The Callahans: The Complete Series

by Gordon Ryan

  Your loving son, Mike

  PS: Please don’t worry about me, and please share this letter with Gram and Gramps. Tell them how much I love them and how grateful I am to Uncle Tommy. General Vandegrift spoke with me before I left and said that he had recommended Uncle Tommy for the Navy Cross. That seems a small compensation. I shall owe him my life for the rest of my days. I hope I can be worthy of his sacrifice.

  No one spoke for the next several minutes as Tess and Katrina sat together, crying silently.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Cardenas Ranch

  Draper, Utah

  August, 1945

  Since early in the morning, South Temple Street had been full of vehicles, cars, and trucks, bicycles, pedestrians, horns honking, and people screaming. The noise had been horrendous. The war was over. Japan had surrendered and the great, long struggle that had started one Sunday morning while the Callahan and Cardenas family had attended church was over.

  Thomas pulled the car out front and Katrina stepped carefully down the front stairs, entering the car. She gave one final look back toward their home, focusing on the Gold Star in the front window, the deep breath it always initiated returning immediately.

  Thomas waited for an opportunity to exit his driveway, then finally pulled in front of another vehicle and drove up the hill toward 13th East, turning south on the way to Draper. Seeking to escape the crowds and noise, Katrina had accepted Tess’s offer of dinner and a quiet evening at home while the furor calmed down.

  They drove quietly, observing the celebratory antics of thousands of people released from the bondage of fear, worry, and sorrow that had overshadowed their beloved valley for the past several years. The boys would come home now, most of them. Those who would not return lay peacefully around the world, small stone markers, crosses, or the Star of David commemorating their sacrifice. Those who had come home early in various stages of mental or physical anguish provided their own trial for themselves and family.

  Michael had returned in relatively good order. His shoulder had been repaired to the extent possible, but he was limited in his ability to use that arm. He had reentered medical school and had one year left to graduate. Tess had gotten her wish, but she never spoke of it. The knowledge that it came at the cost of her brother’s life was simply too much to bear. A son for a brother. A choice neither mother nor sister should have to make.

  Katrina knew which Tommy would have chosen. Had chosen. Ever since the death of his younger brother, Benjamin, that fateful night on the Titanic, Tommy had dedicated his life to protecting those whom he loved, those whom he served, and as the years progressed, those whom he commanded. In the end, it seemed only fitting that he exchanged his life for one of his family. Katrina understood. Unspoken between her and her daughter, she knew that Tess also understood. He loved them all more than his own life. It was that simple.

  They would talk about it after dinner that night. They would remember all the sons and grandsons of friends, family, and acquaintances. Hardly anyone they knew had not been affected in some way. Everyone knew someone who had lost loved ones. Everyone. But they would talk about Tommy. He resided quietly in their hearts. He lived on in Michael. And Michael was striving to live up to that burden of debt. At some point, Katrina would speak with her grandson and explain to him that honor only required his effort, not his constant fear of failure to live up to the debt he felt required to repay. Tommy had made his choice willingly.

  “We have to bring him home now, Thomas,” she said as they reached 33rd South.

  “Yes,” was all he replied.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Valhalla

  Salt Lake City, Utah

  May, 1947

  Nearing her seventieth year of life, Katrina Callahan sat in front of the second-floor casing on the cushioned bay window seat reading from the scriptures, a ritual she had performed every day for many years of her life. She was a little later than usual this morning, since the overnight rain had kept her awake and she had slept just a bit longer. The previous afternoon, Thomas had driven to Ogden and was staying the night with friends, due back early afternoon.

  As she was just about to close the book, a taxi pulled up in front of their house, stopped, and a woman got out, accompanied by a small boy. She paid the taxi driver and began to walk toward the front of the house.

  Katrina closed her scriptures, placed the book back on the lamp table, and walked to the staircase. As she reached the first landing, the front door buzzer rang and she proceeded to the entrance, opening the door.

