The Callahans: The Complete Series

by Gordon Ryan

  The mental and physical shock of being thrown into prison had robbed him for a time of his spiritual focus. Deprived of his clothing, his freedom, and his dignity, he had gone into a survival mode, striving simply to get through each day and keep his sanity. His first prison infraction, simply not moving as quickly as one of the guards had required, occurred just three days after being placed into the general prison population. It had resulted in his being sent to the “hole,” as the prisoners called the solitary confinement dungeon. Time spent in the hole was considered a forfeiture—time not counted against his fifteen-year sentence. Left there for the entire time of his confinement at Portlaoise, Tom still had a fifteen-year sentence on the books when he was finally released. In the hole, he’d realized that his warders could easily have converted his fifteen-year sentence to life in prison simply by drumming up charges against him and keeping him in the hole. Now, here he was, a free man again, albeit one without clear direction or the impetus to pick up where he had left off, spiritually.

  God had not deserted him—solitary confinement had convinced him of that. For endless days, he had felt wrapped in a blanket of “cotton wool,” as Katrina used to say about the feeling she experienced when Heavenly Father protected her from strong, painful emotions. Still, the fear instilled in him, not so much by the brutality of the guards, but by the thought of an interminable sentence, had taken a mental as well as a physical toll. His confidence, once his greatest asset, or so he thought, was, if not broken, at least diminished by his experience. Lying for days and weeks on end on a cold, concrete floor, hungry, surrounded by the odor of human excrement, and faced with the continual task of fending off the rats and mice that were bold enough to gnaw at his toes or ears while he fitfully slept, was enough to make him wonder how he had come to be so forsaken.

  But as Tom reflected on his experience during the return voyage, the one certainty that overpowered him was the inner knowledge that in spite of all that had occurred, he had not been forsaken—either by God or by his family and friends. Regardless the lack of communication, somehow he knew in his heart that his loved ones continued to care and that God had been aware of his plight.

  Twenty-four hours before landfall, Captain Rugers told Tom of their anticipated arrival, and Tom began to consider a world beyond his own feelings. How would Katrina respond to him? The entire debacle was of his own making. She had begged him not to get involved in the purchase and shipment of arms, and finally, aware of his determination to proceed, she had told him of her love and of her fear that he would come to harm. Still he had gone—and she had been right.

  Now, on the morrow, he would see her again and would hold her in his arms. How could he make it right to her? How could he erase the agony, the loneliness, and the fear she must have felt as she had contemplated fifteen years with her husband in a foreign jail? And how could he tell her of the closeness he had developed with God—a closeness that she had always known in her own life and which she had prayed endlessly would also come to her husband. And finally, how could he explain to her that the God of his sorrows was neither Mormon nor Catholic. He was just God, and He loved everyone equally, even the prison guards, Tom had come to understand.

  As the Annabelle slowly made her way up the Delaware River, passing the small communities on both sides of the river, Tom stood at the port railing, watching for the first signs of Philadelphia. The harbor tugs came out to meet the ship, and the Annabelle was pushed and pulled toward the great pier, slipping into place alongside several other vessels, each flying a flag of its nation of registry. The notion of multiple countries, with diverse beliefs, living together in a single world, suddenly struck Tom as symbolic of mankind. A world where men of all nations worshipped God in one form or another. The name by which He was known was different, the trappings of worship varied, and mankind’s understanding of what God required of them was diverse—many of the concepts doubtless self-imposed. But all men sailed on the same sea, and were embraced by the same arms, the arms of a loving God.

  Tom descended the gangplank to the dock, where longshoremen were beginning the process of unloading and preparing to reload the cargo vessel. And suddenly, there was Katrina, standing alone on the dock, alongside the Annabelle. Then she was in his arms. The two of them stood for long moments, holding each other without speaking. Then Tom took Katrina’s shoulders, stood her at arms’ length, and gazed into the face he had tried so hard to recall while in prison, during the endless hours when day and night combined and he was unable to discern one from the other. While on the ship, he had imagined this moment, but not the emotion that now overcame him. It struck him that her eyes, brimming with tears, were startlingly green—more than he had remembered. Then, himself crying, he again took her in his arms, clutching her fiercely.

