The Christmas MEGAPACK ®. Nina Kiriki Hoffman

and so I did.

      “Once there, I asked a teller where I might board the train that ran to the airport. She asked me the direction I was healing for and I told her north.”

      “North.... Well, you headed in the right direction. You mean Northeast Airport, right?”

      “No, no. When I said north, I meant my flight destination. Which she apparently misunderstood. She pointed past the turnstile, telling me to take the stairs marked Frankford. I had misgivings about her advice but my attempt to voice them was met by a look of utter dismissal. The crowd behind me had become quite restless and so I clutched my knapsack and descended those stairs.

      “The train came and the boarders swelled about, entering and exiting it. Not the nicest sort of train, doors snapping open and shut nastily. As I entered, I felt a bump and jostle at my side, and my knapsack was gone, no longer in my hand. The train doors had shut and, studying the floor and the surrounding area, I knew I had not dropped it in the rush. And as the train whistled through to the next stop, an elderly woman seated near me told me she had seen a young man rob me of it as he left the train.”

      I didn’t respond immediately.

      “I do apologize for keeping you here so long. But I am quite lost and this doesn’t resemble an airport.” He sighed. Santa Claus sighed.

      “Well, where is your home?”

      “The North Pole,” he said with an absolutely straight face.

      “The North Pole,” I repeated with a smile that was more than slightly out of kilter.

      “Yes, I go by way of Seattle, Washington with a stopover in Chicago. Or would if my return flight ticket hadn’t been absconded off with...along with my other belongings.”

      He seemed both genuinely depressed and sincere, but just the same....

      I grasped at the opener he’d given me. “What airline were you taking?”

      “Northwest.”

      “That takes you to the North Pole, huh?”

      “Yes, my dear young lady.” He inclined his head in a nod; his eyes twinkled to match the affable smile he wore. “It travels to Alaska and then I have private transportation to carry me to destination’s end.”

      “Well,” I murmured, wariness showing, “I’m certain your flight’s out of International Airport, well past Southwest Philadelphia in the opposite direction.” We stood there, him without a spare nickel, me without a lot of spare cash to help him and wondering if I had any spare brains left in my head. “Perhaps we should find a policeman.”

      Santa shook his head. “He’d tell me to go down to the station house and report the crime. I don’t think it would help.”

      “But they might drive you to the airport.”

      “Not likely. I’d say they have other things to do than provide transportation for lost travelers.”

      “Or direct you to a Traveler’s Aid office.”

      “Now that’s a possibility. I’m sure there’s one at the airport. But I’d rather not report the crime.” He saw my hesitancy. “It’d be bad publicity. What would the children think?”

      An El train had pulled in, emptied, and was sitting, waiting for its return ride back to Center City. I fished in my shoulder-strap handbag and pulled ten dollars from my wallet. A sap is a sap. But, Lord, he looked like Santa Claus. “Here. Take this and take the train back to 15th Street. Don’t bother with the Airport Shuttle. I don’t know its schedule and I’m sure you want to get to the airport and the Traveler’s Aid office as soon as possible. Go to The Bellevue Hotel at Broad and Walnut. I think they have an airport limousine and a nice lobby you can wait in until the limo’s available.”

      “Are you sure they’ll let anyone board it? Not just hotel guests?”

      I wasn’t sure. “I don’t know. But I can’t see why not.”

      He looked down at his red Christmas suit. A news headline flashed across my mind: VAGRANT SANTA ARRESTED AT THE BELLEVUE.

      “You’re right,” I said, wincing. “The desk clerk might not believe your story.”

      “I know I’m imposing,” he said, his voice gentle, “but you’re the only one who’s offered to help me. Do you think you might take me to the airport? I’ll reimburse you for any costs as soon as I get home. You have my word on it!”

      “I...umm...don’t even know your name.”

      He hesitated slightly, then asked: “Do you want to know the truth, young lady?”

      “Of course!”

      “My name, then, is S. Claus. I am also known as Kris Kringle and as Jolly Old St. Nick, although that is largely due to a brother of mine who carries on the tradition in the Netherlands. The S. stands for Santa.”

      “It can’t be,” I mumbled, vowing silently to end all philanthropic ventures in my life from that moment on.

      “You asked for the truth. Many things we think can’t be, well, in fact, are. Look at me,” he commanded. “Go on! Look at me closely...with your heart.”

      I studied his face, his eyes twinkling again. I saw stars in a night sky above new fallen snow on a Christmas Eve. I smelled sweet plum pudding and fresh evergreen boughs. I saw children, now young, now old, of many eras gone and here and yet to come dancing in his eyes. I saw their innocence and faith, as they drifted into sleep, their belief in this totally giving person. “Dear God! You’re really him!”

      He threw his head back at my look of astonishment to laugh heartily enough to satisfy the strictest traditionalist. “Yes, I’m Santa Claus. Oh,” he laughed again, “does me good to laugh! Does me good to know someone has a little faith!”

      I started to deny it, to run back to the sanctity of sanity.

      “You’re not going to lose it now, are you, Carol?” he admonished with a smile.

      “How did you know my name?”

      “I didn’t until we connected...until you believed. After belief, it’s a simple matter. I look into your heart.”

      “But....”

      “Would you escort me to the airport? I would be so grateful. And I’ll answer any questions you have while we journey back to 15th Street.”

      How a mythological figure could spring to life as I came home from work during the Christmas season was a mystery to me. But a writer’s mind is always open, willing to test the water if a mystery might be solved, or at least have light shed upon it. I pulled a small writing pad and pen out of my handbag. “All right, Santa. There’ve been a few things I always wanted to ask you. It’s getting cold and this train’s leaving soon. Let’s get on.”

      As we seated ourselves, the doors of the train slid together, shutting. It chugalugged back to Center City.

      “I have a lot of questions,” I began.

      “Fine. But must we use that pen and paper? Couldn’t you keep it up here?” He tapped his forehead. “It’s so formal, I’d be watching my every word!”

      “It’s just for notes. Memory joggers.”

      He stayed silent.

      I put away the pen and paper, grinning.

      “Thank you. First question?”

      “First question. If you’re Santa Claus, how come people buy gifts?”

      “Now, Carol.” A patient smile developed on his lips.

      “What’s my last name?” I asked abruptly.

      “Excuse me?” he blinked.

      “My last name. You knew my first. What’s my last name?”