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.”
I nodded.
“Any other questions?”
“How old are you?” It popped out.
His eyes lit again with that twinkle; his ruddy mouth stretched into an impossible grin. “A rather rude question for anyone but Santa Claus, eh?”
“Oh...I’m sorry.”
“No, no, no. It’s quite all right.” He thought of an answer, then gave it. “I’m old enough that you’re all, each and every one of you, my special children.”
We were at 13th Street.
“I have no further questions, your honor.”
He reached over to pat my hand. “You’re a good girl.”
“I try.” The train entered 15th Street. “This is our stop.”
We got off and started toward the exit stairs. I glanced at the eastbound platform, amazed that just one hour ago I had left from there to go home from my workaday world. “Santa, wait.” I strained my eyes. Across the tracks, what looked like a bag lay half-hidden under the opposite stairway. “What color was your knapsack?”
“Blue. Why?”
I pointed.
“Yes, I do believe that’s it!”
“Come on. We can go through the overpass and get it.”
I scurried up the stairs ahead of him, went through the passageway, and down the other side to retrieve the satchel for him.
It was missing the usual cash and credit cards but the book and his flight ticket were inside.
“What luck!” he said as I touched the book—of nineteenth-century French short stories—reverently, then checked his flight ticket.
“Look. Your flight’s at eight o’clock. It’s only 6:30. We can make it.”
“If the airport limousine leaves on time.”
“Come on,” I said and led him out to the street and across it to an automatic bank teller. I punched in a withdrawal of $40.00.
“I believe that’s your budget money,” he said.
“I trust you.” He said nothing, but smiled gratefully. “Come on, let’s get a cab. This is your busy season, isn’t it?”
“Absolutely.”
A United Cab was parked in front of the Bellevue, its cabbie glad to have an airport fare. “Where ya goin’, Santa? The North Pole?” he chuckled.
“Close enough,” Santa answered with the customary wink.
The cab fare came to $25.00 with our generous tip. At the airport, Santa confirmed his flight at the Northwest desk and, with their help, made some phone calls about the missing credit cards. On one of those calls, a woman’s voice chided him sharply. Mrs. Claus, I presume.
When his flight was called, we said good-bye in the departure area.
We shared a big hug, at first not speaking.
“I have your address. I’ll reimburse you for the cab fare, Carol. Now you be careful going home.”
“I will, Santa. Santa?”
“Yes?”
“Do you know what I want for Christmas?” My voice, I knew, sounded plaintive.
“Yes,” he answered, “and you’re going to get it.”
A sigh escaped, from the depths where dreams wait. “I love you, Santa.”
“I love you, too. And thank you for helping me. You know, that’s the greatest gift you can give.”
“Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas, Carol.”
He turned to go. I watched him, a quiet man in a red suit with white fur trim, carrying a blue knapsack. As he entered the runway tunnel to his flight, he smiled and waved. I waved back.
I wondered what Santa thought I wanted for Christmas. When I’d asked him, I hadn’t a blessed idea myself. Nothing material at least.
One week later, an envelope with no return address but postmarked “Anchorage, AK” and a package from California arrived in the mail. The package was from a well-known writer whom I admired and had written to a few weeks back, feeling discouraged and asking his advice. His reply lifted me back on my feet. I read his encouragement, feeling his presence, believing, caring. With the letter, he had sent a copy of his favorite book on writing. “Read it ten times,” he wrote. “It should help you with some of your problems.”
The envelope from Anchorage contained a Christmas card depicting Santa stuck inside a chimney, surrounded by puzzled reindeer.
I opened it to find a check for $25.00 from S. Claus. The printed text inside read: “I’m giving up cookies after Christmas....” Under it, in handwritten script, he had written: “Thank you, Carol, and have a joyous Christmas. Santa.”
I framed the letter from my favorite author, put the card in my keepsake box, gave the book its first reading, and deposited the check.
I know there may be some diehard out there, demanding proof of the plum pudding.
All I can tell you as an unofficial elf is that I believe in Santa, in myself, and have hope for the future.
And that the check didn’t bounce.
SANTA’S STOLEN SACK, by S. Omar Barker
There was no lack of Christmas trees up Bobcat Gulch. Weeks before it was time for them, the four wistful-eyed youngsters in Cuth Jecklin’s cabin had been flattening their noses against the little square windowpanes to look at them, arrayed in gorgeous stiffness over on the steep, snowy slope opposite. Silvery-white firs, long-limbered red firs, bristly spruces, all of them gleaming with fantastic decorations of snow, all of them dreamlike in their crystal perfection, all of them beautiful to look at; but not one among them all with a bag of candy on it, nor a string of popcorn, nor peanuts, nor apples,
