The Christmas Megapack Page 2

  You don’t care for this crew as much as you did for the lone backwoods fellow last year who, when you asked him when the trees had been cut, he answered

  “Oh, all ’bout the same time.”

  “But when were they cut?” you rephrased, thinking he misunderstood you.

  “Well, all ’bout the same day,” he muttered.

  You had paused, and felt an amused smile break over your lips, which you tried to hide in order not to make him feel belittled.

  “So,” you pressed him, “what date were they cut?”

  “Um...Townsgimn’,” he mumbled.

  “Uh, what was that?”

  “Oh, ’bout, ahemmmm...Thanksgivin’,” he restated as he dropped his head and turned away.

  Anyway, this year you’ve looked thoroughly over their first lot, and the trees all seemed to be dying. You’ve ambled over to their other lot, and the trees all seemed to be dying. But you roam around in that one for an extended amount of time, and that’s where you nearly buy the portable ant bed. You’re not hungry, but you’re losing energy nonetheless, so, in desperation, you wander back over to the first lot—the one you left because, for a second there, you got to where you couldn’t see the trees for the forest. You’re back now, and these beauties have either just been placed there in your absence, or are in far better condition than the graveyard you’ve just exited. You spy one tree resting in a large puddle of water; a real plus! If not for the large hole on its one side, the canary-yellow needles and the vibrant colony of ants nesting in its limbs, you’d take it.

  Bewildered, you turn around a few times. Hey! You almost immediately spy one you like! It’s a striking, rotund seven-footer. You know because you’ve brought along your trusty tape measure, which the guy on the floor, so to speak, runs over and holds at the apex while you drag it down to the foot. Yep, that’s the one. It’s dark green, lush, straight and, well, ant-free. You know this by kicking the trunk very hard with your toe several times, and then getting down on your hands and knees to watch for the terrible little creatures, which don’t appear. You’ll take it!

  You’re proud of yourself again this year. You’ve once more entered the hallowed Halls of Americana and purchased yet another beauty of a Tree. But not only that, you’ve done it with a sure-fired savvy and a quick eye for shysters who’ll unload any tree on the lot off on you. Any tree at all.

  * * * *

  “Good mornin’! Pick any tree at all, sir! Two full lots. Hey! Here’s a nice one right ch’here! Prettiest one we got!”

  THE GIFT, by Marilyn “Mattie” Brahen

  I have been an unofficial elf most of my life, helping people quietly whenever they came across my path. I also hope to help others...somehow...through my writing, but on that early evening one December, my elven gifts were the ones apparently being called on.

  Initially I had no more intention to intervene than anyone else on the train platform. He stood near the exit steps of the elevated train in the Frankford section of Northeast Philadelphia. He had the prerequisite ruddy jowls, cascading white curly hair reaching to his shoulders and covering his lower face and chest in a sumptuous beard. His Santa suit looked authentic, and I smiled as he got off the El two cars down from mine with other rush hour travelers.

  I headed for the exit still smiling when the jolly old geezer approached one passenger then another as they hurried past, avoiding him as he called out: “Excuse me? Could you help me?”

  Flurries of booted feet, hunched overcoats and tightly clutched handbags. He delayed a man in a long gray woolen coat.

  “Excuse me, sir? Won’t you please help me?”

  The man laughed, heading down exit steps, throwing “Go home, Pops. You’re drunk!” over his shoulder.

  The old fellow stood on the platform, perplexed and appearing indignant at the man’s remark. People jostled by him. He held up his arms in a plea. “Please. I’m trying to get home. Won’t somebody help me?”

  I watched the faces of the other travelers. Some were averted, some smiled, others grinned wildly. 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 priva
te 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?”

  He studied me for a minute. “Matthews. Carol Ann Matthews. And you always wanted a piano. Not from me; from your parents. You were too old to believe in me...at least that’s what they told you.”

  My mouth hung open. “I still haven’t gotten one.”

  He shrugged and gestured with his hands expansively. “I’m afraid you’re on your own for this year, dear. My work quota’s finished.”

  “Oh.”

  “Maybe next year.” He smiled again. His eyes were placid pools. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  The child in me, long buried, believed him. “Oh, well. If you could....”

  “I’ll give it my best effort. Now, you had questions?”

  “Yes. I’ll come back to that other one later. First off, what are you doing here in your Santa Claus suit when it’s not Christmas Eve? Why didn’t you take your sleigh and reindeer? Aren’t you supposed to be a master of invisibility and all that?”

  He held up his hand to stop the torrent. “First off, as you put it, I had the bad sense to schedule a business trip on the day Mrs. Claus does her laundry. When I looked for my good travel suit, I found it was at the cleaners and wouldn’t be done until Tuesday. My other business suit had a rip in the seam...too many cookies, I’m afraid. Mrs. Claus hadn’t had a chance to repair it, what with supervising the elves and feeding their little faces.” He saw my incredulous look. “Yes, Carol. There are elves.”

  “Elves?” I held my jaw tightly. It threatened to expand.

  “Little people with slightly pointed ears, if you prefer,” he conciliated.

  “Midgets?”

  “Good Lord, no! They’re not human. At least not Homo Sapiens. They’re another species and not entirely visible by choice which accounts for your and society’s amazement.”

  “Okay,” I conceded. “So there really are elves...somewhere. Go back to your story. Your suit was at the cleaners....”

  “Yes, my suit was at the cleaners and I had a trip scheduled to Philadelphia to buy a very rare book. A very special person had need of a volume of stories published in 1890. Out of print now. I had to get an original: it only had one printing.”

  “A kid wanted an old book for Christmas?”

  “It wasn’t for a child. It was for an adult.”

  “An adult. And you were going to sneak in and tuck it under his tree.”

  “Not at all. I was going to situate it in the right spot for his friend to buy it for him for the holidays.”

  “Huh?”

  “My business operations aren’t just confined to toy-making and sleigh rides once a year with magic reindeer.”

  “Oh. Business outlets.”

  “In a manner of speaking. Have you ever wondered how you managed to find the right gift for the right someone almost right away? A gift almost custom-made and alway
s for someone deserving?”

  “Yes...it’s only the people I have to buy for that I have a hard time finding things. If it’s someone I love, it almost pops into my hands.”

  “There you are. Mind you, don’t spread this around. It’s company information.”

  “Not a word. Go on, please.”

  “Thank you. Well, despite Mrs. Claus’s misgivings, I decided to wear my Christmas suit, it being only a week or two from the holiday. There’d be many mock Santas on the streets, spreading the spirit of the season. For any questioners, I’d say I was going to or from a charity benefit. This suit brought a lot of smiles on the flight up. In fact, I was quite a hit with two children, Lucy and Daniel. Their parents have already received their presents and for the right price.”

  “You gave them a discounted price?”

  “Someone has to keep inflation out of the toy market, and this year it’s been a doozy!” He let out a guffaw.

  A couple of smiles lit up the faces of the passengers in our car. We whistled underground to the 2nd Street stop.

  A silence descended on us, then I said, “So you came to Philly, bought your book, and the rest is history.”

  “That about wraps it up.”

  “I’ll help you,” I promised.

  “Thank you, Carol.” He watched the doors slam shut at 2nd Street. “We’re nearly there. Do you have any other questions?”

  “Do you really go down chimneys and do reindeer really fly?”

  “Now those are trade secrets.”

  “Magic.”

  “Magic; a bit of the myth, the mystique. But I will tell you—the real magic lives inside you.” He leaned closer, emphatically. “Where you arrive, how you travel, it’s really irrelevant. It’s what you have to give when you get there that counts.”