The Callahans: The Complete Series

by Gordon Ryan

  October 5, 1900—For Thomas, on your twenty-fifth birthday—to replace the Book of Mormon I gave you on the Antioch, and which the robbers caused you to lose in Kansas City.

  All my love, Katrina

  Flipping through the worn and dog-eared pages, he found the Book of Moroni toward the back of the volume and turned to chapter ten. Carefully marked by Katrina in red pencil, the verses stood out on the page, and Tom read them slowly and then again, as he had many times over the years.

  And when ye shall receive these things, I would exhort you that ye would ask God, the Eternal Father, in the name of Christ, if these things are not true; and if ye shall ask with a sincere heart, with real intent, having faith in Christ, he will manifest the truth of it unto you, by the power of the Holy Ghost. And by the power of the Holy Ghost ye may know the truth of all things.

  Turning away from the moonrise, Tom looked up through the pines into the darkness of the night. The sky was an inky black, and the stars shone brilliantly. He thought of how often, on their fishing trips, the boys had started counting the stars, asking Tom myriad questions about their origin, how far away they were, and if people lived among the heavens.

  He looked down at the scripture again ... with real intent. Had he ever asked with real intent? He read further: Christ ... will manifest the truth ... And wasn’t that what Seby and Robert had said? “It is true.”

  Tom placed the book on the log beside him and stood. Extending his arms above his head and then bending, he touched the ground, stretching the muscles in his back. He walked a few steps toward the lake where he stood with his back to the fire. The light of the dancing flames reflected off the nearby trees, creating ever-changing odd shapes and shadows. He thought of the twenty years he had lived among the Mormons, both in and out of his household. Through his dealings at the bank, Tom had come in contact with Mormons of every walk of life—church and community leaders and common folks alike. He’d met a few Mormons who were not a credit to their religion, including some business associates who talked a good story, professing belief in the Mormon standards, but whose actions proved far removed from the principles of the gospel as Katrina had explained them to him. Agency, Katrina had said time and again. But the one in-depth conversation they’d had about a specific episode had left him confused as to how God could trust such men.

  “It doesn’t correlate, Katie. He’s a bishop, and I’m told a good one, but I’ve watched him with his employees. It’s like he’s two different men. He treats them terribly and actually cheats them out of wages.”

  “He has his agency to fail at his calling, Thomas,” she’d said. “A call to be an ecclesiastical leader doesn’t guarantee a man success at the calling.”

  “Well then, why is he called?”

  Katrina had just smiled and shook her head. “Agency. The Lord gave him a chance to progress and he chose not to,” she’d replied.

  But in the main, Tom had to admit that far and away most of the Mormons he knew were good people—devout and genuine.

  He thought too, of D.O., whom he had admired since the day they had met, and of Robert Thurston and his family. Besides serving as a bishop and stake president, Robert had willingly left his place at the bank and his friends and family to serve a mission. Tom thought also of James E. Talmage. While reading Jesus the Christ, Tom had constantly marveled at the intelligence of the man. If someone of his ability and understanding could believe the miracles and visions that were at the root of Mormonism, could the religion be founded on a lie?

  He thought also of Seby, who seemed to have so easily accepted Mormonism, in spite of his Catholic upbringing. And what of Katrina? No one he had ever met, including Sister Mary Theophane, believed more strongly or had more faith than his wife. It wasn’t Katrina’s style to preach, but her belief in the origins of her religion and her conviction regarding the importance of the temple were unshakable. She had declared to Tom her willingness to sacrifice even their marriage for her beliefs. Could people such as these be deceived? And all of them—all of them—had told him the same thing: Mormonism is true!

  “God in heaven,” Tom began softly, “I ask thee in the name of Jesus Christ,” he continued, his voice growing louder, “to speak to me. I know you can. I know you have spoken to others. My children are gone now, Father, and my confusion has prevented at least one of them from having the strong, sure witness that their mother possesses. You can tell me, I know you can. I’ve come here to talk with you, and I need you to answer. I’ll be here four days, and I’ll be pestering you through most of it. Please speak to me, Father. Please!”

