Destiny - The Callahans #1 (16 page)

One other thought had privately crossed his
mind during the first days at Holy Cross. Almost a year had gone by
since Katrina had agreed to wait for him. Tom actually found
himself fearing that since she was only sixteen, it might have been
a romantic whimsy that brought her to such a hasty agreement. Had
she waited? Would she even remember who he was? Was there someone
else who had noticed the blossoming beauty within the young
girl?

The thought even crossed his mind that maybe
the Hansens had not even made it to Utah. Katrina had said that
they had relatives in Chicago, but Tom had not thought to stop
there. But if they had not come all the way to Utah, then what?
Back to New York?

Many of the homes he passed along South
Temple or First South were reminiscent of the estates owned by the
landed gentry in Ireland. The more successful folk, it seemed, made
their residences in that area, which made his walk past their homes
pleasant enough, but also brought to mind the gap between himself
and Katrina Hansen’s family. Where did they live, he thought, and
what kind of home would Mr. Hansen have obtained? Certainly more
than Tom could offer Katrina, which at the moment, he mused, was
next to nothing. He tried to imagine how it would sound to invite a
wife to join him in the custodian’s quarters of Holy Cross
Hospital. It was unthinkable, and the thought depressed him.

While sitting in a café one evening, during
his second week in Salt Lake City, Tom picked up a discarded copy
of the Deseret News and saw in it an advertisement for Hansen’s
Fine Furniture. “Lars Hansen, Proprietor,” it said. Walking just
five blocks south on Main Street, Tom located the store front, now
closed for the day. Smiling to himself, he looked briefly through
the front window at the furniture displayed on the floor, and
determined to come back Saturday during daylight hours and
discreetly determine if this was the same Hansen family. He had
little doubt that it was, but the idea of just walking up to
Katrina after all that time, when he wasn’t certain how she felt or
what might have happened to her, was not going to be easy. Though
he was excited to see her and had in fact thought of little else
for many months, in a way he dreaded doing so.

Within one hour the following Saturday, Tom
had spied Andy Hansen entering and leaving the store. His first
glimpse of Katrina had left him trembling as he watched her from
across the street. She followed the European tradition of sweeping
the walkways and store frontage, maintaining a tidy area around the
approaches to the furniture store. Tom’s courage failed him, and he
decided not to approach her without preparation.

Tom watched for several hours, and as noon
approached, Andy left the store and walked north toward the heart
of town. At an intersection, he stepped close to Andy and growled,
“Yer money or yer life, lad.”

Andy spun around, taking a moment to
recognize who had accosted him. “Tom Callahan,” he cried, embracing
Tom and pounding him on the back. “How did you get here? Where did
you come from?” The questions rolled off Andy’s tongue as fast as
Tom could listen and faster than he could answer.

“If you’ll buy me a bit of lunch, I’ll spin
the tale for ya, Mr. Hansen,” Tom teased.

“Certainly, Tom. It’s so good to see you
again.”

Seated in the dining area of the Knutsford
House, an imposing eight-story hotel situated on the corner of
Third South and State Street, Tom waited patiently as Andy
continued to tell of their relocation to Salt Lake and ask
questions about Tom’s trip west. Tom was careful to omit the Kansas
City incident, but otherwise gave Andy a fairly accurate rendition
of the previous eight months.

The primary subject of Tom’s interest had not
come up as yet, but as Andy’s questions diminished, Tom grew

silent, waiting to hear. Finally he asked
directly.

“Katrina?” he said, softly.

“What?” Andy said.

Tom just looked at him silently waiting for
Andy to respond.

“Oh, Katrina. Of course. She’s attending
university, studying to be a teacher. She’s been kept really
busy.”

“And how might I meet this busy person?” Tom
asked, beginning to perceive some reluctance on Andy’s part.

Andy shook his head. “She can hardly find
time to see me, Tom, and I live in the same house with her.”

Tom held Andy’s eyes, not speaking, waiting
for Andy to cease his evasive answers.

“What’s wrong, Andy?”

Andy shook his head, then wiped his mouth
with his napkin and set it aside. “She’s been seeing someone,
Tom.”

“Is she seriously involved?”

“Well, I . . . I don’t know if even she
knows,” he replied. “I know Poppa wants her to be serious about
him.”

