by Gordon Ryan
“Very impressive and knowledgeable young woman,” Tommy said.
“And beautiful,” Wallington added.
“I think I did notice that, Professor,” Tommy replied, a grin on his face.
“Captain, I’d be disappointed in the United States Marine Corps if you’d missed that piece of national intelligence.”
“Something tells me you haven’t spent all your life on campus, Professor.”
“I’ve led a varied life myself, Tommy. My father was an army officer with Winfield Scott in the war with Mexico. Then, he rode with Jeb Stuart and didn’t come home. I got my first lesson in military tactics when Sherman burned his way through Georgia, right past our plantation. Now that was economic warfare at the grass roots. Our southern way of life changed forever in those flames, I’m afraid. But perhaps slavery wasn’t any more of a solid foundation for a strong, lasting national economy than buying stocks on margin is today.”
This time Tommy’s eyebrows rose, realizing for the first time just how much the professor had seen in his lifetime.
“That was back in ’64, and I turned fifteen that year. I came west, and I’ve never looked back,” he said, a nostalgic look crossing his face, which he just as quickly erased.
“I presume that you would like to keep your, uh, financial status, confidential from Miss Prisman, too?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you for your consideration.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow then,” Wallington said. “I’ll arrange with the front office to have your name added to my list of teaching assistants. I’m happy to have you on the team.”
“And thank you, Professor Wallington. It’s an honor to finally meet you and attend your classes.”
“It’ll be two long years to obtain your doctorate, Mr. Callahan, and the enemy is a bit more abstract than you might be used to fighting.”
“Yes, sir,” Tommy replied, “but I’ll be serving under a good general.”
Chapter 12
The rural countryside outside of Buenos Aires was as beautiful as Utah, Tom thought as he rode slightly behind Dick Van Brocklin. Tom had taken Dick up on his offer to ride on two previous occasions, and despite Dick’s being fourteen years younger, the two had struck an immediate friendship—in some respects a tutelage—with Tom serving as mentor to Dick.
Their wives had remained in the house, preferring to fuss about the kitchen in preparation for the evening meal. Katrina had also quickly become friends with Cassie Van Brocklin. With Cassie being twelve years Katrina’s junior, they’d formed an almost sisterly relationship. They had commiserated together over the ‘growing up and disappearing’ of their newly adult children, and Katrina had advised Cassie to hold on to Peggy, the youngest daughter who still resided at home, as tightly and for as long as she could.
The estate that Dick’s people had located had immediately satisfied all of Tom’s requirements. Katrina had loved the house and the grounds from the moment she and Tom first viewed them. It had once belonged to the president of a Belgian corporation with a branch in Argentina, but when the Belgian executive died while traveling in South America, the company had put the estate on the market.
Surrounded by a stone and wrought-iron fence, the three-story brick and stucco residence was palatial. With ten bedrooms, four complete bathrooms, including the one in the master suite, a living room and a large, formal dining room, an expansive kitchen, as well as a wing containing a study and library, the home provided ample room and facilities for a combination mission home and office.
Tom saw the residence as giving the church a legitimate presence in Buenos Aires, but Katrina fell in love with the home for its charm. She was especially taken with the park-like grounds. A seventy-five-year-old, massive oak tree spread its branches over a formal garden and a terrazzo patio and fish pond. With its wrought-iron tables and chairs, the shaded patio provided a comfortable setting for the missionaries staying in the home to take their meals. The study, which Tom utilized as an office, opened on one side to a glassed-in atrium, in which a tree, flowers, and shrubbery grew in profusion. It was a residence that met the church’s needs perfectly, and Tom had recommended its purchase to church headquarters without reservation.
During the first two months of their residence in the new mission home, Tom and Katrina spent time touring several of the outlying branches of the church, meeting with the people and struggling to learn the language. Tom could see that Katrina would be the one to most quickly pick up Spanish, and almost immediately, he came to rely on her to communicate. It was evident, too, that it was most often the poor and humble who were willing to investigate and accept the gospel. The middleclass and wealthier families had much to lose by affiliating with a religion outside the Catholic mainstream, and with rare exception, did not entertain even a second visit from the missionaries.
Whether out of a desire for friendship or an interest born of sincere curiosity, Dick had asked many questions of Tom about the Mormon church. The Callahans and Van Brocklins enjoyed a comfortable and friendly relationship, something made easy by the Van Brocklin’s gracious and well-mannered New England courtesy.
Back in the stables following their ride, Tom unsaddled his horse, and Dick put feed in the individual cubicles. Then the two men busied themselves, currying their mounts. As Tom worked the brush, a memory flashed through his mind, and for an instant, he was back in Portlaoise Prison, under the watchful eye of his warders. He glanced at Dick, but the moment of reflection had gone unnoticed by the younger man.
“We’ll probably have potluck for dinner,” Dick announced. “Cassie didn’t have anything particular in mind when we left this afternoon.”
“After eating here a couple of times, I’m confident we’re in good hands,” Tom replied. “Dick, you mentioned that you’d be interested in going to church with Katie and me. How about joining us this coming Sunday, if that fits with your schedule? Katie’s going to be singing.”