  On Friday morning, the trip down the mountain went much faster than going up. With some of the supplies gone, the load was lighter on the packhorse, but Tom felt it was more a result of their being homeward bound. Horses seemed to sense such things and were in a hurry to reach open pasture and to shed packs and saddles.

  The return journey, however, was fraught with dis­appointment. Tom had not received the answer he had sought. Certain that his sincere quest would bring with it the joy of knowledge, as it had for many of the Book of Mormon characters, Tom rode in silence, brooding over his failure to compel an answer.

  He had had a dream. But it had been a perplexing thing that answered nothing. Curled up in his bedroll two nights earlier, Tom had barely fallen asleep—or so it seemed—when he dreamed he was mounted on horseback and making his way along the edge of a deep and rugged ravine. The narrow and rocky trail wound along the edge of the crevasse, providing barely enough room for a horse and rider to pass. Though he was watching his horse pick its way along the narrow path, Tom became aware of the presence of another person across the narrow gulf, walking a parallel trail on the other side. Reining in his horse and raising his eyes from the precarious trail, Tom looked across the canyon and spotted a man. No words were spoken, but Tom understood immediately that it was his youngest son, Benjamin, drowned at age seven on the Titanic but now grown to young manhood. The man smiled at Tom and nodded his greeting. Tom’s horse twitched nervously, and Tom turned his attention to the animal, stroking its neck to comfort him and ensure that he didn’t bolt on the narrow trail.

  When he looked again, the young man had been joined by a woman whose long, blonde hair flowed loosely over her shoulders and down her back. The young man and the woman were clearly pleased to greet one another. They smiled and embraced each other. In spite of a slight difference in her appearance, Tom knew the woman to be Katrina, and immediately his chest ached with longing to cross the chasm and embrace both his wife and his lost son.

  Tom nudged the horse forward, anxious to find a trail that would enable him to descend the steep side of the canyon and come up on the other side. For long moments he rode, looking occasionally across the space that separated him from his loved ones but finding no way to traverse the void. As his mount became more skittish, frightened by the precipice, Tom’s heart beat faster. Turning the horse inward, away from the canyon, he passed behind a clump of bushes that momentarily obscured his vision. When he rejoined the trail on the far side of the brush, the separation across the canyon had suddenly widened and both Benjamin and Katrina were gone. Frantically, Tom turned his horse around and followed the narrow trail backward, but the two had disappeared. He dismounted and, cupping his hands, he hollered Katrina’s name across the canyon without response. When he turned back, his horse was also gone, and he was alone on the precipice.

  In the morning, when Tom awoke in his tent, he lay for a time in the warmth of his bedroll, reflecting on the dream and the feeling of frustration it had caused. His longing for Katrina and for Benjamin, and his inability to reach them, had left him feeling hollow and weak—even in the light of day. Tom had usually resisted such emotional feelings, preferring instead to rely on concrete evidence of events. But the vividness of the dream and the lonely feelings it caused belied any experience Tom had ever had.

  A practical man, Tom had never been able to accept such things as Anders’ pu
rported miraculous experience in Cuba during the Spanish-American War, when his brother-in-law, severely wounded, was supposedly rescued by two men who were already dead. Tom had never verbalized his cynicism, but he had wondered for years how Katrina and others could so easily accept something so patently implausible.

  By late afternoon, Tom was nearing the mouth of the canyon, headed for the rendezvous with Seby. All the way down the trail he had continued to rehearse the scripture ... by the power of the Holy Ghost ye may know the truth of all things. Well, why hadn’t God spoken to him? How did the Holy Ghost work? Was an answer really necessary? Hadn’t he always known that some, maybe most, perhaps even all, that D.O., Robert, and Katrina had tried to tell him all these years, was true? Certainly Father Scanlan had believed all that he had told Tom about Catholicism, but had he known it to be true? And was the dream an answer? Had God sent Benjamin in answer to Tom’s prayer? And why was Katrina in the dream? And if the dream was his answer, why had it taken twenty years? But if, as he had read, a thousand years was but a day to God, maybe it had only taken Him ten or fifteen minutes to answer. Was faith alone enough?