  After a time they separated, and wiping at his cheeks with the back of his hand, Tom looked beyond Katrina toward the terminal building and surrounding pier, seeking other family or friends. Katrina smiled, took his face in her hands, and gently pulled him close to her. He could smell the scent of her breath as she said softly, “There’s only me—only me, my darling.”

  Tom drew her close again. “Only you, Katie,” he said. “I love only you.” Then he pressed his lips against hers.

  Chapter 16

  August, 1921

  Salt Lake City, Utah

  “Do you have to go alone, Thomas? You always insisted the boys never go up into the mountains alone. What if ­you’re injured or thrown from your horse?”

  “Katie, how I do love you,” he said, taking her in his arms. “I’ll be gone three days, four at the most. And I promise to let the sheriff’s office know where I intend to be. There’s also old Hank’s cabin up there. I’ll check in with him if it’ll make you feel any better.”

  “I don’t feel good about any of it,” she argued.

  “Katie, I just need a few days to be alone. Please don’t be hurt or angry.”

  “Alone! Didn’t you have enough alone in Ireland?”

  Tom bowed his head and nodded. “I did, Katie. This is different.”

  When Katrina had met Tom in Philadelphia, she had driven him straight to a bungalow that she had rented on the New Jersey shore. Located in a remote place, on a sandy bluff overlooking the sea, the cottage proved a perfect place for Tom to regain his strength. Katrina had stocked the wooden house with food and other provisions and had arranged for a weekly delivery of additional supplies.

  They spent several restful weeks there, enjoying each other and taking long walks on the beach and in the nearby rural countryside. They had many long conversations—deep talks such as they had seldom shared, which for Katrina were immensely satisfying. They had also taken advantage of the time alone to renew their physical relationship, and Tom marveled at his wife’s passionate response to their long separation.

  But, after six weeks, Tom admitted to feeling restless. He told Katrina that he was anxious to get home and back to work and proposed packing up and taking the train to Utah.

  The time they had spent together was marred only by a vague feeling of discontent on Tom’s part. It was not something he chose to or could have talked about with Katrina. But the fact was that his misgivings over the arms shipments, the trauma of being arrested, and the long period of confinement had exposed in him some emotional vulnerability he had never supposed existed. At nearly forty-six years of age, his body hadn’t recovered as quickly or as completely as he had hoped. The truth was he no longer felt invincible, and that bothered him more than he could have said.

  Upon his return to Salt Lake, Tom had immediately immersed himself in the affairs of the bank, assisting young Mark Thurston in the daily routine and renewing his many contacts in the city’s business community. During the months they had been home, he had been gone a great deal, and, now, here he was again, announcing his intention to go off into the mountains alone. Katrina didn’t seem to understand his motivation, and Tom could see that she was annoyed.

 
“You’ve already resolved most of the things that were bothering you,” she said. “You’ve finally made peace with Tommy, and that business with the Irish rebels is over. I know that you’ve been distraught over Michael Collins’ unwarranted death, but what more are you after?”

  “Just trust me on this, Katie. It’s the final piece of my, well, my search, for lack of a better word. And I need to be alone for awhile. Unless you’d like to come,” he grinned, trying to ease her concern.

  “Twenty miles into the canyons on horseback? No thank you, Mr. Callahan,” she rebutted.

  “Well, then, since no one else’ll have me,” he replied, “except the horses, I’d best be on my way out to Seby’s. I’ll stay at his place tonight and get an early start tomorrow. I promise to telephone you this evening.”

  Katrina stood her ground. “If you must, Thomas, but remember, I said I was against it.”

