by Gordon Ryan
“May I see him, Doctor, please?” she asked.
“Of course. He’s still sleeping, but you may go in and sit with him if you wish.”
Sister Mary took Alice by the arm, and together they entered the room where Robert Thurston was recovering from his overnight surgery.
“D.O., I know just where we need to go,” Tom offered. McKay glanced at the young lad sleeping on one of the benches in the corridor. “He’ll be fine,” Tom said. “The sisters will watch out for him, won’t you, Sister,” he said, as Sister Josephine walked by and smiled her assurance.
Down the hallway and down one flight of stairs, D.O. found himself escorted into the large kitchen of Holy Cross Hospital.
“If you think Robert got good care upstairs, D.O., you’ll be amazed at what Sister Jude performs regularly down here,” he laughed. “Ready for a bite of breakfast?”
Sitting together in one corner of the kitchen, Tom and David finished eating their breakfast but sat for a while longer to talk.
Tom said that he couldn’t understand the Mormons’ reluctance to drink a good, hot cup of coffee.
“It’s what gets me going in the morning,” Tom explained.
“Yep,” D.O. nodded, “and many others, too.”
Changing the subject, D.O. said, “You mentioned in the buggy earlier that, ‘you’ve been worse,’ I believe were your words. Things not going well for you in Salt Lake?”
Tom took another sip of his coffee. “It’s not Salt Lake that’s the problem, D.O. It’s fine living here. I’ve just had some personal concerns.”
“An affair of the heart, I take it,” D.O. said, smiling knowingly.
“Maybe you are a priest, after all,” Tom joked.
“Excuse me?”
“Sister Mary said you were going to give a blessing of some sort to Mr. Thurston. Now I find you also deal in treating personal problems. Maybe you really are a priest,” Tom grinned.
D.O. tilted his head back and began to laugh loudly. The sound echoed in the hospital kitchen, and he quickly stifled it, glancing over at Sister Jude and her helper who had looked up from their work. “You could say that, Tom,” he said quietly, “but it will take some time to explain it to you. I’d love to have the opportunity, but for now, how can I help?”
“Seems to me you’ve already done a night’s work, D.O. And you’re still looking for more?”
“It’s not that. I just want you to know I’m available if I can ever do anything for you.”
“I appreciate that, D.O.,” Tom replied. “But what happened is no longer of any consequence. In fact, it’s a dead issue. The young lady in question was married to someone else in your beautiful temple a couple of weeks ago, and according to the paper, she left on a trip to Yellowstone Park for her honeymoon.”
“I see,” D.O. said. “And you say this young lady was someone you knew before?”
“You haven’t had much sleep, D.O. Are you sure you’re up to hearing a long story?”
“They’re the best kind,” he smiled.
A couple of hours later, as they made their way back up the hill from walking Alice Thurston and her young nephew home, D.O. McKay knew considerably more about Thomas Callahan, and young Tom understood, or at least had heard, David’s explanation about temple sealing and eternal marriage.
“So her concern,” Tom said, “if I understood you right, may have been more for finding an eternal companion than it was for which man to choose?”
“Perhaps some of each, but I can’t truly say, Tom. Without even knowing the young woman, if she is a Mormon, I know she would have been concerned about your differing religions.”
“Seems to me there’s more to this, D.O., than simply my not being a Mormon, and I suppose I’m angry over coming so far for my dream when she never even really gave me a chance to make my case. If it was just a matter of a difference in our religions, why wasn’t she willing to wait until I could learn something about it? She gave me a copy of your Book of Mormon, and I’ve read about the brothers in the early chapters.”
“That’s good, Tom. I don’t know what to tell you. Perhaps she just wasn’t the one. You said Sister Mary told you the Lord had a purpose in sending you here. Do you believe that?”
“I don’t know, D.O. I haven’t seen it so far.”
“Well, perhaps He has yet to reveal it to you, Tom, but be patient. The Lord seldom seems to work according to our timetable. Well, I’d better be heading home now. It’s been a long night, and I’ve got classes this morning. Can we carry on this conversation at some later date?”
