yes, well, that was an exciting day, wasn’t it? Statehood for Utah, a new friendship. And how is Sister Callahan these days?”

  “She’s fine, D.O., but to be truthful, it’s been tough. Even though it’s been four years, there’s still an emptiness. She doesn’t say much, but ...”

  “Of course. And that’s to be expected. Actually, Tom, I ran into Sister Callahan one evening after choir practice over on Temple Square. We sat on a bench for a few minutes and had a chat about the loss of your Benjamin. That is a remarkable woman you married, Mr. Callahan.”

  “Aye. One of my better decisions, that.”

  Elder McKay leaned forward and rested his hands on his desk. “So, how can I be of assistance with, uh, PJ, was it?”

  “Right. I’m worried about him, D.O. Let me give you a little background. We ... actually, I thought it would be good for him to visit Ireland, you know, to sort of get in touch with his roots. I can’t say Katrina was wild about the idea, what with the war in Europe and all, but we sent him over there for a look around and to meet some of my family.”

  “PJ is how old now, Tom, nearly twenty?” McKay asked.

  “He’s just coming on eighteen. I’ve got a younger brother, Seamus, who is only a couple of years older than PJ, and the two of them hit it off. But my brother, fool that he is, got the two of them mixed up in the Easter week uprising. PJ ended up in a British jail, and if it hadn’t been for some quick intervention by my brother-in-law, Anders, and by President Wilson, there’s no telling what might have happened to PJ.”

  “And he’s safe and well now?”

  Tom nodded. “He’s home, back working at the bank. But I’m concerned about him, D.O. He’s gotten the notion that the Irish need to finish this struggle once and for all. I’m afraid he might just head back over there.”

  “I see,” D.O. replied, waiting patiently.

  “He’s known you most of his life, D.O. He respects you and has a strong belief in Mormon teachings. I thought that perhaps if you could speak with him—you could persuade him to avoid the conflict.”

  “Do you think he’s wrong, Tom?”

  Tom smiled at Elder McKay. “That’s another kettle of fish, D.O. The Irish have had the short end of the stick for centuries. Perhaps it is time for their view to be heard internationally.”

  “And you’ll assist?”

  Tom cocked his head slightly, and raised an eyebrow. “I’d rather not say, D.O., not meaning to be impolite. But whatever I do, I’d like to keep PJ out of it.”

  McKay reached for his calendar, studied it for a moment, then said, “If PJ is free, I could see him Wednesday morning about nine.”

  “That’s fine. Thank you. I know he admires you. Sometimes ... well, you know, kids get tired of listening to their parents.”

  “Don’t I know it?” McKay smiled, shaking his head.

  Tom started to stand. “Well, thank you for your time. I know you’re busy, D.O. Or should I say, ‘Elder McKay’?”

  Laughing, McKay motioned for Tom to sit. “Some of the older fellows around here wouldn’t like it, I suppose, but I hope I never get so pious that one of my friends can’t call me by my name.”

  The young Apostle leaned forward. He said nothing, but looked intently into Tom’s eyes. Finally, he spoke.

  “Tom, you’ve been in Salt Lake and around the church for a good many years now. I’ve seen you in conference quite regularly. Has anything besides your wife’s lovely music penetrated that thick Irish skull?”

  Tom shifted in his seat. “I listen, D.O.,” he said. “My Catholicism aside, don’t ever underestimate the impact you’ve had on my family. Hardly a week goes by without one of the kids or my wife quoting something you’ve said—usually to contradict something I’ve tried to get them to do or some household issue,” he added, smiling.

  McKay smiled back but said, “I hope I haven’t been the source of any contention, Tom. I’ve often wondered how you and Katrina have managed your religious differences.”

  Tom didn’t answer for a few moments. When he spoke, it was in a tired voice.

