The Callahans: The Complete Series

by Gordon Ryan

  The trip to Marin County to meet her parents presented no particular challenge to Tommy. Full of youth and confidence, he crossed San Francisco Bay arm in arm with his lady love, anticipating a warm reception from the kind, caring, and always gracious Anthony Prisman that Susan had so lovingly described.

  The Prisman estate was much as Susan’s photo album had depicted—a Spanish-style adobe castle, replete with archways and with formal gardens surrounding the main house. From the expansive backyard, the view carried across the bay to Alcatraz and the city of San Francisco beyond.

  As Susan had explained, her father had lost well over half of his fortune in the great crash, yet he had maintained a large share of the American-Japanese ocean freight market. His fleet of freighters and tankers had survived the financial disaster mostly as a result of their foreign flag status, and his quick manipulation of stock holdings from U.S. to foreign exchanges had preserved his wealth. As the effects of the collapse of the New York Stock Exchange rippled around the globe, Anthony Prisman had simply transferred title to his ships to several foreign government officials, mostly African, with whom he had often shared “special knowledge” about market conditions. In the midst of the furor, Prisman Enterprises was back in business and making money faster than it had prior to the crash.

  Dinner was as formal as Susan had advised Tommy to expect. Several servants hovered around the table, instantly retrieving plates, cups, and glasses as the family members completed each course of the meal. Mrs. Prisman was a woman Tommy instantly took to be a socialite of the first order. Completely detached from the conversation during dinner, she excused herself immediately following the final course. Susan also rose and with a quick wink toward Tommy, followed her mother out of the dining room.

  “Shall we have coffee in the library?” Anthony Prisman said, rising and raising a finger toward one of the servants.

  Tommy stood and followed as the elder Prisman led the way through the corridor into a room filled, quite literally floor to ceiling, with hundreds of books of all types.

  “Have a seat, Mr. Callahan. Care for a cigar?” he asked, raising the lid on a humidor and looking briefly at Tommy for a response.

  “No, thank you, sir. Just coffee will do fine.”

  Prisman inserted his cigar into a small, sterling silver cutter and removed the end, then twirled it between his fingers, striking a match and taking a few moments to be sure it was well lit before resuming.

  “It was good of you to bring Susan home for the weekend. We haven’t gotten to see much of her since she enrolled at Stanford. Do you know my daughter well?”

  “Well, sir, we’ve been enrolled in the same graduate economics program for nearly two years, and I’ve worked with her as one of Professor Wallington’s teaching assistants, but we’ve actually only recently spent much time together. She’s a wonderful woman, sir. I’m sure you and Mrs. Prisman are very proud of her.”

  “Indeed,” Prisman said, blowing a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. “And what are your plans after graduation? Back to the army?”

  “The marines, sir. I’m a captain in the Marine Corps.”

  “Yes, yes, of course. And you’ll return to that, uh, occupation?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ve been assigned to Marine Corps headquarters in Washington, D.C. I’ll most likely be there several years. Mr. Prisman, I’d like to talk to you about Susan, if I might, for a moment.”

  Prisman looked up from admiring his cigar and glanced toward Tommy.

  “About Susan? What do you mean?”

  “Sir, I don’t know what Sue has told you about us, but we have spent considerable time together lately, and, frankly, sir, I’ve come to love your daughter very much. I believe the feeling is mutual. With your permission, sir, I would like to speak to her about marriage, but I felt it important to discuss the issue with you first.”

  Tommy began to feel a bit uncomfortable as the look on Prisman’s face turned to what could only be described as shock.

  “I gather, sir, that she has not addressed the subject with you,” Tommy said.

  “Absolutely not,” Prisman replied, rising from his chair and moving to stand by a large globe of the world. “I’m afraid that’s not possible, young man. I’m surprised you would raise the subject.”

  “Sir?”

  “You can see, Mr. Callahan,” he said, pointing around the room with his cigar, “that my daughter is used to the finer things in life. Now, I can admire your, uh, pluck, son, but you and my daughter come from two very different worlds.”