“That’s fine with me, Tom,” Dick said, continuing to rub his horse. “Let me just check with Cassie. I’ve been reading in the book you gave me. Quite a family saga, isn’t it?” he said, smiling at Tom. “I mean the brothers really didn’t like each other, it seems. I remember the story of Joseph from Bible School when I was young. If the Lord can choose anyone He wants, I wonder why He simply doesn’t choose the oldest son and avoid all this anger when the younger sibling is chosen to rule over the elder. I’d be angry too, I guess, if I had a younger brother.”
“Me too,” Tom laughed in return. “But then I was second-oldest. There,” he exclaimed, patting his horse on the rump and closing the stall gate, “now I need to wash up a bit before Katie finds a stall for me.”
“You know where the facilities are, Tom. Right around the end of the stable. I’ll be right behind you. I’m starved, whatever we’re having.”
On Friday evening, October 25, Katrina picked up the telephone in their third-floor residential quarters and answered in her ever-improving Spanish.
“Hola?”
“Katrina, it’s Dick Van Brocklin. How are you this evening?”
“I’m fine, Dick. Looking forward to Sunday. Thomas and I are so glad you can come with us.”
“That’s actually what I’m calling about. I’m afraid we’re going to have to cancel. We’re sorry, but I’ve been unavoidably called away. Would it be possible to speak to Tom for a few minutes?”
“Of course, and we’ll miss you, Dick, but perhaps another time. Just a moment, I’ll get Thomas.”
Tom was just climbing out of the bath. Wrapped in a towel, he picked up the receiver in the bedroom.
“Dick, how are you?”
“I’m well, Tom, but I’m afraid Cassie and I will have to postpone going to church with you on Sunday. We’re very sorry.”
“So are we, Dick. Is there anything I can do to help?”
“No, thank you. My father sent a telegram this afternoon. He wants me to fly back to New York in the morning on the Commodore.
Tom, there’s apparently been a dramatic reversal in the stock market, starting yesterday. Father is concerned that it will spread further. Have you heard anything from your bank?”
“No, I haven’t, Dick, but I’ve got my portfolio in a blind trust with Mark Thurston at UTB, and I’ve given him full authority regarding the bank. I wouldn’t expect to hear from him. How serious is it? Katrina and I have been out in the countryside for the past few days, and I’ve not seen the papers.”
“I don’t know, but Dad is never excitable. Having me come home immediately ... well, I’d think it was serious. Would you like me to do anything for you ... if it comes to that?”
Tom was silent for a moment, collecting his thoughts.
“I trust your father’s judgment, Dick. You say you’re leaving tomorrow?”
“The Commodore leaves early in the morning and we’ll overnight in Caracas. I’ll arrive in New York Sunday night, the twenty-seventh.”
“Right. Depending on your father’s decision, please telephone or telegraph Mark Thurston and tell him I’ve approved his following your father’s instructions with my entire portfolio. I’ve maintained full equity position, Dick, but if we crash, it could be disastrous, of course.”
“I’ll contact Mark first thing Monday morning. Oh, and Tom, we still want to come and hear Katrina sing. I’m very sorry about this, sincerely. We’ll come to your church with you after I return.”
“That’s great, Dick. We’ll keep an eye on Cassie and Peggy while you’re gone.”
“Thank you, Tom. ’Bye.”
Tom hung up the receiver and resumed toweling his hair, thoughts of what Dick’s news might mean during a time of his absence from the bank swirling in his head.
“Is something wrong, dear?” Katrina asked as she came back into the bedroom.
“He’s flying home in the morning.”
“A problem with his family?”
“No, his father telegraphed, concerned about the stock market. It seems it’s falling dramatically.”
“Oh?”
“Don’t worry, Katie, Mark will handle things, and I’ve asked Dick to call him if things are actually getting worse. We’ve weathered these crises before.”
“Yes, but Mark hasn’t,” Katrina said, sitting on the bed and folding her hands in her lap.
“I know. As hard as it is to stay out of it, that’s not our job right now. That’s exactly why you had me put the portfolio in a trust with Mark, right?” he said, smiling at her. “We’ll just have to leave it to his good judgment.”
The following Saturday, after spending a full day visiting members and teaching missionary lessons with two of the young elders, Tom and Katrina drove through the streets of Buenos Aires, headed back to the mission home.
“Thomas, do you think Sister Hortensia will get her husband’s permission to be baptized?” Katrina said as they drove into the circular driveway of the mission home.
“He’s a firm figure in the household,” Tom replied, “but I think he’s fair. It’s not easy for him to see his wife go against his wishes and his family traditions.”
Tom parked the car and came around to open Katrina’s door.
“Do you think he will?” Tom asked, smiling at his wife as he opened the front door.
“I hope so, Thomas. She’s so sincere in her belief. Why is it that so many of our new members are women whose husbands show no interest?” she asked.
“Dick called it the Latin macho image. Praying or showing humility goes against generations of breeding. Oh, would you please check the hall table for mail, Katie,” he said as he hung up his coat on the front hall clothes tree.
