He let his mind drift out of his joyish surroundings, into another fond daydream of Season’s Greetings at the North Pole—the happy bustle of activity, the smiling faces, the large, jolly figure of Santa moving among the hard-working elves, making certain that everything was just as it ought to be, and everyone was content.
If he had realized what a changed and disillusioned person Santa Claus had become, if he had known one tenth of the real grief he had caused Santa and his friends, Patch would have been prostrate with grief himself. He had never meant to hurt anybody; he was just too elf-centered to consider the consequences of his actions. He only saw things from the perspective of his own wounded pride . . . and he only wanted, achingly, to go home.
Abruptly the sound of a loud alarm buzzer echoed through the factory, jarring Patch back into the present. The robot machines ground to a halt before him as the monitor on a critical gauge measured EMPTY.
Patch peered at the board before him. “Whoops,” he murmured. “Time to put more stuff in the hopper.” The sooner he finished this project, the sooner he could start homeward. He got up from the control board and hurried to a nearby door, glad for even an excuse to stretch his legs. He opened the door and started down a long, dark flight of echoing metal stairs into the factory subbasement.
At last he reached a dank, black, empty room littered with old machine parts and junk—a room he was sure no one besides himself had visited for years. Looking cautiously over his shoulder, he entered the room and walked to a battered metal file cabinet. He peered around him one more time to make certain that he was alone, not sure why he had become so suspicious since living among humans, but very certain somehow that it was the right way to act. Finally he pulled open a squeaking drawer.
The night-dark room was suddenly suffused with a sunlight glow, as the open drawer revealed the sack of magic grain lying inside it. Carefully Patch climbed up onto a box and scooped out a handful of stardust—which instantly, magically replaced itself, leaving the bag as full as ever. Patch climbed down again, closing the drawer securely, until there was not the faintest sparkle showing. Then he started back up the stairs with his precious handful of magic.
Beyond the factory walls a cold, hard winter rain was drenching New York. Joe scurried along the darkened street toward his alley, soaked to the skin in spite of his best efforts at keeping dry.
He stopped beneath the light at the alley entrance and glanced across the street toward Cornelia’s townhouse, wiping his runny nose on his sodden sleeve. He looked back into the dark, icy alley where he had planned to spend the night, and then across the street at Cornelia’s townhouse again. He was shivering so hard that his teeth rattled. He bit his lip, then started out across the street and disappeared behind the tall, white stone house.
Joe squeezed between the bars of the high, padlocked wrought-iron gate in the back fence, a trick that had become more difficult since he had been getting fed more regularly. He crept across the back yard and around to the side of the building. Picking up a pebble, he took careful aim and tossed it against an upper window.
A moment later a lamp came on inside the room, which was Cornelia’s bedroom. She came to the window, pushed it open, and leaned out, her flannel pajama sleeves whipping in the cold wind.
“Hi,” Joe said, his nonchalant pose ruined by a loud, sudden sneeze.
“Hi!” Cornelia said happily. “Oh! You’re soaked to the skin!” Her face filled with concern as she saw him shivering and sneezing.
“It’s rainin’,” Joe said, pointing out the obvious. He sneezed again.
“Come up, quick,” Cornelia whispered loudly, beckoning with an outstretched hand.
Startled by the invitation, but hoping for it all along, Joe didn’t wait to be asked twice. Taking in the lay of the building’s wall, he ran to the corner of the house and shinnied up the drainpipe, then darted across a ledge to Cornelia’s window as sure-footedly as a cat. He climbed in over the sill, to stand wonderingly in her actual room, like a very young Romeo inside Juliet’s house at last.
Cornelia grinned broadly, thrilled to the core by their daring conspiracy and the excitement of the moment. “Don’t worry about Miss Tucker,” she said. “She’s asleep in her room and nothing wakes her.” She lowered her voice, whispering confidentially, “I think she likes brandy.”
Joe sneezed again, and Cornelia broke off, her excitement suddenly changing back to worry. “You’ve caught a cold!” She moved to Joe’s side and felt his forehead with her hand, as she remembered her mother doing for her, so long ago. “You’re burning up!” she said. She looked at him with fresh concern shining in her eyes, feeling a sudden fierce desire to protect and care for this boy who had no one else in the world.
