The Callahans: The Complete Series

by Gordon Ryan

  Elder Brummer’s head snapped up, and with a look of astonishment on his face, he began to cry. Through his tears, he said, “No, it’s not that!”

  Tom didn’t know what to say. Elder Brummer was obviously so offended by the inference that he wasn’t worthy that Tom wished he hadn’t asked the question. Still, he ­didn’t know what else to say.

  The two sat without speaking for a few moments, Elder Brummer crying quietly and Tom feeling awkward, praying silently to know what to say or do. Finally, the young missionary blubbered, “Gol, President! I miss my cows!”

  As he said so, Elder Brummer collapsed in tears, holding his face in his hands and rocking backward and forward in his chair, sobbing uncontrollably.

  Tom sat for a moment, struggling at first to keep from laughing, but moved also by the young man’s agitation and unhappiness, grateful that the problem appeared to be nothing more than simple homesickness. After a time, he stood up and walked around the desk. He rested his hand on the young man’s shoulder and rubbed it sympathetically. Then he raised Elder Brummer to his feet and took him in his arms. The slender missionary was taller by a head than Tom, but he bent to rest his head on his mission president’s shoulder, clinging to Tom and surrendering to his unhappiness.

  “­You’re going to be fine,” Tom said, patting the young man’s back. “­You’re going to be just fine, I promise you. Let’s get your companion and you settled into the guest room for the night, and we’ll see what we can do tomorrow,” President Callahan said.

  Upstairs, as they knelt together by the side of their bed, preparing to say their nightly prayers, Katrina anxiously questioned Tom about the fate of the unhappy elder.

  “Not to worry, Katie,” he smiled, taking her hand. “I met the western region branch president a few days ago, and he specifically asked if I could send a pair of, as he called them, country elders, who would feel at home in his rural district. I think I’ve found just the right elder for him,” Tom said, laughing. “Just the man, indeed.”

  A month after their arrival in Argentina, President and Sister Callahan received an invitation to a dinner function at the American embassy, in honor of the newly arrived American ambassador, Malcolm Foster.

  “I don’t think we should go, Thomas,” Katrina said the following evening after dinner when they retired to the parlor where Katrina had begun writing a letter to Seby and Tess.

  “Why not? We’d meet all the local dignitaries and community leaders.”

  “But ­we’re here to do missionary work, aren’t we?”

  “Tell me how you think we should best go about that, Sister Callahan,” he said.

  “Talking to people, telling them about the church, guiding the missionaries, I guess.”

  “And won’t we be talking to people at the reception? Important people to boot?”

  She was silent for a few moments then looked up from her writing. “I suppose so.”

  “I think we need to let the government officials know they have nothing to fear from the Mormon missionaries, Katie. ­We’re in a very Catholic area here, and our visas only come with their permission.”

  “If you say so,” she replied.

  Reluctant though Katrina might have been, on the night of the reception, she looked as stunning as Tom had ever seen her. Dressed in a simple white long gown, her hair shimmered beneath the evening lights that illuminated the embassy grounds.

  “Sister Callahan, looking at you tonight, I’d say that any man who can’t see the merits of joining this church is a fool. If ­you’re a missionary’s wife, ­you’re going to fool any Catholic archbishop who’s been invited.”

  Katrina pulled her arm from Tom’s and stopped dead in her tracks.

  “Thomas, am I not dressed properly? I’m so sorry,” she said, her face turning red.

  Seeing his wife’s embarrassment, Tom instantly regretted his remarks.

  “I’m sorry, Katie. I only meant that you look as lovely as always. You look great, really, and your dress is quite beautiful ... and modest.”

  Katrina took his arm again, and they continued walking toward the embassy entrance. She took several breaths, and her face began to regain its normal color.

  “I’m sorry, too, Thomas. I should have known you were only being yourself and spouting your usual blarney,” she said, squeezing his arm. “­We’re going to have to get used to this missionary role, aren’t we?”

  “I am truly sorry, Katie. I didn’t mean to embarrass you, and, yes, we will need to understand our roles a bit better. But as for the blarney, I have never seen you more lovely, and that, Sister Callahan, is my true word on the subject.”

  They reached the reception line and slowly proceeded into the building. Introductions were made as they entered and passed through the assembled dignitaries, meeting the new American ambassador and several Argentine officials. As they proceeded into the large ballroom, a man wearing a black tuxedo and white tie approached them.

  “You would be Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Callahan, I presume?”

  “We are,” Tom said, extending his hand in response to the other man.

  “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Richard Van Brocklin of Connecticut. I believe you know my parents, Mr. and Mrs. Henry Van Brocklin. My father is the president of New York First Fidelity Bank.”

  “Of course, Hank Van Brocklin,” Tom smiled, increasing the vigor of his handshake. “Your father is a fine man, Mr. Van Brocklin.”

  “Please, call me Dick. Thank you. Dad thinks very highly of you as well. He told me you were coming.”

  “I wonder how he knew.”

  “He mentioned in a letter that the president of your bank, Mr. Thurston, I think, told him about your new, uh, appointment, when they met in New York last month. My mother also asked me to pass along her best wishes.”