  “I’ll be honest with you, D.O., it hasn’t been easy. We’ve managed mostly by ignoring the subject. I agreed before we got married that she could raise the kids as Mormons, and I’ve kept that commitment. But I also promised my mother, before I ever left Ireland, that I wouldn’t forsake our Catholic faith. We’ve been Catholic in our family for generations. Maybe you’ve noticed,” he smiled, “being Irish and Catholic sort of go together.”

  “I understand, Tom. And I hope you won’t be offended by my saying so, but its obvious you and Katrina are unequally yoked in this regard. I can only imagine how difficult that is for both of you. Katrina is too noble a woman to say so, but in the few conversations I’ve had with her, it’s been evident that she yearns for a unity the two of you have not enjoyed, with regard to religion.”

  Tom sat staring off into space. After a time, he raised his eyes to look at McKay. “I don’t know what to do,” he said. “I agree with many of the things your church teaches, especially the part about children being innocent. When Benjamin died, I couldn’t even think about what might happen to him according to Catholic dogma.” Tom turned in his chair and took a deep breath.

  “I’d like to have an answer, D.O. But I don’t. I’ve envied you and Bishop Scanlan and my friend and partner, Robert Thurston, for your faith. You all seem so sure.”

  “Brother Thurston is a fine man, Tom. Bishop Scanlan’s passing last year was a great loss to our community. I admired him and considered him a friend. But the truth is, Tom, theologically, the two churches are at odds. No disrespect, but we can’t both be right. I think you know that.”

  They sat without speaking for a long moment. The Apostle broke the silence.

  “Tom, would you do something for me?”

  “If it’s within my power, D.O., just ask.”

  “Oh, it’s within your power,” he said, turning to a bookshelf behind him.

  “I’d like you to read this.” He held a blue bound book in his hands. “You know Elder Talmage, one of the Twelve, of course. He’s just published Jesus the Christ. It’s a powerful study of the Savior’s life and teachings. I’d like you to have it,” he said, handing the book across the desk. “I think you’ll find it interesting, and it will answer many of your questions.”

  Tom accepted the book. “In all these years, D.O., I’ve never known you to proselyte me,” he smiled.

  McKay returned the smile. “Tom, you’ve not needed to hear my words. We have an understanding, you and I. It’s the Lord’s words you’re seeking. I think, my friend, that you are perhaps not as confused as you assume. You’re a good man, and you’ve had a wonderful influence in this town and in your family. Many a Mormon woman has given up on a man who couldn’t take her to the temple. Katrina is a wonder, but it says a lot about you that she’s been willing to wait, trusting that the two of you can reach a permanent accord.”

  “Hmmm. Thank you, D.O. Your respect means a lot. I’ll see what I can find in Elder Talmage’s words.”

  Rising and coming around the desk, the Apostle put his hand on Tom’s shoulder and walked him to the door.

  “I’ll look forward to speaking with young PJ. And, Tom,” he said, “if I can ever be of assistance to you, I
hope you’ll let me know.”

  Just over five weeks later, PJ burst into the bank, dashing straight past the teller windows and barging into Tom’s office without knocking. Tom sat behind his desk, and Robert Thurston sat on the other side, with Mark Thurston on the couch.

  “Dad, I got a letter from the church,” he said, waving an envelope.

  “What do you mean, a letter from the church?” Tom asked.

  “I mean ... well, here, see for yourself. It’s from ‘Box B,’ Salt Lake City.”

  Robert and Mark exchanged knowing looks.

  “And I bet you can’t guess what it says?” PJ blurted out, sounding more like he was twelve than eighteen.

  “Well,” Tom said, rising and coming around the desk, “I think you’re here to tell us.”

  PJ opened the envelope, already torn from repeated entry. “Dear Elder Callahan,” he read, “Having been found worthy ...” he stopped and took a deep breath, dropping the hand holding the letter to his side. “Dad, I’ve been called on a mission to New Zealand. I’m going to the South Pacific.”