  Once again he took her in his arms and held her tight. “I’d not be lookin’ forward to being across the bargaining table from you, Katie m’ darlin’. ­You’re tougher than any of the union agitators or bankers I have to deal with.”

  Giving her one final squeeze, Tom gathered up the parcel of sandwiches and fruit she had prepared and started for the door.

  “Everything ready, William?” he said to the butler. After nearly eighteen years in their employ, their first and only houseman, Henry, had retired two years previously, and Tom had retained the services of a proper English manservant, recruited on one of his trips to Ireland.

  “Indeed, sir. The vehicle has a full tank of petrol, I’ve checked under the bonnet, and your luggage and supplies have been deposited in the boot, sir.”

  “Very good, William. Thank you,” he said, exiting the front door and walking down the porch steps toward the circular driveway. Standing at the car door, he paused and looked back to the front door where Katrina stood watching. He smiled and blew her a kiss, but she stood with her arms folded and a determined set to her face. He placed one foot on the running board to enter the car but hesitated for a moment. Then, in one quick motion, he tossed the parcel of sandwiches onto the front seat and came around the car, bounding up the steps to stand in front of Katrina again.

  “I’m going on this campout by myself, Katie, but I’m not going alone,” he said, taking her face in his hands and lightly kissing her lips.

  Her face assumed a puzzled look.

  “It’s Himself who’ll be with me this time,” he said softly. “Not everything is resolved. It’s our God, Katie—your God and my God—I’ll be talkin’ to. You must trust me ... and Him. I’ll be in good company,” he smiled, pushed back a wisp of hair from her forehead, and kissed her again on the cheek. Then he turned and quickly descended the steps, got into the car, and drove out the circular driveway, leaving Katrina standing on the front steps of Valhalla, the home he had built for her on South Temple Street right after their marriage, some twenty years earlier.

  Early the following morning, Tom was at the mouth of Little Cottonwood Canyon, where Sebastian Cardenas Stromberg helped him unload two horses from Seby’s horse trailer. Seby was the owner of the Hidden Valley Ranch, and after Tom’s overnight stay at the ranch, Seby had ­driven his friend and banker to the graveled road that led into the mountains. After loading the pack animal and saddling his horse, Tom thanked Seby for his assistance, swung into the saddle, and gathered up the pack horse rein.

  “You say you are going up to Albion Basin and over Catherine Pass, is that correct, Señor Tom?” Seby queried.

  Tom nodded and looked up at the granite-walled canyon he was to enter. “I’ll camp somewhere between Lake Catherine and Lake Martha until Friday morning, when I plan to come out. I should make it back here by four or five o’clock.”

  “I’ll be waiting,” the young Mexican smiled. “And if you don’t make it, I’ll be in to get you Saturday morning,” he laughed.

  Tom smiled. “Katrina’s been talking to you, has she?”

  “Sì, Tom,” Seby laughed in return, “but in a loving way.”

  Tom reined his horse’s head in the direction of the graveled road, nudged him forward two or three steps, and then pulled up. He turned in the saddle, looking back toward Seby, who remained by the truck and horse trailer.

  “May I ask you a personal question, Seby?”

  Seby took several steps toward Tom and the horses. Standing alongside and looking up at Tom, he said, “Of course, Tom, anything.”

  Tom looked at the granite cliffs and towering mountains above them, trying to find the right words to broach the question.

  “Seby, I met your grandfather over twenty years ago, as you know. And in my business dealings these past years, I’ve come to learn something about the strong Mexican traditions—from you,” he said, looking down at the young man, “and from the Mexicans who work in our mining operation. Those traditions, including Catholic traditions, are strongly honored and are not easily broken. Now this is very personal, Seby, and if you don’t wish to answer, I’ll understand.” Tom paused again, waiting for Seby to confirm. The young man just nodded and waited.

  “Since you were raised Catholic, as I was, can you tell me in just a few words how you came to join the Mormon church? I mean,” Tom added, almost as though he were embarrassed to be asking the question, “you’ve only been here in Salt Lake about three years.”

