Free Puddlejumpers by Christopher Carlson Mark Jean Page A

taking a flyer.”
    His passenger’s only response was to jabber indignantly. Still spooked, Beason furrowed his brow. “What language are you talkin’, boy?” He lifted his cap to scratch his bald head as he pondered the hair bracelet on the boy’s wrist. The kid smelled strange. It wasn’t a bad smell, just different. It was as if somebody had bottled the great outdoors and sprayed it on him like cologne.
    The storm showed no sign of letting up. Beason was tired and struggled to make sense of what was happening. He’d been driving for close to eighteen hours and was determined to reach Chicago for Christmas. He’d been invited to his sister’s place for dinner, but, more than that, he had ideas about breakfast at the Kosmikon, a little diner on Martin Luther King Boulevard that he especially enjoyed. The pancakes and grits weren’t on his new diet, but Shona, the pretty waitress who poured his coffee, always welcomed him with an especially warm smile. He wished he were looking at that smile right now, because that would mean all of this would be over.
    Beason kept one hand on the wheel and the other on the crazy little kid, who was working himself into a full-blown tantrum. He reached across and buckled him into the seat belt. It was a loose fit, but it was better than nothing.
    The cab interior was filled with Cubs memorabilia, including baseball cards pasted on the dashboard and ceiling. Joe Beason had named his truck Bleacher Bum because he was a dyed-in-the-wool Chicago Cubs fan. For him, there was nothing better than to see a game at Wrigley. If he was working, he loved listening to the game on the radio. But it was winter, he was a long way from Chicago, and the wild child was still bawling his eyes out.
    As Beason downshifted on a tight curve, one of his baseball cards popped unglued from the ceiling and fluttered end over end to land smack-dab on the boy’s lap. To Beason’s great surprise, the kid went quiet for the first time. Being somewhat of a superstitious man, he took a long look at the familiar face on the card, then at the boy studying it in fascination.
    â€œThat’s right—he’s a man to live up to, and you can start right about now,” declared Beason.
    With one hand clutching the card and the other on the Crystal Acorn draped around his neck, Shawn blurted, “Kadudee, matadie ra!”
    Joe Beason just shivered. “Listen up, Ernie Banks—you sit right smart in that seat and stop talkin’ crazy. And don’t be pointin’ that rock at me neither.”

    It was still dark on a bitter cold Christmas morning, in lightly falling snow, as the eighteen-wheeler navigated past a silent Wrigley Field. Joe Beason thought about going to the authorities, but the more he thought about it, the less he liked the idea. Who wants to spend Christmas explaining a story to the police they probably won’t believe anyway? The best thing is to leave the boy with people who know what to do. Everybody will be better off in the long run. He turned his big semi onto a narrow street adorned with Christmas decorations.
    The truck wheezed to a halt in front of an undecorated six-story tenement. The word ORPHANAGE was chiseled in concrete above the door. He knew the place because he’d spent the first seven years of his life there. Beason descended from the cab with the kid, finally asleep, swaddled in his Cubs jacket. He laid the bundle on the icy stoop, rang the bell, then hurried back to his truck.

    Little Ernie would never know how he got there. No one would. Not even Mrs. Annie McGinty, the stern-faced matron of the Lakeside Home for Boys, who was up early that morning getting ready for Christmas. Mrs. McGinty was five feet tall, with thick arms and legs. Her red hair was coiffed with obsessive neatness and she always kept her nails well manicured. She had a ruddy complexion and her face turned bright red when she got mad, which was