  When Tom rounded the final turn in the trail, he could see that Seby was waiting at the appointed spot. In addition, another man stood by the horse trailer, and a separate car was parked alongside. Tom waved slightly and was acknowledged by a wave from Seby. Within minutes, he cleared the surrounding brush and guided his two horses into the clearing. Tom swung down from the saddle, removed his hat, and brushed the dust and trail grit from his hair and clothes. Seby approached slowly, his face somber.

  “Right on time, Seby,” Tom said, grinning. “No need to mount a search party or answer to Katrina,” he laughed.

  “Tom, there’s been an automobile accident.”

  Tom was instantly serious. “Who was injured?”

  “It’s Katrina. She’s alive, Tom, but it’s very serious. She has a severe head injury and has been unconscious since the accident two nights ago. Reed will take care of the horses, and I’ll take you immediately to Holy Cross Hospital.”

  “What about Tess?”

  “She’s with her mother. Tess wasn’t in the car. Katrina was coming back from a concert in Ogden. Tom, Judge Garfield was killed in the accident, and his wife broke both her legs and her shoulder. Katrina has not regained consciousness, so she hasn’t been told of the judge’s death.”

  “What have the doctors said?” Tom asked, stripping off his jacket and striding toward the car.

  “They’ve done what they can, Tom. They say all we can do now is wait.”

  As he climbed into the car, Tom’s mind raced with the possibilities and the shock of such news. What kind of a God was He anyway! He had let Tom languish in a prison cell for nearly a year, then, when he had finally gone to plead with that same God for understanding, he returned without an answer, only to find that his wife was near death.

  “Get me to the hospital, Seby.”

  Chapter 17

  Teresa was just about to step back into her mother’s room on the second floor of Holy Cross Hospital when she saw her father and Seby hurrying down the hallway. Immediately she ran the length of the hall, falling into her father’s arms, sobbing as she surrendered to the emotions she had controlled until that moment. After a few moments in her father’s strong embrace, she pulled away slightly and looked up into Tom’s eyes.

  “Daddy, why?”

  Tom just shook his head, his emotions reeling with the events of the past hour and the horrifying thoughts that had gone through his head as Seby had raced toward the hospital.

  “Let’s go see her, Tess,” he said softly.

  Teresa held her father’s arm for a moment, restricting his movement while she wiped her face with a kerchief.

  “Dad, it’s really a shock,” Teresa warned. “Her face is very bruised, and they’ve cut her hair.”

  Tom nodded and glanced at Seby, inclining his head as an invitation for the young man to join them at Katrina’s bedside. As they entered the darkened room, a nurse seated on the far side of the bed got quickly to her feet and stood without speaking. The room was filled with the heavy fragrance of flowers, and the subdued light prevented Tom from clearly seeing Katrina until he closed the distance to her bed. Tom winced with pain as he focused his gaze on his wife. The woman in the bed bore no resemblance to Katrina. Her upper head was tightly wrapped in white bandages, and her eyes were swollen shut. The purple hue of her flesh and puffy features gave her the appearance of having received a frightful beating. Tom was not prepared for the sight, and the shock caused him to groan out loud. His reaction startled Teresa, and she clutched his arm tightly and fought to hold back her tears.

  Tom remained standing beside the bed, clasping Katrina’s hand for several minutes, not noticing as the nurse quietly left the room. Teresa moved to the foot of the bed and sat in the chair she had occupied almost constantly during the past two days. Seby remained silent and stood against the far wall near the shuttered windows.

  When the door opened again, the nurse entered, followed by a man wearing a white smock.

  “Mr. Callahan?” the man said, reaching to touch Tom’s arm. “I’m Dr. Morgan. May I speak with you for a moment?”