  “New Zealand,” Tom exclaimed. “Why that’s ... that’s farther than Ireland. Why in the world would the church send anyone to New Zealand?” Tom asked.

  “Dad, the church sends missionaries all over the world. Think of it, Dad, I’m going all the way to New Zealand.”

  Tom looked at Robert.

  “Don’t look at me,” Robert exclaimed. “You know that Mark went to England, and that I went to Scotland some years ago, even before Elder McKay. But this isn’t any of my doing. The church calls those whom it feels can serve the Lord. It seems that young PJ has just lost his job at the bank,” Thurston said. “My heartiest congratulations, Elder Callahan,” he said, reaching for PJ’s hand. Mark joined in the congratulations.

  “Does your mother know?” Tom asked.

  “No, she’s gone to Ogden with Tess to visit Aunt Sophie.”

  “Well, this’ll put a bee in her bonnet.”

  “Dad, Mom’ll be thrilled.”

  “Sure. One son is in Washington, D.C., going to college, a daughter becoming a society or sorority snob at another college, and now her oldest son is sent, what, thousands of miles, off to some remote Pacific island full of aborigines.”

  “C’mon, Dad, get with it. That’s Australia. New Zealand is populated by native Maori’s and English, Irish, and Scottish emigrants.”

  Tom’s eyebrow went up. “And how do you know that?”

  “I looked in our encyclopedia before I came here.”

  “Well, gentlemen, I think our meeting is over,” Tom grinned. “We need to find this young lad’s wayward mother and inform her of the newest Callahan departure. Let’s call Aunt Sophie up in Ogden,” Tom thought out loud. “Maybe we can drive up there and meet them for dinner. Then you can tell the whole family about this new development.”

  “Meeting adjourned, then?” Robert laughed.

  “I think we were through anyway, Robert. Mark, you arrange to meet with the Marwick & Mitchell people. I’d like to retain their accounting firm to audit the mine records and, in fact, the bank could do with a good housekeeping review.”

  “You’re sure you want that firm?” Mark queried. “They’re new.”

  “Absolutely. I met Mr. Marwick in New York last year and was suitably impressed. He’s had a going accounting firm in London and New York since before the turn of the century. They just did an audit of Sweet Candy, here in Salt Lake.”

  “All right, Tom, I’ll get right on it. My best to you, PJ,” Mark said, turning to the excited young man. “It’s an exciting adventure you’re about.”

  “Thank you, Mark. Let’s go, Dad, I want to see Mom’s face when I tell her.”

  “Aye. But you’d better bring a couple of handkerchiefs, PJ. She’s easily moved.”

  Katrina was moved. In fact she remained speechless for some moments. When she finally recovered from her shock, she simply hugged her eldest son and the tears flowed.

  “Mom, it’s great news,” PJ declared.

  “Of course it is, PJ,” she stammered, “but it also means that you’re becoming a man. My baby is gone.”

  “Aw, Mom. I’m a foot taller than you, and I haven’t been your baby since—”

  “Well, then,” Tom intervened. Suppose we all head for a fine, celebratory dinner, what say?”

  Tess joined her mother in hugging PJ and Tom stood by, watching as his family shared in the news of PJ’s missionary calling. Finally, Katrina extracted herself from PJ’s reluctant embrace, and turned to Tom.

  “Thomas Callahan, I will have your word right here and now, that when PJ completes his mission, we will go to New Zealand, wherever that is,” she said, shaking her head in confusion, “and see where he has served the Lord.”

  “Katrina, that’s waaaaayyyyy down in the South Pacific.”

  “Thomasssssss ...” she said, tilting her head and looking at him askew.

  “All right, all right. I promise.”

  “Me too, Dad,” Tess squealed.

  Tom let out a big sigh. “Why don’t we all just go on PJ’s mission with him?”

  “Because, Thomas,” Katrina said lifting her chin, “you’d have to be baptized first. PJ could do it before he leaves, if you’re of a mind.”