“I’ll be awright,” Joe said with unconvincing bravado. He coughed loudly to cover his embarrassment, but happiness filled him as the look of concern deepened in her large brown eyes. Secretly he craved the warmth and tenderness that had been missing from his life for so long, although he would never bring himself to admit it.
“You stay out there and you’ll be dead is what you’ll be,” Cornelia said adamantly, gesturing at the cold, rainy night beyond her window. “You’re staying here.”
“I’m what?” Joe said in disbelief.
Cornelia’s eyes shone with fresh excitement and sudden inspiration. The words burst out of her in a rush. “There’s an empty room in the basement near the furnace room. Nobody ever goes down there. I’ll fix you a place to sleep on my old rubber raft from the summer, and this house has tons of blankets and pillows—” She broke off, breathless, searching his uncertain face. “Oh, please, Joe, just till you get better.”
He did not answer for a moment, a little daunted by the prospect of hiding in someone’s home, and so touched by Cornelia’s concern that he was afraid to speak, afraid of giving too much away. But to be warm and dry and cared for would be so nice . . . At last, looking down at his worn-out sneakers, he mumbled, “Well, okay, but just till I shake this—” Another huge sneeze interrupted him.
Cornelia turned away to her bureau, beaming and efficient. She began to rummage through the drawers, pulling out and rejecting pieces of clothing as she said, “I’m going to go down and fix up your room, and I’ll bring you a glass of o.j. and an aspirin—” She tossed two pieces of clothing at him. “Here. Get out of those wet clothes and put these on.”
Joe caught the clothes by reflex, looking down at them with a scowl. “Girl’s clothes?” he said, indignant and mortally offended.
“They’re unisex,” Cornelia said firmly, ignoring his display of peevish male chauvinism. “Now hurry up.”
She bustled out of the room with an armful of blankets, leaving him privacy in which to change. Joe held the clothes she had given him at arm’s length, eyeing them suspiciously. One garment was a pair of gray sweat pants, the other a T-shirt with MISS BRILEY’S SCHOOL FOR GIRLS stenciled across its chest. Unisex, huh? Joe frowned again and turned the shirt inside out.
As the days passed, Santa Claus’s depression seemed to grow worse with each successive day. Day after day he sat unmoving in his chair before the fire, staring into space. He had not set foot outside of his house to monitor the progress of the toymaking, a duty and a pleasure that had formerly kept him happily occupied for most of every day.
Anya and the elves tried every imaginable thing that they could think of to rouse and interest him, but nothing succeeded. Anya cooked his favorite foods for him at each meal, only to see them left nearly untouched on the table. She and Dooley told him stories, jokes, news of the outside world (carefully excluding anything they heard about B.Z. Toys), trying to pique his interest, to no avail.
Puffy faithfully brought him the blueprints and mock-ups for every new toy, only to receive the same listless response that Anya and Dooley did.
“It’s . . . it’s a . . . new doll,” Puffy said hesitantly, holding out his latest design—the cuddliest, most irresistible baby doll he had ever created.
Anya and the others watched silently from the doorway, waiting anxiously to see if this time they had found the thing that could raise Santa’s spirits.
“A doll,” Santa said dully, with hardly even a glance at the new toy.
“Children ought to like it,” Puffy suggested, his voice hopeful and bright.
“Does it fly?” Santa asked sourly.
“It . . . er . . . wets,” the elf answered, glancing away in sudden embarrassment.
Santa pushed Puffy’s outstretched hands and the proffered toy away in silent dejection. Anya and Dooley looked at each other, defeated, as Puffy started back to the door again, his face forlorn. It would take a miracle, they thought, to undo the harm that Patch had wrought so unwittingly.
Sixteen
On another frigid, rainy night, another surreptitious figure made its way up the street to B.Z.’s townhouse, and knocked on the door. The only light in the silent house shone out into the street from the study, where B.Z. had stayed up late to gloat over the figures of his fantastic profits from early orders one more time. He rose from the desk when he heard the knock, and went cautiously to the door.