  “Good morning,” Katrina said. She glanced quickly at the young man and was immediately taken aback at his facial features. The young lad was dressed in freshly pressed dark navy short pants, a tan button-down shirt, and a dark green cardigan. Quite the private school lad, as Katrina remembered from her time in England.

  “Good morning, ma’am,” the woman said, her voice soft and accented. British, perhaps. “Are you Mrs. Callahan? Mrs. Thomas Callahan?”

  “I am. Won’t you come in?”

  “Thank you, yes. I’ve love that, if you have a few moments.”

  They walked into the parlor and Katrina motioned for the woman to take a seat. The boy climbed up on the couch next to his mother and remained silent, watching this older woman and looking around the large room. His eyes were bright, full of curiosity, but his silence and polite behavior betrayed a careful parental instruction.

  “May I offer you something to drink? A glass of milk, perhaps, for your son?”

  “No, thank you. We’ve just eaten breakfast. Mrs. Callahan, my name is Madeline, and this is, as you say, my son. We’ve only just arrived in Utah from New Zealand. We stayed at the Hotel Utah last night until I was able to locate your residence.”

  Katrina glanced at the young boy again, quickly calculated his age, and her mind began to race. His hair, his eyes, even his smile was . . . Before Katrina could comment, Madeline continued her explanation.

  “Mrs. Callahan, I won’t prolong this any longer than necessary. I’ve wanted to come for the past six months, but since the war ended, transportation is still limited. We only obtained bookings on our ship several months ago. My full name is Madeline Carpenter . . . Callahan. And this is Tom. He’s Tommy’s son, your grandson.”

  Katrina kept her composure as best she could, but her eyes riveted on the young boy who, as yet, had not spoken a word. She nodded without speaking, tears forming, and then she stood, walked out of the room for several moments and returned with a glass of milk and a plate of cookies.

  “Tommy, your father would never forgive me if I didn’t offer you some of his favorite cookies. I hope you like chocolate chip.”

  The young boy looked to his mother for a moment and she smiled, nodding her approval. The young lad reached for a cookie and Katrina placed the glass of milk on the table next to the couch.

  “Did my father really like chocolate chip biscuits? Those are my favorite too,” the young boy said.

  “I thought they might be, Tom. I’m so very pleased to meet you, young man. I knew the moment I saw you that I would like you. You have that glint in your eyes and such a beautiful smile, just like your father. Your grandfather will be back this afternoon, and he’ll just love you too.”

  Katrina looked back at the woman seated before her, tears their common bridge. “You’re Maddy, aren’t you?”

  “I am,” she replied, her eyes glistening. “How did you know that name?”

  “Tommy mentioned you in the single letter we received from New Zealand. My son was not much of a writer, so we seldom heard from him, but he did mention a young woman he had met in Wellington. A very special young woman, actually.”

  “W met on board ship coming from Christchurch to Wellington, but that’s a story for another time. Tommy and I were married in Wellington in July, 1942, just before his detachment left for Guadalcanal. We had very little time together before . . .”

  She paused for a moment, glancing at her so
n. “I am so very sorry to say that he did not know about Tom. I wrote to him, but my letter was returned as undeliverable. By then . . .”

  Katrina rose and stepped to the couch, taking a seat alongside the woman. She placed her arm around the younger woman’s shoulder and pulled her close. “He knows now, Maddy. I’m sure of it.”

  The tears came freely now, complete with sobs and a release of the frustration, the fear and the uncertainty of her decision to travel to Tommy’s home. “I really didn’t know what else to do, Mrs. Callahan. My parents are dead, and . . .”

  “You’re home now, Maddy. That is, if you’d like to remain in the United States. And I would hope that you have called me Mrs. Callahan for the last time. If you could use another mother, I’d like to fill that role. And I can always use another grandchild—Tommy’s child.”