“Who is he?”

“His name is Harold Stromberg. He’s the
missionary who taught our family in Norway, and since he returned
home, he has been courting Katrina.”

Tom recalled Katrina mentioning Stromberg
during their discussions on the boat. “Does she love him,
Andy?”

Andy shook his head, unsure how to respond.
“I don’t know, Tom. Truly, I don’t.”

“I’ve got to see her, Andy.”

“Tom, I can’t . . . they have, well, they
have . . . plans.”

“Plans? Look, Andy,” Tom said, reaching
across the table and holding Andy’s forearm, “I’ve come a long way
and have thought about her for the entire time. If she tells me
she’s found someone else, I’ll not interfere, but I must see her.
You have to understand that.”

Andy nodded. Then after a few moments of
silence, he said softly, “I’ll do it, Tom. I owe you that much.
Meet me Tuesday evening down at Temple Square, and I’ll arrange to
have Katrina there. They have concerts in the Tabernacle on
Tuesdays, and I’ll try to get her to go with me.”

“Andy, don’t tell her I’m here yet, please.
Let me just meet her and speak with her for a few minutes. Can you
bring her without this Stromberg fellow coming too?”

“Yes, I can. We often do things together.
Tuesday, Tom, about six-thirty on Temple Square.”

“Thanks, Andy.”

“I don’t know if it’s good thing for either
of you, Tom.”

“Aye. Let’s just see what happens, Andy.”

The sound of the boiler kicking on, in the
room immediately adjacent to his small living quarters, brought Tom
to his senses abruptly, interrupting the dream he’d been having of
the old days in Ireland. For the two weeks, ever since he’d moved
into Holy Cross, his sleep had been frequently interrupted by the
noisy heating system—but decreasingly so as he got used to it. He
figured that, eventually, it would become part of the surrounding
noise and he’d be able to sleep right through it.

His thoughts before drifting off had been of
the impending meeting with Katrina. However, his subconscious took
him back to a more peaceful, less unsure time during his early
youth in Ireland—a time before his youthful rambunctiousness had
brought him so much trouble.

The light tap on his door would probably not
have awakened him had he not already been alert. Quickly standing
up, he threw on his trousers, and opened the door. Sister Mary
stood there, a sheepish smile on her face.

“Please excuse the lateness of the hour, Mr.
Callahan. But might I have a word with you?”

Curious about what she might want, Tom
stepped aside and nodded for her to enter. “What time is it,
Sister?” he asked, fumbling to light the lamp.

Again she smiled, somewhat embarrassed. “Just
past two o’clock, Mr. Callahan. I am truly sorry to bother you, but
I have a favor to ask.”

Sensing her sincerity, Tom offered her the
one chair in the room and then sat down on the edge of his bed. “If
I can be of service, Sister,” he offered, stifling a yawn.

“First, Mr. Callahan, I must swear you to
secrecy. Now I know that must sound intriguing and cause more
curiosity than it deserves, however, if you will agree to keep
private the mission we are about tonight, I would be ever so
grateful.”

Tom’s nodded his agreement, and waited for
Sister Mary to explain.

“Good,” she said, standing once again. “I’ll
meet you in the carriage house behind the hospital in twenty
minutes. Kindly hitch up the mare to the buggy. Oh, and dress
warmly, Mr. Callahan. It’s very cold out tonight. We are likely to
be outside for the better part of two hours.”

“Sister?” he entreated.

She smiled even more broadly, pausing in the
doorway only to say, “I’ll explain on the way, Mr. Callahan. Please
hurry. We must be finished before dawn.” Then in a swoosh of her
habit, she was gone. Tom had lingered in his doorway, and part way
down the hall, Sister Mary stopped and turned around. “We will have
to do something about that old boiler, won’t we?” she laughed. “Or
else we’ll have to change the job specifications for our
maintenance man to include ‘hard of hearing.’”

Tom gave a small wave of acknowledgment, then
sat back down on his bed to pull on his socks and lace up his
boots. Fifteen minutes later, he was standing outside the rear
entrance to the hospital, stomping his feet to get the blood
circulating and cupping his hands in front of his mouth to blow
warm breath into them. He had already hitched up the mare to the
buggy and was waiting for further instructions. Snow covered the
ground, and there was a clear, winter night sky overhead.