  Tom turned his head to observe the doctor and then replaced Katrina’s hand at her side. With Teresa at Tom’s side, followed by Seby, the small group left the room, and the nurse retook her seat beside Katrina. Tom followed the doctor down the hall and into a small anteroom, where the physician motioned for all to take a seat.

  “I am sincerely sorry, Mr. Callahan. I understand you’ve been away. This situation is never easy to explain or easy for the family to understand, I’m afraid. We just don’t know much about head injuries. Perhaps in the future, but, I, uh, I’m afraid all we can do is wait and see how she responds.”

  “Is she being medicated? For pain, I mean, or a treatment of some kind?” Tom asked. “What is being done, Doctor? I mean, surely ­you’re not just ... waiting, are you?”

  “Mr. Callahan, I understand your concern. But with injuries to the head, we have to be cautious in administering medication.”

  Seby came to the far side of the divan and stood beside Tom. He rested his hand on Tom’s shoulder, but looked intently at the doctor.

  “I’m sorry, Doctor Morgan, I’m just trying to understand what’s going on. Tell me about the injury and what’s going to happen to my wife.”

  Morgan nodded. “No need to apologize, Mr. Callahan, I understand your concern. Your wife sustained a severe blow to the side of her head, just above the hairline. Probably from the impact against the side door of the car. We know she has a concussion, but until she regains consciousness, we will have no knowledge of any, uh, the extent, if any, of brain damage.”

  Tom’s eyes widened.

  “Would her brain damage be severe, uh, in light of her injuries, I mean?”

  “We just don’t know, Mr. Callahan,” he said, shaking his head. “There may be no permanent damage at all, but, I must tell you, the pressure on her brain—from the swelling—is severe. But it’s a good sign that she’s survived nearly forty-eight hours now.”

  “You mean her life is still in danger?” Tom said, leaning forward in his seat.

  Doctor Morgan nodded again. “I’m afraid so, Mr. Callahan. As much as I regret telling you, there is a possibility she might not survive.”

  “How much of a possibility?” Tom demanded.

  “That’s difficult to say. We’ll know more in a couple of days. It’s encouraging that her vital signs have stabilized, and she seems to be in no discomfort. But she is in a state of coma. How much she can hear or understand, well, we just don’t know.”

  “So all we can do is wait, you say?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Is there anyone, anyone, who specializes in this type of injury? Could we obtain a referral or bring someone in?”

  “I’ve consulted with Dr. Geoffrey Callister in San Francisco. He has exper
ience in head injuries. We’ve been conferring by telephone since the morning after your wife’s arrival.”

  “Could he come?” Tom asked. “Would he be able to help?”

  Dr. Morgan glanced at Seby. “Mr. Stromberg has already made arrangements. I believe Doctor Callister will arrive tomorrow morning by train.”

  Tom looked up at Seby and grasped his hand, then returned his gaze to the physician. “Thank you, Doctor Morgan. I apologize for my abruptness. It’s just ...”

  Morgan stood, offering his hand to Tom. “There’s no need, Mr. Callahan. You and your daughter, and of course Mr. Stromberg, may remain with Mrs. Callahan as long as you wish. We will have a nurse with her around the clock.”

  “Whatever she needs, Doctor. Anything. Just ask, and we will do our best to get it.”

  “I understand, Mr. Callahan. Now,” he said, “I’d best return to my other patients. I’m on duty tonight, and I’ll look in on Mrs. Callahan as often as I can throughout the evening.”

  Morgan left the room and Tom stood, stepping toward Seby. “Thank you, Seby, for your quick action.”

  Seby shook his head. “I have not forgotten, Señor, that it was your kind wife who once preserved my life. I will eternally owe her.”

  “Thanks again, Seby. Would you, uh, please take Tess down to the room. I’d like to be alone. Just for a minute, Tess, please?” he said to his daughter.

  After Seby and Teresa left the room, Tom sat down again on the divan and remained for several moments, his head buried in his hands. Finally, he took a deep breath and leaned back against the backrest.