by Gordon Ryan
While Sister Mary presented a kind and considerate demeanor throughout Tom’s indoctrination, his stroll with her through the hospital facilities made it evident that she was in tight control of every aspect of the hospital’s operation. She imposed particularly stringent rules for the management of the nursing sisters. Tom had taken note of the requirements for the staff that were posted on the nurses’ bulletin board. The rules left little room for personal interpretation. The posting read:
Values and Priorities
• Daily sweep and mop the floors of your ward, dust the patients’ furniture and window sills.
• Maintain an even temperature in your ward by bringing in a scuttle of coal for the day’s business.
• Light is important to observe the patients’ condition. Therefore, each day fill kerosene lamps, clean chimneys, and trim wicks. Wash the windows once a week.
• The nurse’s notes are important in aiding the physician’s work. Make your pens carefully, you may whittle nibs to your individual taste.
• Each nurse on day duty will report every day at 7 A.M. and leave at 8 P.M. except on the Sabbath on which day you will be off from 12 noon to 2 P.M.
• Graduate nurses in good standing with the director of nurses will be given an evening off each week for courting purposes or two evenings a week if you regularly go to church.
• Each nurse should lay aside from each pay day a goodly sum of her earnings for her benefits during her declining years so that she will not become a burden. For example, if you earn $30 a month, you should set aside $15.
• Any nurse who smokes, uses liquor in any form, gets her hair done at a beauty shop or frequents dance halls will give the director of nurses good reason to suspect her worth, intentions, and integrity.
• The nurse who performs her labors and serves her patients and doctors faithfully and without fault for a period of five years will be given an increase by the hospital administration of five cents a day providing there are no hospital debts that are outstanding.
Reading the list, Tom was grateful he had not the inclination to become a nurse and felt somewhat sorry for those who had. Now that he had met with Sister Mary, it was first things first, he thought. And, following procurement of a job and lodging, there was only one thing remaining. Katrina Hansen. For the first time in some months, life looked good.
For the first ten days at Holy Cross, each evening after work, Tom either walked down the hill toward the Temple Square or took the trolley that ran along First South toward town, intent on finding out as much as he could about the community and hoping to find a lead on where the Hansens might have located. It would not have been difficult to find the Hansens in Salt Lake City, but Tom had not confided his plans in anyone. He wanted to go about that part of his quest in his own way.
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 holdin
g 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.”
They quickly resumed their seats on the buggy and headed farther up the street, stopping where Sister Mary indicated and dropping off the boxes. After a number of additional stops, their last parcel was gone. “Back to a warm bed, Mr. Callahan,” she laughed, as Tom started the mare toward South Temple and the gentle climb back toward the hospital.
“Remember now, Mr. Callahan. This night’s work is just between us.”
“Then these families would be some of our Catholic neighbors, Sister?” he queried.
She turned to look at him, her eyes sparkling in the crisp early morning starlight. “I’d not be knowing, Mr. Callahan.”
“Sister?” Tom said, a quizzical expression on his face.
She smiled broadly again, pulling the blanket around her and tucking it in behind her knees. “We do God’s work, Mr. Callahan, wherever it is needed.”
Tom continued to drive the buggy east, again past Temple Square and up the hill toward the hospital. “Sister, I’m a bit confused. With the church . . .”