  “In a few words, Señor?”

  “If you can.”

  Seby nodded again and looked away for a moment. Several moments passed as both men stood silently, Seby on the ground and Tom in the saddle. The only sound was the creaking of the leather saddle and the horse blowing as he stamped his hooves, anxious to begin the trek.

  Finally, Seby spoke. “Three words, Señor. It is true.”

  Tom contemplated Seby’s words for several moments and then nodded.

  “That’s what Robert always used to say.”

  “Uno momento, Señor,” Seby said, turning and walking quickly toward the truck. He reached in the passenger window, opened the glove box, and retrieved a well-worn book. Returning to the horses, he said, “You told me when you returned from New Zealand that you had read Elder Talmage’s book, Jesus the Christ. But Grandfather Stromberg, before he died last year, gave me this battered copy of the Book of Mormon. He marked several passages for me but told me that the truth of all that God has told us can be found by following the directions in Moroni, chapter ten, verses four and five. It’s well marked, Señor,” he laughed, reaching to tuck the book into Tom’s saddlebag.

  “President Stromberg taught you the truth of the gospel as he saw it, didn’t he, Seby?” Tom asked.

  Seby reached up and placed his hand over Tom’s hands, which were holding the reins and resting on the saddle horn.

  “No, Señor,” he said, shaking his head. “He told me where and how to find the truth for myself. You read those scriptures and you’ll find out what I mean.”

  “Thank you, Seby,” Tom said, smiling at the younger man. “Friday afternoon,” he repeated, spurring his horse forward.

  Seby stepped back and allowed the two horses to pass. “Vaya con Díos, Señor,” he called out, slapping the pack mare on the rump as she walked by. Tom raised his hand in a silent wave and continued up the trail.

  Nearly eight hours later, after a long ride broken by two stops to allow his horses to rest, Tom reached his intended campsite. He dismounted in a stand of pines next to one of the small lakes, and after unsaddling his horse and taking the pack off the mare, he tethered the tired animals to graze. As darkness began to gather, he set up his tent, prepared a quick meal, and sat by the fire to eat. After eating, he set his tin plate aside and leaned back against a log next to his crackling fire. Memories of previous camping and fishing trips taken with his sons flooded his mind, and he began to think of them as they were now—as grown men.

  PJ, who had remained in New Zealand after his mission, was doing well as the proud owner of Shenandoah Station, a large sheep and cattle ranc
h located on the Canterbury Plains, east of Christchurch, on the South Island. Tommy, after experiencing combat with the 6th Marines in France, was in his third year as a midshipman at the United States Naval Academy. And Teresa, for reasons Tom had never been able to fathom, was living in New York, pursuing an acting career.

  As Tom sat enjoying the warmth and glow of the campfire, the moon rose slowly above the mountain ridge to the east. Beyond the pop and hiss of the burning wood, it was deathly silent in the forest surrounding the lake. Tom stared at the flames, and ghostly memories of young PJ and Tommy—and even Benjamin, the youngest, drowned these past nine years—danced in his head. In what seemed now to be only an instant, his family had grown, and as Sister Mary Theophane had so often said to the parents of youngsters she’d grown to care for, “They’ve gone off into the world, and we can only hope that they carry God in their hearts.”

  Tom wondered, as he had so often, which God—whose God—did they carry? Was it Tom’s stern and demanding Catholic God, or Katrina’s more personal, almost human Mormon God—or even the God of hellfire and damnation that the Reverend Billy Sunday and other itinerant preachers were describing in their revivalist tent meetings across America?

  Tom reached into his bedroll and took out a book, simi­lar to the one Seby had put into his saddlebag. At Seby’s considerate gesture, Tom had refrained from telling him that he was already carrying a Book of Mormon. Opening the cover, Tom angled the book to reflect the firelight and read the inscription.