  “I still don’t understand. We haven’t discussed my background very much, I’ll agree, but I’m certain we can find common ground for a good marriage, sir. I mean—”

  “I know you mean well, young man, but it is out of the question. Absolutely impossible.”

  “Sir, with no disrespect, I think Susan should have something to say about that decision.”

  Prisman’s face turned darker and a scowl crossed his eyes. He fairly glared at Tommy.

  “Let me be blunt, Callahan. My daughter has had the best of everything in life—education, privileges, European vacations. All the things money can provide. Now from what little I do know about you, I don’t think you can offer her that kind of life.”

  “Sir, I think my assets are perhaps greater than you have been led to believe.”

  “Yes, yes, I know. You’ll have a doctorate and probably obtain a fine professorship at some small college, but that ­isn’t what I’m talking about.” Prisman took a deep breath and exhaled loudly, an exasperated look on his face.

  “Mr. Callahan, here it is in a nutshell: ­you’re a soldier, a poorly paid soldier at that. The military is sending you to Stanford, paying your costs and all, and you’ve taken a teaching assistant’s position to put a few bucks in your pocket. Your father, from what I understand, is a dirt poor missionary looking after the needs of peasants somewhere in a South American jungle. Now that’s all fine and good. The world needs such people, but from what you have seen here, surely you can understand that such a life would not suit my daughter.”

  Tommy stood from his chair, his own blood beginning to rise. His determination to keep his family status from his classmates and even from Susan Prisman had not changed when he began to develop feelings for her. He could see that the description of his family that Susan had provided to her parents did not present a flattering picture.

  “­Wouldn’t that be up to Susan, Mr. Prisman?” Tommy asked, his voice a bit more rigid.

  “No, it would not.”

  “I don’t agree, sir. Not meaning to be disrespectful, I came here with the intention of obtaining your permission to speak with your daughter about marriage, and that is exactly what I intend to do, with or without your permission.”

  “Tell me, Mr. Callahan, is Susan aware of your feelings or this discussion?”

  “No, sir, I thought it proper to discuss it with you first.”

  “And you suppose she feels the same way about you, do you?”

  “I believe so, sir.”

  Prisman stared at Tommy for a few moments. When he spoke again, his voice was icy. “­You’re in way over your head, Mr. Callahan. If you don’t understand that now, you will soon.”

  With that, the older man turned his attention to the ash on his cigar, essentially dismissing Tommy who stood across the desk from the arrogant man, struggling to control his anger. For a moment, Tommy considered telling Susan’s father that Prisman wasn’t the only wealthy man in the room, but pride prevented him from doing so. If he wasn’t a worthy suitor on his merits, he for sure wasn’t about to plead his case on any other basis. Surely, Susan would see things differently than her father.

  After a time, Mr. Prisman said, “I assume you’ll be leaving in the morning, Mr. Callahan, but of course ­you’re welcome to stay the night.”

  A servant was summoned to the study, and Tommy was shown to his room, where he spent the rest of the evening alone, feeling like a whipped pup and won
dering why Susan didn’t come to see how the meeting went.

  When he awoke in the morning, Tommy found an envelope that had been slipped under the door during the night. It was a note from Susan, thanking him for bringing her home and advising him that she ­wouldn’t be returning with him to the campus. Twenty minutes later, embarrassed and frustrated, Tommy loaded his luggage into his roadster, and after standing for a moment, looking up at the blank windows in the mansion, drove away from the estate to the ferry terminal in Sausalito.

  Susan didn’t return to Stanford for the remainder of the term. She mailed a formal note to Tommy explaining that she never meant to harm him, that she had no idea that he had been so serious about their relationship. He ­didn’t respond.