“Aye. Thanks, D.O. I’m glad we had the opportunity to meet again.”
“Me, too, Tom. Take care, now,” he said, turning to walk toward his house.
“I will, D.O. And don’t worry,” Tom called after him, “I’ll look in on your friend, Thurston.”
“Thanks. I think Sister Thurston will probably move in if the doctor lets her,” D.O. offered, as he waved good-bye.
12
In the summer months, Friday night was a popular dance night at Saltair. At the urging of Sister Mary, Tom had agreed that getting involved in a social life would be the best way to get over Katrina. “Besides,” Sister Mary had said, “who knows? You might even meet a nice Catholic girl.”
Tom knew Sister Mary meant well, but he had no interest in meeting any kind of girl just then. Though he seldom went very long without thinking about Katrina and about what might have been, he knew in his head that to continue pining over her was useless. But he couldn’t get his heart to let go.
The dance pavilion was packed. Literally thousands of people had crammed into each nook and cranny, and the orchestra was pumping out the latest tunes. Tom made it through “Sweet Rosie O’Grady” once again, with only a brief flit of memory about the night Katie sang it on the Antioch.
When he went to the bar to order drinks, it amused Tom that the majority ordered lemonade or one of the new carbonated drinks. He too, ordered only soft drinks, which made him wonder if people thought he was a Mormon.
Beer was sold at Saltair, but Tom didn’t partake. That decision had been made on the train from Kansas City to Denver, as Tom lay shivering in the cold night air, wondering if, when he arrived in Denver, he would be arrested and hanged for the murder of a man whose name he didn’t even know. Father O’Leary’s warning was constantly in his mind during that lonely ride, and Tom had surprised even himself when he decided that from that moment forward he would consume no more alcohol. The memory of his father’s abusive treatment of his mother, the image that had been fixed in his mind of a faceless young man strapped into an electric chair, and the recognition of his own loss of control after drinking, had solidified that decision.
Tom had killed a man. That much was certain. But what he hoped was that if he were arrested, he could somehow convince the authorities that he had acted in self-defense.
On that lonely train ride across the prairie, Tom had bargained with God—asking Him to help him escape arrest and promising in return never to drink again.
The most surprising thing to Tom about his commitment was the way he adhered to it. Not even Sister Mary was aware of his promise, and there was no one who could berate Tom for failing to live up to his private bargain with God. Yet he had, from the day he made the pledge, honored it strictly. For an Irishman to give up his pints was quite a thing, and it was an evidence of how fearful Tom was of being apprehended and charged with murder, to say nothing of how seriously he took the promise he had made to God.
Had Tom been there with someone he cared about, he might have found the resort at Saltair a remarkably romantic place. The gigantic onion-domed structure sat on the southern shore of the Great Salt Lake. The huge dance floor was constructed of polished wood and the pavilion opened to the west, affording an unobstructed, open-air view of the lake, Antelope Island, and the glorious sunsets beyond.
But Tom found it difficult to generate much enthusiasm. There was lively music and a big crowd,
and as the evening progressed, several young girls cast the same coy look at Tom that he knew so well from his cavorting days in Ireland. The fact that he didn’t have a beer in his hand, he guessed, rendered him “safe” to the mostly Mormon girls in the hall. He danced with a few and chatted superficially, but his heart wasn’t in it. At least not yet.
Tom didn’t see Katrina immediately, as she stood against a crowd of people, looking at him and smiling uncertainly. When he finally became aware of her, it was her eyes that he noticed first. Her hair, which she had pulled up on top of her head, gave her an older, more sophisticated appearance.
When she saw that he had finally focused on her, Katrina didn’t know what to say. They stood there for a moment, looking at each other, before Katrina said, “Good evening, Thomas.”
“Good evening,” he responded, then added awkwardly, “You’ve changed your appearance, uh . . . Mrs. Stromberg.”