Sister Mary appeared, carrying a small wooden
crate full of groceries. She motioned for Tom to come and help lift
several other similar containers from inside the back entrance of
the hospital. Together, Tom and Sister Mary quickly loaded a dozen
crates into the buggy and then Tom helped her mount the seat before
jumping up alongside her. Sister Mary busied herself tucking a
large woolen blanket around her legs and unfolding another one for
Tom. Wrapping his legs with the blanket, he untied the reins and
looked to Sister Mary for instructions. She pointed straight ahead,
and they were off into the night, the mare moving smartly, blowing
plumes of steam from her nostrils into the cold night air.

Tom’s quizzical look elicited another grin
from Sister Mary who said only, “West on South Temple, Mr.
Callahan. Down toward town and out past the railroad depot,
please.”

Tom clicked his tongue at the single horse,
and the mare settled in to a brisk pace, seemingly glad to have the
opportunity to move, now that she had been forced to leave her warm
stable. They started down the hill toward town and rode for several
blocks without speaking. Tom sensed that Sister Mary would speak
when she was ready.

By the time the buggy reached Temple Square,
devoid of any sign of life at this hour of the morning, the horse
was breathing regularly and the sled runners under the buggy were
sliding smoothly across the hard packed layer of snow that
blanketed the valley.

“Do you know much about the residents of Salt
Lake, Mr. Callahan?” Sister Mary asked.

Tom thought for a minute before responding.
“Not really, Sister. Father O’Leary told me a bit about the
Mormons’ unusual practice of multiple marriage, but he said they
were also an honest, hard-working lot. I presume now, that he got
that information from you,” Tom said, glancing at her.

Sister Mary smiled again, and nodded. “We did
correspond over the years. He was right, of course. The people of
Salt Lake are as diverse a group as you’ll ever find, Mr. Callahan.
The great majority of them, like us,” she smiled, “are immigrants
from Europe. The Mormon missionary program has expanded their
numbers greatly over the years since they arrived here. It’s been
nearly fifty years, Mr. Callahan, since the first settlers entered
the valley.” The horse continued her gentle plod toward the western
edge of downtown Salt Lake, past homes lying dark and quiet.

“They had it hard at first, as do most
newcomers to an unsettled area. You and I,” she explained,
interjecting—

“I came out in ’77, right after Sister Holy
Cross founded the hospital—have it much easier, I can assure you.
One has to admire the faith and tenacity it took to follow their
leaders and leave behind the comfort of solid homes, businesses,
and families. But then, it was hard, too, for some of the
‘Gentiles,’” she said, emphasizing the word. “That’s what the
Mormons call non-Mormons, Mr. Callahan. When the Gentiles came,
they felt like ‘outsiders,’ but eventually, as their numbers grew,
it became increasingly apparent that the Mormons were not to have
this valley to themselves. After some bitter struggles, especially
over the past twenty years as politics have played an increasingly
larger part in the affairs of the community, an accommodation of
sorts has been reached. Admission to the Union is a kind of
culmination for Mormon and Gentile alike—it’s something both sides
have wanted for a long time.”

Tom continued to listen, content to drive the
buggy as he learned a bit of history. “And the church, Sister?” he
asked. “If the Mormons settled this valley, how did the Catholic
church come to be here?”

“We go where there is need, Mr. Callahan,”
she smiled, watching him. “And Bishop Scanlan, assigned here from
California, is a most dedicated servant of our Lord.” Tom nodded
quietly. “Head north on the next street, Mr. Callahan,” she
instructed as they approached yet another intersection. “The third
house on the right. Just stop for a moment and we’ll leave one of
these parcels.”

Tom pulled back gently on the reins, hopped
down, and came around to assist Sister Mary as she climbed down
from the seat. “This one, Mr. Callahan,” she said, indicating one
of the wooden crates, which Tom took from the back of the buggy.
“In case you’re wondering, it’s food we’re delivering about
tonight.”

Tom grunted, following her up the walk,
trudging through the snow that had drifted into several piles a
couple of feet deep around the house. “Right here will do nicely,
Mr. Callahan, thank you very much.”