  Tom’s smile broadened, ear to ear, and he shook his head, holding both hands up in surrender.

  “Enough of that. Let’s go eat.”

  Fidgeting would put it mildly. If she had been a nail biter, her fingers would have been bleeding as Teresa stood on the street corner, across from Utah Trust Bank. At least six times she had decided it was a fool’s errand and had determined to leave. Within half a block she had turned around and come back. When some of her friends from school had driven by, stopped, and offered a ride, she had even gotten in the car to go with them, but had changed her mind once away and made them bring her back to her appointed spot.

  Teresa had done her homework. On the pretext of retrieving something she had left in his office, she had convinced the head teller to let her into Tom’s office a few days before. Checking his daily calendar, she found the “Stromberg purchase,” listed for five o’clock, Thursday evening. It was nearly quarter to five, and still Seby hadn’t appeared.

  She hid around the corner as Mark Thurston left the bank, got into his car, and drove away. At twenty-six, Mark had completed college, served a mission to England, and was already well on his way to becoming a partner in her father’s bank. He had expressed an interest in Teresa, notwithstanding the difference in their ages, but she had not responded. It wasn’t that Mark wasn’t an okay suitor. He was in fact, every woman’s dream. It was just that young men held no particular interest for her. She was kept plenty busy by school, her riding, and her friends in the sorority at the university.

  Then Seby came into her life.

  From the moment he had entered the parlor when she had been listening to the music, she had lost the ability to be ambivalent toward him. There was something intriguing about his self-assured but polite manner. His olive skin, dark hair, and blue eyes were a handsome combination. When Seby was revealed to be the long-lost son of her mother’s best friend, from her mother’s plural marriage, Teresa’s world came apart. Yet, even then she was unable to dismiss him from her mind. Her caustic and thoroughly rude treatment of him on the day they went riding, was, she now realized, a reaction to the feelings he stirred in her. It both infuriated and fascinated her that Seby had remained a complete gentleman, refusing to retaliate. When he had finally spoken abruptly to her in the stables, she had bristled, but admired his refusal to knuckle under to her tantrum.

  At quarter-past-five, Seby arrived, parked across the street, and entered the bank. Again she fidgeted, made several decisions to leave—this time out of fear—but finally gained control and committed herself to her plan.

  Forty-five minutes later, October darkness beginning to settle over the valley, Seby exited the front of the bank, and the head teller
locked the door behind him. He crossed the street, heading for the parking lot. She had moved from her original position to the street corner, next to the parked cars. Without noticing who she was, Seby tipped his hat, said, “Good evening,” and walked on by her.

  Two steps further, recognition dawning, he stopped, but didn’t immediately turn around. Teresa gathered up her few shreds of remaining courage, now fully committed, and stepped to his side.

  “Mr. Stromberg,” she began.

  “Si, Señorita,” he replied, removing his hat.

  “I ... I have come to offer my apology to you, Mr. Stromberg, for my inexcusable behavior in March.”

  Seby was silent.

  “Seby, please,” she said.

  “Señorita Callahan, I think it is not I who deserve your apology, but rather your mother.”

  She nodded. “And she has it, Seby,” Teresa said.

  And she did. Following her meeting with Sister Mary, Teresa had given ample thought to the issue and had prayed for guidance, all the while knowing what was needed. When she finally found the courage to broach the subject with her mother, Katrina listened to only a few words before pulling her daughter into her arms. Both women collapsed immediately into tears. Katrina had held Teresa for some time and refused to let her daughter say anything more than, “Oh, Momma, I’ve been such a brat.”

  Although Teresa had not yet found the opportune moment to complete the process with her father, she could tell from his actions toward her that Katrina had told him about the reconciliation. Her father’s renewed kindness and expressions of love for her convinced Teresa that he was willing to forgive her, but in her heart she knew it was a bridge yet to be crossed.