  Tears continued to roll down Maddy’s face and she pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of her dress. The boy looked up at her, taking his eyes off the cookies for a moment.

  “Why are you crying, Mummie?” he asked.

  “Because I love you, darling, and . . . and because your grandmother loves you, too.”

  Epilogue

  Salt Lake City Cemetery

  Salt Lake City, Utah

  August, 1968

  From the Salt Lake City Cemetery, located high on the Avenues, heat waves could be seen shimmering in the Valley below. In the annual changing of the seasons, all vestiges of snow had disappeared from the surrounding mountains, and summer had transformed the city into a breathless cauldron.

  In spite of the heat, well over a thousand people had attended the chapel service, and most of those, it seemed, had also come to the graveside service. The people at Larkin Mortuary had observed to the family that it was an unusually large crowd for so elderly a decedent, given that most of his peers had already passed on.

  The grave having been dedicated and the formalities completed, the majority of the people hastened to leave the cemetery, retreating to the air-conditioned comfort of their cars as quickly as diplomacy and propriety allowed. Now, only a few stragglers and the members of the immediate family remained.

  An old woman sat apart from the others, on a marble bench in the shade of a large sycamore tree. A man of about forty approached her, but stood a few paces away, as though reluctant to intrude on her solitude.

  "May I have a word with you, ma'am?" he finally asked softly.

  Looking up, she nodded and extended her hand in greeting.

  "Certainly," she said, smiling at him.

  The man shook her hand, then said, "You wouldn't know who I am, Sister Callahan, but my name is Parker, and I want you to know how much I admired and respected your husband. He forgave the mortgage on my father's home back during the Depression. That’s the home I grew up in, and I’ve raised my own children there. That wouldn't have been possible except for your husband's generosity when our nation was in such financial trouble. I just want you to know how grateful we are. God bless you, ma'am," he said, then turned quickly and walked away.

  While others greeted Katrina, a white-haired, distinguished-looking gentleman stood nearby, watching as the remaining people stopped to pay their respects. When there was a moment, the man approached slowly. Two much younger men, dressed in suits, stood to one side, carefully observing the older gentleman, but not interfering with his movements.

  Katrina recognized him and smiled, holding out her hand, which he accepted and clasped gently between his own.

  "You're looking well, Sister Callahan," he said.

  "Thank you, President McKay, but a man in your position ought to tell the truth. When a woman gets to be ninety years old, there's not much that looks well at all," she said.

  He laughed and shook his head. "No, Sister Callahan, I can't recall a time over the seventy-odd years we've known each other when you haven't looked well."

  "Well, thank you, President. And thank you for coming. It means a great deal to me, and I'm sure to Thomas as well."

  The president looked toward the mountains to the east, and a slight breeze ruffled his white hair. "Do you recall the time, many years ago, when I asked you if you thought your Thomas to be a good man? At your brother's wedding, in the Salt Lake Temple?" he asked.

  She nodded thoughtfully. "I do, and I replied, ‘by any man's standard,’ I believe."

  "Yes." He laughed. "You bristled slightly at the question, as I recall, and I hastened to add that if he was a good man by any man's standard, then perhaps he was a good man by God's standard as well.

  "I want to tell you today, Katrina Callahan," he said, patting her hand gently, "that both statements are true. And now Thomas Callahan will receive the reward of his labors, for both God and man will forever hold him in high esteem. That's evident in what we've seen today.” He gestured at the line of cars still departing the cemetery.

  "His works are known and his legacy has spread far beyond this valley, into the world. I used to tell my missionaries that it is better to be trusted than loved. I believe Thomas was both trusted and loved by most of the people he dealt with. And what more can we ask?" he said, inclining his head toward Katrina and smiling kindly.

  "What more, indeed?" she replied. "Thank you again, President McKay, for taking the time to come today."

  He released her hand, nodded his respects to Teresa, standing nearby, then made his way to his car, followed by the two men who had remained discreetly distant. One of the men opened the door to the dark sedan and President McKay entered the car, which then slowly left the cemetery.