“Oh, my hair,” she laughed, touching her head with her finger tips. “It’s not quite so long.”
“But just as beautiful.”
Not knowing how to follow up the compliment, Tom abruptly downed the rest of his drink and set the empty glass on the counter. He looked again at Katrina, but she lowered her eyes.
“Well,” he said, “I was just about to catch the next train. If you’ll excuse me . . .”
“Thomas, it is nice to—”
“Katrina, I’ve been looking for you,” Harold announced as he shouldered his way through the crowd. She turned to greet her husband, who had his eyes fastened on Tom.
“Harold, this is Thomas Callahan. We met on the ship coming from Europe,” Katrina offered.
Harold glanced quickly at Katrina, and back again at Tom. Taking a firm hold of Katrina’s arm, Harold lectured, “There are too many people here for you to go wandering off alone, Katrina.”
Tom offered his hand, but Harold ignored the gesture, while continuing to glare at the handsome Irishman.
“It was nice to meet you, Harold. Katrina, all the best to you. Good evening,” he said, turning his back on them and stepping away.
Tom was surprised when Harold grabbed him by the shoulder and jerked him back around. Tom’s eyes went to Katrina, rather than Harold.
“The next time you speak to her, you’ll address her as ‘Mrs. Stromberg.’ Is that understood?” Harold spat out. “In fact,” he added, “you’d best avoid either of us, Mr. Callahan. I’ve heard all about you from Mr. Hansen, and neither Katrina nor I wish to have any further contact with you.”
“Aye,” Tom said, turning once again to leave.
Harold’s second jerk on Tom’s shoulder brought fire to the Irishman’s eyes, and he was able to restrain himself only because of Katrina’s presence. “Do you understand, Mr. Callahan? There’s no place here for your kind.”
“And what kind would that be?” Tom asked, smiling disarmingly and thereby confusing Harold.
“Irish riffraff. Peasants,” Harold prodded.
“Aye,” Tom said, continuing to smile. “It was nice to see you again, Katrina,” he said, looking into her eyes, then turning once again to go.
Harold’s final mistake was pursuing Tom a third time and trying once more to spin him around. “I told you not to call her Katrina. Are you entirely stupid?”
“Aye,” Tom replied, landing a short, hard punch to Harold’s mouth, knocking the man off his feet onto his back on the dance floor. Some of the women who had been watching screamed and turned away, and others in the crowd fell back into a small circle, in the center of which Harold lay sprawled, his lips bloodied. Katrina went quickly to Harold, bending to help him up and glaring at Tom as she struggled to lift her husband.
“I’m sorry, Katrina,” Tom offered. “He didn’t give me much choice.”
“Callahan,” Harold said, spitting blood, “I’ll have the law on you for this.”
“Have a go, Stromberg,” Tom said, gesturing with his arm at the large crowd that had watched what had gone on. “There are plenty of witnesses to your, shall we say, provocation. But if your Poppa’s so important, maybe he can protect his little lad. That’s what your kind needs, isn’t it?” Tom looked again at Katrina. Her face was white and she was trembling, and Tom suddenly felt great pity for her. He had frightened her, he could see.
“I truly am sorry, Katrina. Please excuse me,” he said, before making his way through the crowd.
“You’ve not heard the last of this, Callahan,” Harold shouted after him.
“Harold, let’s just go. Quietly, please,” Katrina pleaded.
“Taking his side, are you?” Harold threatened.
“Harold, please,” Katrina voiced, embarrassed beyond words to have been the center of such a public spectacle.
Tom boarded the train back to Salt Lake, his blood up and trying to calm his anger. Back in his room, the sound of the boiler, long since accepted as part of the ambient noise in his quarters, kept him awake for hours until the dawn.
The next morning, in the kitchen, hunched over a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon prepared by Sister Jude for her favorite customer, Tom sat silently eating as Sister Mary greeted him on her early morning inspection of the hospital.
“Have a good evening, Thomas?”
He looked up and smiled thinly at her. “Not so you’d notice, Sister. But I’ve had worse.”