  In the final months of the year at Stanford, Tommy threw himself into completing his doctoral dissertation, “Sherman’s Rampage through Georgia: Economic Warfare or Punitive Assault?” In May 1931, he completed the requirements for his doctorate three weeks early, and, foregoing the traditional graduation ceremonies, bid farewell to Professor Wallington, whom he had come to admire. He left Palo Alto the following morning. He drove alone over the Sierra Nevada Mountains and across the desert toward Utah, driving through the night. After making excuses to Seby and Teresa about not staying longer than one night in Draper, Captain Thomas Callahan commenced the long drive across the country toward Washington, D.C., and his new assignment.

  The first of the next generation of Strombergs appeared early on a crisp winter morning with fresh snow blanketing the ground around the ranch house in Draper. Jessica Marie Stromberg, born February 13, 1931, quickly became the special treasure of her admiring father, with Teresa being allowed only to feed, bathe, change, and cuddle the infant when baby Jessie was not otherwise occupied with her father. Teresa watched with mild amusement as Jessie, tiny as she was, proceeded to captivate her father. Teresa voiced no complaint and, in fact, verbally acknowledged to her husband—tongue-in-cheek, of course—that his devoted parental involvement was a wonderful gift and would allow her time to return to Hollywood and star in a few more movies.

  Instead, Teresa stayed at the ranch in Draper and produced, in 1932, Sebastian Cardenas Stromberg III, and was well into her third pregnancy, when, in February 1933, President and Sister Callahan returned to Salt Lake City from their mission in Buenos Aires. While determining where they would eventually live, the Callahans stayed for several weeks at the Stromberg ranch, where to Seby’s dismay, he was, by his own mi casa es su casa house rule, required to turn over all cuddling and cooing chores for both children to the doting grandparents.

  The first time Tom drove past the building that formerly housed Utah Trust Bank, he pulled his car to the side of the street and sat watching as people entered and left the law firm of Watson, Hodgekiss, Macklin, and Fritz. While in the mission field, he had disciplined himself not to think about financial concerns. But since his release, his losses—simply numbers on a sheet—had caused him moments of sadness that a way of life had gone. He was grateful, though, to have retained the wherewithal to provide for his family. In the midst of the deepening, worldwide economic depression, he was not without resources. Now, sitting in front of the new occupant’s law firm, he was forced to concede that Utah Trust Bank was yet another memory. He reminded himself that he had retired and that the warmth and beauty of Hawaii beckoned.

  During the final months of their mission, Tom had begun to think about their moving to Hawaii, but in keeping with his resolve to concentrate on his work, he had not spoken of it to Katrina. However, once they were released, he felt at liberty to broach the subject. He did so one evening during the second week of their stay at the ranch.

  “More snow tonight,” Tom said, reading to her from the newspaper as they sat in the living room in Draper. Seby had enlarged the original ranch house, building on a new wing, complete with a massive stone fireplace, in which a fire now roared, spreading its warmth into the rustic but comfortable room. Katrina had convinced Seby to take Teresa out for the evening. It was a transparent ploy calculated to give Katrina exclusive access to the grandchildren, and Jessie, who had just celebrated her second birthday, was playing on a rug on the floor in front of the fire, but under the watchful care of both grandparents. Little Seby, not yet one, was sleeping in a crib in the corner of the room.

  “Always ice and snow. I guess we’ll miss the mild winters in Argentina,” Katrina said.

  “­They’re a lot milder in Hawaii,” Tom said, grinning broadly at her.

  She lowered the Book of Mormon she had been reading into her lap and looked over at him, peering over the top of her reading glasses.

  “We just got here, Thomas.”

  “I’m just saying, we need to consider what we intend to do. We can’t stay at the ranch indefinitely. I did hear that Moses Vanderberg has taken seriously ill. Mary may want to sell Valhalla again.”

  “Really?” she said.

  “I still think we should go to Hawaii, Katie. The plans we made when we were there are still valid. It’s halfway, almost, between here and New Zealand and PJ’s kids ...”

  “I know, I know, it’s a good plan and certainly better weather for two old goats who are otherwise going to be sitting in front of a fire four months out of the year.”

