By Chuck “da ‘Cat” Burke

Maybe this is an imaginary story. Maybe it never took place. But, once upon a time, there was a world known as Earth 2, a world much like the world we know, but one with differences as well. On the world, the age of superheroes started before World War II. Many of the heroes we know started their careers much earlier. They grew older, some passed their mantle on to others, while others continued on. And some of them died. As the holiday season comes upon us, let us look back to those days, when things were simpler and happier, and take one last chance to say:

Merry Christmas, Mr Batman

Christmas Eve, 1978

Helena Wayne whistled a Christmas melody as she adjusted the garland over the French doors in her new town house in downtown Gotham City. The feelings of guilt over moving out of her father’s home were still there, but his constant re-assurances kept those feelings dampened most of the time. “A young woman with a career needs to be out on her own, not anchored down with her old man,” he had said. Since finishing college the previous spring, she had been splitting her time between the law offices of Cranston & Grayson, studying for the bar exam, and her nighttime activities as the Huntress. Having a place of her own made it much easier to keep her double identity a secret from her father.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of the telephone. She picked up. “Hello?”

“Helena! Glad I reached you at home!”

“Dick? What’s up? Something you need me to bring to dinner tonight?”

“That’s the problem, Hel. Alfred and I are stuck in London, and we won’t be home until sometime tomorrow.” Helena’s eyes widened as she realized what the man she’d long considered to be her older brother was saying.

“You mean, Dad will be alone at the Manor tonight? On Christmas Eve?”

“Yeah. There was a problem at Heathrow as we arrived from Capetown, and there aren’t any flights leaving for the States until later tonight.”

“A problem? A problem involving Robin, perhaps?” said Helena as she reached for the television remote and turned to the 24-hour news station.

“Um, yeah. Some guy with a bomb, he was taken down, but they aren’t letting any planes fly until they sweep the whole airport. Man, I’m so sorry I talked Alfred into coming with me on this trip.”

“Don’t be. Ever since you got that post he’s talked about going to South Africa with you. Look, I’ll pack some things and I’ll stay out there with Dad tonight,” said the young attorney as she watched a news report detailing the capture of a hijacker in London.

“Good. If things go as planned, we should get into Kennedy Airport in New York around 7 in the morning. I’ve got the company jet there, and we’ll fly right out.”

“You want me to light up the barn for you?” asked Helena, referring to the old barn on the grounds of Wayne Manor that disguised the underground airplane hanger used by her father years before.

“I just might,” replied Dick. “Give Bruce our best, and tell him we’ll be there for brunch.”

“I will, Dick. Safe journey.” Helena hung up the phone and scurried around the townhouse, packing an overnight bag. She looked at the oversized shoulder bag she had taken to carrying for the last year or so, shrugged, and slung it over her shoulder as she headed out the door.

“Not coming, eh? I was afraid something like this might happen,” murmured Bruce Wayne after hearing the news from his daughter. “Hard to get upset about it, considering the number of holidays I missed around here.” Bruce gave his daughter a hug and continued. “Well, we’ll just muddle through, as Alfred would say. How about an early, light dinner, with a smorgasbord of cheeses and such later in the evening, dear?”

“Sounds great Dad. Let me put my stuff in my room, and I’ll help you get it together.”

Three hours later, they sat in the dining room, talking about the latest happenings in Gotham. Most of the discussion centered around crime, since Bruce had assumed the mantle of Police Commissioner two years earlier.

“Having the JSA meeting regularly here in Gotham has helped keep criminal activity down. But then, I’m sure you and the rest of the JSA already know that,” said Bruce with a smile

“Me and the rest – what are you talking about, Dad?” asked a startled Helena.

“Come on, Hel. How long did you really think it would take me to find out?”

Helena gave in to the inevitable. “So, how long have you known?”

“Three months,” said Bruce, sitting back and pulling a pipe and tobacco pouch from his shirt pocket. “You’re very good, you know. It took me a year to be sure that it was you, even with the obvious homages to your mother and myself in your costume.”

“Wow. I thought you might have figured it out as soon as I went public after battling the Strike Force with Wildcat and Star-Spangled Kid.” Helena took a final bite of the mince pie, then looked over at her father. “You’re not mad, are you?”

Bruce chuckled as he lit his pipe. “Mad? Hell, baby girl, I’m proud of you. If you had asked me first, I probably would have objected, but there’s no mistake about it, you were born to be the Huntress.” Bruce cocked his head as the police band radio in the living room came to life.

“All units in vicinity of Brooklawn and Levitz, fire in progress at the Brooklawn Apartments, GCFD requests assistance with rescue and traffic control.”

Bruce looked over at Helena, who was already starting to rise from her chair. “That’s not far from here.”

“I know,” she said. “I’m going to-“

“You have your working clothes?”

“Of course.”

“Good. Meet me down in the cave, three minutes,” said Bruce, a grim smile on his face as he rose from his own seat.

“You mean-?” said a startled Helena. Then, a smile broke over her own face as she dashed off to her bedroom. “Can I drive?” she called as she ran.

