The Christmas MEGAPACK ®. Nina Kiriki Hoffman

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СКАЧАТЬ But they all drifted down the stairs.

      I found I couldn’t desert him. It may be a blessing or it may be stupidity, but I believe in magic. In magic in a material world.

      I couldn’t rid myself of the impish thought that this was Santa Claus. Saint Nicholas. Kris Kringle. That oversized employer of elves and reindeer. Ho, Ho, Ho!

      My elfish bent asserted itself. Reason flew off into the cold December sky.

      “I’ll help you,” I called.

      He turned his head and looked at me as if he recognized me, then walked over with a polite stately nod. “I thank you, young lady.”

      “You’re welcome. What’s the problem?”

      “The problem, yes.” He resumed nodding in the droll manner of one who’s caused his own precarious situation. “Well, I seem to have been given some very wrong directions.” He held up one white-gloved hand, first finger extended. “That’s the first problem.”

      “Well, we can try to get you directions to wherever you’re heading. But what else is wrong?”

      A blush heightened his already rouge-tinged cheeks and forehead. “I’m afraid I’m temporarily embarrassed.”

      “Huh?”

      “I’ve been robbed.”

      “That’s terrible,” I commiserated cautiously. “Did you tell a policeman?”

      “Well, I’m afraid I hadn’t realized it until....” He collected his thoughts. “You see, I was visiting Philadelphia, and having conducted my business here sought out a cab to drive me to the airport. But none of your cabs would stop.” He shook his head. “Must be the suit. Doesn’t inspire folk the way it used to, at least not before Christmas on a busy city street.

      “I asked a passing gentleman how I might get to the airport and he directed me to your airport shuttle, an underground train that travels there. He instructed me to go to the subway at 15th and Market Sts 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 СКАЧАТЬ