“Great!” Katrina exclaimed. “A letter from Tommy. That’s the first since we arrived. And a telegram as well.”
Tom came to stand beside his wife and look over her shoulder.
“You read Tommy’s letter, and I’ll deal with the telegram,” he said, reaching for the yellow envelope.
Katrina sat down at a small secretarial desk, took a silver letter opener, and slit the envelope containing Tommy’s letter. Tom tore open the telegram envelope, and each read silently for several moments.
“He’s met a girl!” Katrina exclaimed. “That’s the first time he’s ever written about a woman, Thomas.” When Tom didn’t respond, Katrina looked up at him, standing alongside her chair. “Thomas?” she said, noticing the look of concentration on his face. “What is it?”
“It’s from Mark Thurston.”
“About the stock market?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said quietly.
“Thomas?” she said, frightened by his sudden pallor.
Slowly he read to her.
“Market began dropping Oct 24th–Stop–Van Brocklin advised sell all immediately, Monday, 28th–Stop–Total market collapse, 29th–Stop–Completed sale of your portfolio Nov 2nd–Stop–Total losses 80–85%–Stop–Hoover closed banks this week pending government action–Stop–Will wire more info as received–Stop–Regards, MT.”
“Oh, my goodness. What does that mean, Thomas?”
“It means we’ve lost most of our money, and the bank is in jeopardy of going under,” he said, his eyes scanning the telegram for the third time. “President Hoover is trying to halt the slide it seems, but it looks like it’s too late. If I’ve lost 85 percent of my holdings with full equity, the exchange will have issued a call for margin and the majority of the stockholders will lose everything they own, including those assets they own outright. It appears to be a catastrophe.”
“Do you need to go home?” she asked, her mind reeling with the events.
Tom walked through the foyer and into the parlor, where he dropped heavily into his favorite leather chair in front of the unlit fireplace. Katrina rose and followed him, sitting on the arm of the chair. Tom remained quiet for several moments, and Katrina sat without speaking, her arm draped around her husband. Finally, Tom spoke.
“What did you say Tommy wrote?”
“Excuse me?”
“Tommy’s letter. What was he saying?”
“He’s, uh ...” she stammered, “he’s met a girl.”
“At Stanford?”
“I suppose so. I didn’t finish reading it.”
“That’s wonderful,” Tom continued in a monotone. “It’s about time he met a nice girl.”
“Thomas, what about—”
“Do you know, Katie, when I met you on board the Antioch, I had a total of twelve pounds, nine shillings in my pocket, and no prospects when I reached New York.” He paused, staring above the fireplace at a painting of a Napoleonic cavalry officer on horseback, his saber glistening and the horse’s eyes flashing with terror amidst the cacophony of the battle.
“It’s been a good life, hasn’t it, Katie?”
“I don’t understand, Thomas.”
He patted her hand and abruptly stood from his chair, taking her hand and walking toward the stairs.
“Let’s go upstairs and get ready for bed. I’m really tired, and tomorrow I’m going back to speak with Mr. Hortensia. I just know I can talk some sense into him. He seems a fine man.”
“But, Thomas, what about the bank? Our finances?”
“That’s not my job now, Katie,” he said, absentmindedly, “and there’s not one thing I can do about it. The Lord called us here for a purpose. I’ve got to believe He knows what He’s doing. How about some hot chocolate before we go to bed?”
Katrina stopped halfway up the stairs and watched her husband continue to the top, turn toward the next landing, and continue walking up toward the third-floor residence. Then slowly, she descended the stairs and went into the kitchen. After taking a bottle of milk from the icebox and lighting a burner on the large, gas-fired stove, she poured the milk into a saucepan, added cocoa powder, placed the pan on the flames, and began to slowly stir the milk.
In early December, Seby flew from Salt Lake City to Los Angeles to attend the premiere of Teresa’s latest film, Angry Is the Night. For nearly
two and a half years, they had weathered a stormy marriage, not so much in face-to-face confrontation but rather in the quiet, unspoken knowledge that each was not happy with the decisions of the other. When, on her last visit to the ranch, Teresa had asked Seby how hard he had been affected by the market collapse, he had advised her that his stock holdings had been eradicated, but that he still owned the ranch, several thousand acres in Wyoming and Mexico, and had just completed a large sale of nearly six thousand head of cattle to a processor in Chicago. He was worse off than some, he said, but not as devastated as many others. Tess told him that following her father’s and Tommy’s advice, she had kept her trust fund in less volatile municipal bonds and U.S. Treasury notes. It was diminished, but intact.
“We’ve grown apart these past two years, Tess,” Seby said as they rode toward the theater where the premiere was to be held. “We have to ask each other how much money we have.”
“Are you unhappy, Seby?”
He drove silently for a few moments and then answered.
“My happiness has always been in knowing that you are happy, Tess. Doing what you love to do, enjoying the results—that has always been my joy, however much it requires our separation.”
“And you’re willing to continue that way?” she asked.
“You are my wife. I will support you as best I can.”