Fire Battalion Chief Larry Gilbert stood at the curb of Brooklawn Drive, watching the men and women under his command fight the blaze that was engulfing a four-story apartment building. He saw a truck from Gotham Gas and Electric pull up, and directed a team of firefighters to assist them in getting the gas service to the building shut off. “At least we’ll have that out of the way,” he said to Captain Mike Todd, who stood next to him relaying orders over the radio.

“Too late for the folks in the back apartment, though, Lar,” said Todd, shaking his head. The initial report was of an explosion at the back of the building. A jet of flame shooting up around the back wall when the first firefighters arrived was enough to signal that a gas line had ruptured in the building.

“Maybe, or maybe we’ll get lucky. Have to concentrate on getting the other floors evacuated, they still have a better chance to being alive.”

“Weldon and Abington Companies are making their way up now, and-“ Mike Todd hesitated as he heard a new voice coming over the radio. It came through on the headset worn by Chief Gilbert as well.

“Gotham Fire, this is Huntress, inbound on Levitz. What’s the situation, over.”

Larry nodded for Mike to answer. “Gas explosion on first floor of four, one family evacuated from first floor, we have teams on the second floor, and they’re on their way up to the third and fouth floor, with possible victims stranded in rear apartment of first floor.” He broke protocol to add “I hope you’ve got the rest of the Justice Society with you, ma’am.”

“Sorry, just myself and one other. But we’ll do what we can, sir. We’ll be approaching from the back. Huntress, out.”

A block away, the Huntress put the microphone back on its clip and looked over at her father as he drove the big, midnight-blue car up over the snow-covered curb and pulled up behind the burning building. A wall of flame reached from the ground, up past the second floor despite the efforts of three hose squads. “You sure you’re up for this, Dad?” she asked.

“I’m not as young as I once was, but I still keep in shape, Hel. You have your headset on?” Bruce tapped his ear to indicate what he meant. When she nodded, he continued. “Stand by, I’m opening the top. Stand up on your seat and ready a line.” Her father flipped a toggle switch on the dashboard, and the glass dome over the front seats of the vintage Batmobile lifted up and back. As one, they stood up as he counted down. “Four. Three. Two. One.”

WHOOOMPH!! Compressed air tanks under the seats were released, and the seats themselves rose three feet into the air. Father and daughter were hurled into the air, each of them swinging a weighted silken cord up ahead of them to wrap around outcroppings on the building.

A dozen firefighters looked up in awe as, for the first time in too many years, Batman took to the air of Gotham City.

“I think I see her, sir. Up on the roof.” Mike Todd pointed to where he saw a violet cape billowing in the heat of the fire. “There’s someone with her, looks like - no, it can’t be!”

“Who is it, Mike?” asked Chief Gilbert. “I can’t see them from here.”

“Naw, it can’t be him. I can’t see them now, they must have gone inside already.”

At that moment, a voice came over Chief Gilbert’s radio. “Sir, you’re not going to believe who just showed up to help us out!”

Inside the building, on the fourth floor, the Huntress kicked open the door to one of the apartments. “Anyone here?” she cried, coughing on the smoke that was making its way up from below.

“In the bathroom,” came a response. Closing the door behind her, Huntress crossed the living room, decorated sparsely with old-fashioned decorations sprinkled with a few home-made decorations, and slipped down a hallway. Two bedroom doors stood open. She stopped at the third, closed door.

“I’m here to get you out.” The door opened, revealing an elderly couple. “Come on, I’ll get you up to the roof, then we can lower you down in the front of the building.”

“Oh, thank God. We heard the explosion, and the stairwell was full of smoke. Paul thought he saw flames down below, then when we tried to get out to the fire escape in the back, it was hanging loose from the wall.”

“I saw that. Looks like the initial explosion caught the bottom of it and pulled the supports loose,” said the Huntress as she led the couple out. “Was there anyone else here with you?”

“No, it’s just the two of us,” said Paul as they emerged from the apartment into thenow smoke-filled corridor. “But the Ingrams, across the hall, they’ve got four children.”

“Let’s see if we can get them now,” said the Huntress, kicking the door on the other side of the hall. It opened onto a room full of people gathering up clothing, bedding and a few wrapped packages. “Leave that! Let’s get you all to safety,” she said.

“You heard the lady, kids,” said a heavyset woman in her late 30’s. “She’s gonna get us out of here.”

Huntress touched a hand to her belt buckle, activating her radio. “Gotham Fire, have you got an aerial truck that can reach the roof?”

“We have one running two hoses, trying to keep the fire below the third floor, Huntress. A second one is arriving now for rescue operations.”

“Copy that. I’m bringing people up to the roof now.” As she spoke, she led the group of residents toward the stairs leading up to the rooftop. She turned when she reached it. “Can you make it up on your own? I need to check downstairs.”

Paul and his wife nodded. “I’ve got it from here, ma’am. I would have tried going up sooner, but I had no way of knowing if it would do us any good.”