  Almost immediately, a young man of perhaps twenty approached Katrina. He carried a small notebook in his hand and seemed nervous.

  “Excuse me, ma’am. My name is Michael Murphy and I’m with the Tribune. Might I have a word with you, please?” he said.

  The elderly woman looked into the young man's deep blue eyes and took note of his thick, dark hair, a distant memory flashing through her mind and a smile forming on her face.

  “Are you Irish, Mr. Murphy?’ she queried.

  “Yes, ma’am. That is, my grandfather was, originally.” Nodding toward the departing vehicle, he asked, “Wasn’t that the President of the Church, David O. McKay?”

  She glanced toward the car now exiting the circular drive, and nodded. “Yes, it was. How may I help you, Mr. Murphy?”

  “The gentleman who was buried, uh . . .” he paused, checking his notes, “. . . Thomas Callahan. Were you a close friend of the family?”

  She smiled gently. “A very close friend.”

  “Mr. Callahan was . . .” he referred to his notes again, “over ninety. Is that right? And he originally came from Ireland?”

  Glancing beyond the reporter at the workmen who were removing the chairs and canopy and preparing the grave for final closure, she responded softly.

  “He died peacefully in his sleep, August 24, 1968, six weeks short of his ninety-third birthday, and, yes, he was born in Pallas Grean, County Tipperary, Ireland, October 5, 1875.”

  “Can you tell me a bit about him, ma’am? Did he come from a wealthy family? How did he start in business? Was he from one of the pioneer families?”

  She could tell he was new at his job, asking so many questions before allowing her time to answer any of them. She smiled and patted the bench beside her, offering a seat to the young man and looking toward her daughter, Teresa, now sixty-eight, quietly standing off to one side, waiting for her mother. With Teresa was Tom, Tommy’s boy, who was currently a law student at the University of Utah.

  “You go ahead, Teresa. You and Jessie take the smaller children out of this heat. I’ll stay for awhile and speak with Mr. Murphy. Tom can wait in our car and take me back to Valhalla,” she said.

  Teresa frowned, concern written on her face.

  “Don’t be too long, Mama, it’s very hot up here. Are you sure you’ll be all right?”

  “Yes, of course, dear,” she replied, returning her attention to the reporter. “Now, Mr. Murphy, you
were saying?”

  “His family, ma’am. Did they provide his start in business, and how did you come in contact with the family?”

  How did she know the family? he had asked. How could she answer such a question? A deceptive and illegal polygamous marriage in Mexico, the death of her first child, then her husband killed by the attacking Mexicans, followed by months in the jungle with someone else’s infant. A second marriage to her first love, four children, death on the Titanic, the loss of her son in the war, her grandson serving in Korea as a doctor, the arrival of an unknown grandson who now was about to complete law school. How did she know this family?

  Katrina Hansen Callahan smiled wistfully and her green eyes took on a faraway look. She shifted her gaze out over the valley, to the growing community with residential neighborhoods spreading to the south and west, and beyond that, to the Great Salt Lake. Memories flooded her thoughts, and the hollowness in her chest suddenly filled with emotion.

  In the blink of an eye, she was a sixteen-year-old girl on the adventure of a lifetime, coming to America. And a handsome, but brash, young Irishman spoke to her on board her ship without a proper introduction. How well she remembered the exact moment.

  “Mr. Murphy, it was the spring of 1895, as I recall...”

  Later that evening, in the quiet of her bedroom, sleep eluded Katrina as it had for the past several nights. Three days earlier, when she had awakened to discover Thomas’s still form lying peacefully next to her in their bed, her own chest had constricted at the shock. But she had mentioned her discomfort to no one, not even her grandson, Mike, now an anesthesiologist in Salt Lake City. She was determined to carry on, giving her family the care and attention that ninety-odd years of living and seventy-odd years of mothering had ingrained.