29 May 1896
Dear Nana,
I saw Thomas this evening at Saltair.
I love him! God help me, Nana, I love him.
Jeg elske du,
Trina
“Top of the mornin’ to ya, Mr. Thurston,” Tom said as he entered the hospital room.
A bright smile lit up Robert Thurston’s face. “Good morning, Mr. Callahan.”
“Just on me way to some morning chores down this wing, and thought I’d pop in to say hello. How are you feeling?”
“Like a team of six horses drove over me, but better than a couple of days ago,” he laughed. “But if it hadn’t been for you and Brother McKay, I’m told it could have been much worse. And, of course, Sister Mary.”
“Aye, Sister Mary would be due all the praise, Mr. Thurston. I just drove the buggy, and maybe one of the six horses,” he grinned.
Thurston laughed and nodded appreciatively. “Have a seat, please. Brother McKay seems to think quite highly of you, Mr. Callahan.”
“Really? I’ve never given him any cause. But what say we dispense with the ‘Mister’ and you call me Tom? And I’ll call you Robert, or is it Bob?”
“Robert’s fine. How long have you been in Salt Lake, Tom?”
“Only about six months, I think. And not much longer than that in America. I suppose you’re from here?”
“Guilty. I was born here.”
Tom judged Robert to be in his late twenties or early thirties. “A member of what they call the ‘pioneer families,’” Tom joked.
“You could say so, I guess. My grandfather came out with one of the handcart companies.”
“That seems to be the badge of honor you need to be a member of the establishment here.”
Robert turned his gaze out the window momentarily. “I guess it might seem that way to someone new, but,” he said, looking back toward Tom, “anyone is welcome in the ‘establishment,’ Tom. I’d be glad to show you how,” he smiled again.
“Careful now, Robert, you’re in a Catholic hospital at the moment, and we’re likely to convert you ‘piece by piece,’” he teased, pointing toward Robert’s incision.
Thurston laughed out loud, wincing and holding his abdomen. “That’s a novel approach to missionary work.”
“Aye, but then there’s no going back.”
“I see your point, Tom. Well taken, I might add. So what do you do here at the hospital?”
“General maintenance. Plus everything else Sister Mary can think up.”
“Does that usually include a four a.m. house call?”
“Oh, that. Nay. Sister Mary and I were just attending to one of her
hobbies.”
Robert’s eyebrow went up slightly. “So Brother McKay has told me. Seems he knows more than he’s supposed to.”
“Well, Sister Mary’s got her heart in the right place, that she does. And where do you work, Robert?”
“Zion’s Bank. I’ve been with them since I went to the university. About eight years.”
“I see. Do you enjoy it?”
“I do, indeed. And you?”
“Well, these are fine folk here at Holy Cross, but I haven’t decided what to do yet. Just kind of following what comes at the moment,” Tom said, reflecting to himself how his answer was as surprising to him now, as it had been that day on the Antioch when Anders Hansen had asked him what he was going to do in New York. “Something’ll turn up. I’d kind of like to have a look at this university everyone’s talking about.”
“You want to go to college?” Robert asked.
“Don’t know. Might look into it. I’d thought about Trinity College in Dublin once, but then . . . ,” he hesitated. “But now Sister Mary seems to think it’s a good idea, and my work schedule here would permit it, she said.”
“That’s great, Tom. You know, we have apprentice opportunities at the bank for bright, young lads,” he smiled. “That’s how I got in,” he added, with a wink.
“Well,” Tom said, standing up, “best be on about me chores. Do you play chess, Robert?”
Thurston’s eyes brightened. “I certainly do. And you?”
“I’ll drop around after dinner this evening, Robert,” Tom smiled, “and see if I can’t take advantage of a sick man.”
“With the care I’m getting here, Tom, that won’t be much of an advantage,” Robert laughed.
“I’ll be telling Sister Mary you’re pleased with the service, then,” Tom said, leaving. “See ya this evening.”