  “Just four months?”

  “Well, six then,” she said, laughing at her husband. “But look at her, Thomas. How could we leave little Jessie?”

  At the sound of her name, Jessie looked up from her toys and toddled toward Tom. Raising her arms, she begged to climb up on his lap.

  “Katie, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you trained this kid to tug at her grandpa’s heart,” he laughed, reaching for the little girl and lifting her high above his head, causing her to squeal with delight.

  “Shhh, the two of you. Do you want to wake Sebastian, again?”

  “We ­wouldn’t want to wake little Seby, would we, sweetie?” he cooed to Jessie. “Then we’d have to give him one of the cookies you and grandpa are going to have right now.”

  “Thomas, it’s almost bedtime,” Katrina complained, halfheartedly.

  Tom stood and boosted little Jessie over his head and onto his shoulders.

  “Katie, we need to consider this seriously. PJ was thrilled about the prospects of our being in Hawaii, you know that. He felt he could bring his family for a visit every two years or so, and if we were there, we could go down to New Zealand the in-between year. What can I say? It’s time to make that decision. And you can’t ask Tess her opinion. That’s not fair to PJ,” he said, raising and lowering his shoulders several inches, keeping Jessie in squeals.

  “I’ll pray about it. And you do the same. How’s that?” she smiled.

  “Cookie, Gwampa,” Jessie said, putting her little hands over his eyes.

  “Okay, big girl. Cookies it is. How about you, Grandma?”

  “No, thank you. I’ve had sufficient for tonight. And just a little bit for Jessie. It really is close to bedtime. And after the children are in bed, President Roosevelt is coming on with tonight’s fireside chat.”

  “No bed, Gwamma. Wead me a stowy.”

  “I can do that, sweetheart.”

  Thirty minutes later, Jessie was sound asleep in her room, and Tom was dozing in his chair while Katrina continued to read her scriptures. She glanced at the clock on the mantel and called out softly to Tom who opened his eyes slowly.

  “It’s time for the president,” she said.

  Tom nodded and rose to turn on the radio, waiting while it warmed up and the static cleared. He adjusted the dials as Seby had shown him and just as he found the right station, the front door opened and Teresa and Seby entered.

  “The president is about to talk to us,” Katrina said, smiling at the couple.

  They hung up their overcoats and came over to stand by the fireplace, warming themselves in front of the flames.

  In a crackly voice, interrupted by occasional bursts of static, President Franklin Delano
Roosevelt quickly warmed to his subject. The federal and state governments had declared bank holidays, the nation’s unemployed were destitute, and Americans everywhere were looking for solutions to the great problems that beset the country. “But, my friends,” the president said, “the only thing we have to fear, is fear itself.”

  After the president’s address, the foursome talked for several minutes about how national conditions were affecting Utah and Salt Lake City. Agreeing among themselves that it was a long-range problem, which most individual Americans could not solve, they retired to their respective bedrooms.

  As had become his habit long before his mission, Tom arose before dawn. He stepped into his slippers and pulled on his robe, then descended the stairs to Seby and Teresa’s living room. Embers from the previous night’s fire were still glowing in the hearth, and, adding some kindling, Tom quickly fanned the coals into a flame. As it took hold, he added a couple of logs and watched with satisfaction as the fire grew, casting its glow and warmth into the room.

  Tom padded quietly through the house into the kitchen, where he cut some bread and propped the slices up against the electric toaster. While waiting to turn the bread, he turned the radio on and adjusted the volume down, so as to not disturb the children and the rest of the family. KSL Radio was reporting that it had been the coldest night of the winter and that two men had been found frozen to death in a hobo camp on the west side of Salt Lake City.

  Read by a newscaster, the report of the two deaths was delivered in an impersonal and matter-of-fact tone. In these hard economic times, such occurrences were taking place with some frequency and rarely merited much more than a perfunctory statement on the radio or a brief mention in the back pages of the newspaper.