Dr. Towzer stood on his doorstep, looking like a drowned spaniel. B.Z. stared at him in astonishment, and then remembered to let him step inside.
“Good lord, man!” B.Z. said, keeping his voice low, but not bothering to whisper, certain that everyone else was long since soundly asleep. “Haven’t you ever heard of the telephone?”
“I couldn’t use the phone,” Towzer mumbled, looking distraught and furtive.
“It’s really quite simple, Towzer,” B.Z. said, his voice dripping sarcasm. These scientific types should never be let out of their ivory towers alone. “You pick up the receiver and then you dial those funny little numbers—”
Towzer shook his head insistently, his face tense and his eyes white with fear. “I didn’t dare use the phone, B.Z.! I couldn’t take the chance of anyone hearing.”
“Hearing what?” B.Z. bellowed, forgetting himself in his exasperation and sudden worry. Lowering his voice, he asked more calmly, “Hearing what?”
Towzer glanced from side to side nervously. “Are we alone?”
“My niece and her nanny are fast asleep,” B.Z. said patiently, quite confident that they were.
He was half-right. Miss Tucker was snoring loudly in her bed, but down in the basement Cornelia was in her bathrobe, sitting on the floor next to Joe’s makeshift rubber-raft bed. She was wide awake, and having a wonderful time playing Florence Nightingale. She removed the thermometer gently from Joe’s mouth, and read his temperature.
“Ninety-nine,” she said. “You still have a temperature.”
“Four dopey points, big deal.” Joe shrugged, secretly glad that he still had a fever. He was enjoying their secret—this warm place to sleep, plenty of food, and Cornelia’s fond attention—at least as much as she was.
“More liquids, that’s what you need,” Cornelia said in her best efficient-nurse tone. “Vitamin C. Come on, let’s get some orange juice.” She beckoned him up. There was also a little ice cream left in the freezer . . .
They started up the cellar steps, moving as quietly as possible because her uncle was still awake. It was inconvenient that he stayed up so late, but at least his study was up at the front of the house . . . As they reached the top of the stairs, Cornelia froze, motioning for Joe to stop, too, hearing men’s voices coming through the door. The two children looked at each other with wide, warning eyes, as they stood perfectly still, listening.
In the kitchen, B.Z. poured himself a beer, and then filled a glass for Towzer with cloudy-looking water from the faucet in the sink. It was just like that jerk Towzer to ask for water when he was already soaking wet, B.Z. thought, glancing at him with disgruntled disgust. If anybody was a prime candidate for Valium, it was Towzer. He held out the glass, muttering, “Towzer, Towzer, with you it’s always some new melodrama. Well, let me tell you, my friend, today nothing can upset me.” He took a hearty swig of his beer, mellowing again. “Towzer, the money is coming in so fast you’d think we were printing our own! Do you realize what this means, man?” He smiled, a smile that Attila the Hun would have appreciated. “Santa Claus is finished!”
In the stairwell, Joe and Cornelia turned to each other, their eyes wide with silent horror.
B.Z. held up his beer mug, toasting himself like a little dictator. “I’m taking over Christmas!” he cried. Ever since he had gotten into the toy business, he had hated the very idea of Santa Claus, a man who gave away countless gifts every year at the most profitable season of all. And after he had met Patch and learned that Santa Claus was real, and not some phony do-gooder’s tall tale, the thought of that fat man in red cutting into his market had galled him even more. But now, thanks to Patch, he had found the way to get rid of his biggest competition once and for all. “By next December they’ll be writing to me!” he gloated. “B.Z.!”
Joe and Cornelia stood motionless, holding their breath, their minds racing as they listened to her step-uncle’s appalling plans. And then suddenly Cornelia saw a new kind of horror fill Joe’s face. His nose twitched, and his mouth popped open as he inhaled sharply: He was about to sneeze. He grimaced desperately, struggling against the irresistible urge. Frantically Cornelia pressed her finger against his upper lip just below his nose—a surefire sneeze stopper—but it was too late.
“Ah-choo!” Joe sneezed resoundingly. The sneeze echoed back down the stairs, and carried very clearly through the closed basement door and into the kitchen. The two children turned as one and started to run pell-mell back down the stairs.