  The trio walked through a set of double French doors leading onto the veranda toward a small table overlooking the gardens outside the embassy. A waiter approached and placed three crystal goblets and a carafe of wine on the table, then started to depart.

  “Excuse me,” Van Brocklin said to the waiter, “could we please have something nonalcoholic? Grape juice or apple juice perhaps?”

  “Certainly, sir,” the waiter responded, gathering up the wine.

  Katrina caught Tom’s eye momentarily and raised an eyebrow.

  Dick Van Brocklin noticed the exchange and smiled.

  “No,” he said, shaking his head and laughing, “I’ve not yet been persuaded to your religion, but I am familiar with some of your tenets. In fact, Father advised me that in his bank dealings with you, he always admired your presence of mind and your fortitude in light of some of the other banking participants’ after-hours behavior.”

  “That’s very kind of him,” Tom said, “but actually, it’s merely a health consideration. So tell us, how are your parents? Did your mother ever tell you how we met? Before I met your father, I mean.”

  “Yes, indeed,” Dick said, his smile disappearing. “It’s a very special but sad memory for my mother. She told us that when you left her that morning on the train to New York, upset over the newspaper story of the Titanic, she wondered for a long time what had happened and if your family was safe. Eventually, she read the casualty list in the newspapers. It was a tragic event.”

  “It’s been a long time, Dick, but thank you for your concern. I was so pleased to receive your mother’s wonderful letter back in Salt Lake, several months later. She was very understanding. It seems everyone has difficulties to overcome.”

  “­You’re referring, I presume, to my sister’s fatal accident so many years ago. Yes, that was a tough time for my parents. ­You’re right, I guess we all have to deal with tragedy in life.”

  “So, what brings you to Argentina and how long have you been here?” Tom asked.

  Dick smiled and started to explain, but paused when the waiter returned with three glasses of sparkling cider.

  “I’ve been here two years, Mr. Callahan. Ju
st after I turned forty, my father ...”

  “Tom. Please, call me Tom.”

  “Of course, thank you. As I neared forty and had put in fifteen years with the New York branch of the bank, Dad felt it necessary that I experience what he called the new frontier—international banking. New York First had developed an affiliation with the Banco de Nationale here in Buenos Aires. I’ve come down as vice-president. Dad was right. It’s been an eye-opener.”

  “That’s excellent, Dick. I wish you well.”

  “Am I correct that your bank still has significant mining interests in South America?”

  “Less than we did some years ago, but yes, we still maintain a presence, especially in silver. Is your father still running the New York branch of the bank?”

  “No, he’s not. In fact, a couple of years ago, he purchased a seat on the New York Stock Exchange. Most likely I’ll stay here for a few years and then maybe take over his seat when he retires. I think you’ll like it here, Tom. It’s a beautiful country and once you learn the language, quite easy to travel. There’s a large European influence and population, especially Germans and middle Europeans.”

  “Do you have a family, Dick?” Katrina asked.

  He nodded. “Yes, my wife’s name is Cassandra, and we have two daughters. Cassie went back to Connecticut a couple of weeks ago. Our oldest daughter is about to enter Vassar, and the youngest attends high school here in Buenos Aires. Cassie should be back in about two weeks.”

  “How nice,” Katrina said. “Two of our children are married, one son living in New Zealand, and one daughter trying to balance her new marriage between Salt Lake and a film career in Hollywood. Our other son is a lieutenant in the Marine Corps. We seldom know where he might be at any given time. Last we heard, he was in Hawaii,” she laughed.

  “That’s quite a spread, Mrs. Callahan. And I thought my parents had it bad with my family down here in South America. We’d be glad to show you around and help in any way we can.”

  “Well, ­we’re grateful to have met a friend already, Dick. Your parents hold a special place in my heart. I’m indebted to your father for some good advice on many a deal over the years.”

  “The way he tells it, Tom,” Dick laughed, “you advised him. If there’s anything I can do to assist you here in Buenos Aires, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

  “Let’s try you out,” Tom joked. “Does your bank have a real estate department? ­We’re going to need a formal residence. A large place actually. Not a ranch—we don’t need acreage—but plenty of bedrooms and office space. Room for a household staff as well.”

  “That ­shouldn’t be too difficult. Come see me on Monday. I’m sure we can help. By the way, Cassie and I have an excellent stable at our place, just outside of town, if you like to ride.”

  “Well, Dick, our appointment, as you called it, will take up a great deal of our time. It’s not the banking kind of job, I’m afraid. Do you know much or anything about the Mormon church—besides our stance on nonalcoholic cider,” he said, causing a ripple of laughter from all three.

  “Not much, Tom. My oldest daughter, the one who just left for Vassar, met a couple of missionaries in Connecticut several years ago. She was quite favorably impressed, but you know young people. She thought the young men were handsome and that might account for her interest. Then a member of your church—out of Yale, I believe—hired on with the bank a year before I left. A fine fellow. But as to doctrine, I can’t say as I know much at all.”

  “I see. Your horses, uh, do you ride every day?”

  “Oh, no. This bank has long hours, too,” he grinned. “My father demanded them of his Yankee staff assigned here and that hasn’t changed since he left for the stock exchange. But I find time. Are you interested?”

  “It might be a fine way to see the countryside, ­wouldn’t you say, Katrina,” Tom asked.

  “Certainly, dear,” she said, a quizzical look on her face.

  In the car on the way home, Katrina leaned her head on Tom’s shoulder and stifled a yawn.

  “Tonight reminded me of the old days, Thomas, when we hosted the governor’s reception and attended a couple of the receptions Anders took us to in Washington. Did you see the diamonds dripping from the French ambassador’s wife at the dinner table?”

  “A wide range of society, wasn’t it?”

  “Not like the people we met in church the other day, were they?” Katrina said. “Are you really going to go horseback riding with Dick?”

  Tom looked out the window of the taxi as they sped down the boulevard alongside the river.

  “At first I thought not, Katie. But then, something inside me said yes.”

  “I thought so when I saw the look on your face. The mantle is settling on you, Thomas. And the Spirit is whispering. Listen to it, my dear, listen to it.”

  September, 1929

  Malibu, California

  After spending three years assigned to the marine garrison at Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, newly promoted Captain Thomas M. Callahan III was selected for a two-year advanced degree program with a follow-on assignment to Marine Corps headquarters, Washington, D.C. He left the lush, tropical environs of the Pacific islands, headed for Stanford University in Palo Alto, California, and a doctorate program in international economics.

  There was considerable opposition to a junior grade lieutenant receiving such a plum assignment, and, in fact, some voiced their opposition to a rich banker’s son being assigned to pursue an economics degree at the expense of the Marine Corps. In the end, obtaining approval over many senior officers had not been easy, and, in fact, it had required that Tommy’s slot be added to the three other higher education approvals granted during 1929. His approval, and his promotion—arranged to silence the critics who complained that he was only a lieutenant—had been personally signed by General John A. Lejeune, commandant of the Marine Corps, who had been one of Tommy’s commanding officers in the 6th Marines in France.

  When his ship from Hawaii, a commercial liner rather than a military transport, docked in Los Angeles in late August, he was met by Teresa, who drove him to her seaside bungalow on the cliffs above the beach in the small village of Malibu, west of Hollywood.

  “Now this is the life, Tess. Can you get me an acting job, so I can live this way?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Tommy. All of our leading men are good- looking,” she said, deadpan.

  “I see,” he replied, “I guess ­you’re grateful that doesn’t apply to the actresses, huh?”

  Teresa called for her housekeeper to bring a few sandwiches and cold drinks, and took Tommy’s hand, leading him out onto the deck. The ocean view was panoramic.

  “What say we skip the traditional sparring this time, dear brother?” she said, taking a chair.

  “That would be fine with me, Sis. I’d rather hear the truth anyway,” he laughed. “What do you hear from Mom and Pop?”

  “Got my first letter yesterday. They think the country is beautiful, the people are friendly, and they are both in good health.”

  “Aha, another missionary, ‘we-are-so-excited’ tourist brochure, eh?”

  Teresa laughed again. “Just about. Mom did say that they met the son of an old friend of Dad’s. Richard Van Brocklin is his name. From Connecticut. His dad owns a bank in New York, and the son is in Buenos Aires working for an associate bank.”

  “That’s what Pop would have me doing if he could—traveling the world in banker’s clothes. Poor Richard. I wonder if his father pushed him into the banking world?”

  “There are worse occupations. And you already travel the world.”

  “Can you imagine Pop as a mission president? That’s not the Pop I know,” Tommy said. “From a gun-runner, ex-convict to a missionary.”

  “Tommy Callahan, you stop it right now! You promised that you would never let on that I told you about all that. Besides, we all change, Tommy.”

  The housekeeper arrived and placed a tray of freshly prepared sandwiches and a pitcher of
lemonade on the table. “Will there be anything else, Señora?”

  “No, thank you. We’ll be fine.” Teresa poured them both a glass of lemonade and looked out over the ocean as Tommy consumed a sandwich.

  “Actually, Tommy, I think Dad will do very well as a mission president. We all need to adjust to our differing roles in life.”

  “Don’t get me wrong, Sis. I admire Pop’s decision. But he’s probably more uncomfortable in this role than he’s ever been.”

  “As I said, we all change as we grow older,” she said.

  He nodded, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Do I detect a subtle shift to the serious?”

  Teresa turned her head to look at her brother. “You like this place, Tommy? The house and the ocean, I mean?”

  Tommy rose and stood by the railing, looking out over the beach and the breakers rolling in. “It’s magnificent, Tess. What can I say?”

  “And what if I said it was lonely?”

  Tommy turned around, leaned back against the railing, and stared at his sister.

  “Then I’d say sell it and go home before you find a way to end that loneliness. You telling me ­you’re not happy?”

  “I love my work. I love the public relations and the press coverage. I’m selfish, Tommy. I want it all, I guess. And Seby ...”

  “And Seby just wants you?”

  “But he has his other life, too. He manages the ranch, he’s investing heavily in the stock market now, making tons of money, but he’s not pleased to have me living away from him, down here.”