B.Z., who had settled comfortably into a chair at the kitchen table, leaped to his feet. “What the heck—” he cried in sudden fury.
Joe pushed Cornelia ahead of him as they reached the bottom of the stairs, shoving her into the only hiding place he could immediately spot, behind the wine racks. He looked desperately, searching for another place for himself. But before he could even duck out of sight the basement door was flung open, pinning him like a bug in a shaft of blinding light, and B.Z.’s silhouette loomed above him. B.Z. roared down the stairs, and was on top of the petrified boy before he could move, grabbing him by the collar and dragging him back up the steps into the kitchen. Shaking Joe like a dog with a rag doll, B.Z. shouted, “Who are you? How’d you get in here?!”
Joe, recovering from his initial fright at being captured, began to kick and struggle, lashing out at his captor with all the streetwise moves he knew.
Frantic at their discovery, Towzer rushed to the back door and whistled loudly. A moment later Grizzard, B.Z.’s massive chauffeur, appeared in the doorway in answer to his summons.
Joe took one look at the huge driver and knew any chance of escape he still had would disappear the minute Grizzard laid hands on him. He twisted desperately in B.Z.’s grasp, making a final, frantic effort to break free. He found the toy mogul’s hand on his shoulder and bit down on it as hard as he could.
B.Z. howled with pain. “Little creep!”
As B.Z. lost his grip, Joe wriggled free and tried to run, but Grizzard leaped for him, grabbing him with ham-sized fists as Towzer slammed the open door shut. Grizzard held the boy in a painful, viselike grip while Joe squirmed and struggled like a wild animal, making even the human gorilla who grasped him grunt with effort. “Who is this kid?” he gasped.
“Some darn little sneaky thief—” B.Z. snarled, sucking on his wounded hand.
“I heard what you said!” Joe cried defiantly. “You ain’t never gonna beat Santa Claus! Never! I’ll tell him and he’ll beat you, he’ll get his guys—”
B.Z.’s eyes narrowed ominously; he glared at Joe with sudden suspicion. Was this kid more than he seemed? Could this Santa Claus actually have planted a kid in his house as a spy? He couldn’t afford to take any chances, either by letting the brat go, or by calling the police . . . “Put this kid on ice,” he said, his voice suddenly deadly. No little punk was going to rui
n his scheme. “I’ll deal with him later.”
Joe’s heart squeezed with terror as he saw the expression on B.Z.’s face. He knew far too well what a look like that meant. But he was helpless in Grizzard’s grasp, no matter how he struggled. Grizzard lifted him completely off his feet, tucking him under one arm like a sack of flour. The chauffeur’s other beefy paw clamped firmly over his mouth, keeping him from crying out as Towzer reopened the back door. Grizzard carried the helplessly struggling boy out to B .Z.’s waiting limousine, and locked him in its trunk. B.Z. watched in satisfaction as the long black car drove off into the night, heading for his factory.
Down in the basement, Cornelia, still hidden behind the wine rack, listened to the commotion up above with tears of anger and fright in her eyes. What was happening to Joe? What could she do, what should she do now? She looked around frantically, searching for a safer hiding place or a way to escape from the cellar unnoticed.
Suddenly the basement door swung open at the top of the stairs. She heard her step-uncle snarl, “See if there’s any more of ’em down there! For all I know I could have a nest of brats in the basement.”
Towzer obediently rushed to the stairway and started down. He searched the poorly lit corners of the basement room with the exquisite care of a confirmed paranoid. He searched behind the wine rack twice, because it looked so much like a place where someone must be hiding. But he found no trace of anyone, large or small. At last, heaving a long sigh of relief, he stumped back up the stairs to make his report, shutting the door firmly on the empty room below.
Seventeen
B.Z. shook his head, taking a long swig of his beer to calm his frayed nerves. “Boy! Did you ever have one of those days where you just want to drop a bomb on the world?” he said, snarling feelingly. “First you come waltzing in my house in the middle of the night and—” He broke off, staring at Towzer as if he had only just noticed him. “Hey, yeah, Towzer, what the heck do you want anyway?” he snapped.
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