“Good. Godspeed,” said the Huntress as she started down below to join her father.

On the third floor of the building, smoke filled the corridor, making it nearly impossible to see. Batman reached for the respirator on his utility belt and slipped it into his mouth. For now, it was simply filtering the smoke, but there was a small air tank in his belt if it was needed. He heard a loud crack, behind him, then a crash.. Looking back at the stairway, he saw more flames coming up through the opening. He looked down, and saw the stairs below had fallen in. “Anyone hurt down there?” he asked, taking the respirator from his mouth.

“One man down, twisted ankle,” came the answer from below.

“Get him out. I’ll take care of the people up here.”

“You? But-?” A firefighter in full gear came into view and looked up, spying the distinctive cowl of the Batman. “Yes sir!” he called out, then disappeared once more.

Batman felt his way along the hall, coming to a door. He pulled off one glove and placed his palm on the surface of the door. Not feeling any heat, he tried the knob and opened the door.

“Anyone here?” he yelled. He heard a commotion from down the hall. A bedroom door burst open as he approached.

“Get us out! Please, get us out of-“ The man who opened the door stopped as he recognized the tall man garbed in gray and dark blue. “Batman?!” He turned and shouted into the room. “It’s gonna be all right! Batman’s here to save us!”

The Dark Knight smiled. Even after all this time, he thought, there is still that total trust from the people of my city. He pulled out a flashlight and shone it around the room. In addition to the man, there was a woman, a boy of perhaps twelve or thirteen, and two girls who looked to be six and eight years old. He led them from the apartment toward the stairway, then stopped. “Wait here,” was all he said, holding up a hand as he stepped toward the stairwell. Flames were visible above the level of the floor, advancing quickly upward. “Let’s check the other apartment,” he said as he turned back.

“That’s Miss Turner’s place,” said the boy. “She’s got two girls there.”

Batman closed his eyes for a second as he got his bearings. “If I have these apartments figured out right, one of her bedrooms will be facing the front. That will be our best chance for getting out of here. Follow me.” He felt the door, then tried the knob. Finding it locked, he turned and kicked out sideways, striking the door just below the knob. It popped open.

“It’s okay, I’m here to get you out,” he said as he led the first family inside. He saw a thin woman, shivering with fear as she held on to two toddlers. “Let’s go, we’re going to have to lower you down from the window.”

“We’ve lost the stairs, Batman!” said the Huntress, coming in from the hall. “I had to drop over the railing to get down here.”

“I know. You remember how to tie a shoulder harness?”

“Of course,” said the younger woman, already measuring out a length of cord as they herded the two families down the hallway. “What about the little ones?”

“You’ll take them down. I’ll stay up to lower the rest down.”

It took ten minutes to get the three adults and the first two older children down to the ground. Huntress found sheets to wrap up the two babies and strap them around her. “Fire’s through to the living room door, Batman. Can you take him?” she said, indicating the boy.

“What’s your name, son?” asked Batman.

“Martin, sir. Martin Evans.”

“Well, Martin, I’m going to need your help. You need to hang on to me as tight as you can, all right? I’ll have hold of the rope, and we won’t fall. Do you understand me?”

“Yessir!”

“Huntress, get your line on that utility pole. I’m going to use the tree there,” said Batman, pointing to a bare maple tree thirty feet from the building as he shortened the harness he had been using, slipped it over the boy’s arms, then secured the harness around his own chest..

“Just be careful, all right?”

“Always.” He tossed a batarang with a line attached. It flew up and over the tree, circling a stout limb to anchor the line. Huntress’ line circled the crossbars of the utility pole. They looked at each other, made sure the children were secured, and jumped.

The first ten feet or so were always the hardest, thought Batman as he dropped. Those brief seconds of worry, that the line might not have caught right, or that it might snap when his full weight came down on it. This time was no different than the hundreds of times he’d jumped from buildings over the last forty years. The worry gave way to confidence as he felt the line tighten in his gloved hand, and he felt the fall checked and transformed into an arcing swing.

But there was a difference. A difference in the crowd below calling his name and cheering as the legendary Guardian of Gotham City made his presence known.

Down below, Battalion Chief Gilbert’s face broke into a grin. “I thought those boys in the back were breathing too much smoke when they said Batman was here,” he said with a laugh as he slapped Mike Todd on the shoulder. “Look at that, willya Mike? Just like he did that night at the Mercer Department Store fire in ’58!”

Batman’s swing took him out and around most of the fire trucks before he touched down. As soon as his feet hit the ground, Martin’s parents were running toward him. “You all right, son?” asked Batman as he released his one-armed embrace of the boy.

“All right? Are you kidding? That was cool!” Martin stepped back with his parents, sensing that Batman’s work was not yet finished. The older hero looked over to see his daughter unwrapping the girls she had carried down, then he heard a commotion among the firemen.

”We can see them in the window! They’re alive back there!”

Batman ran over to the Battalion Chief. “What have you got?”

“Father and two kids, in the back apartment on the first floor. We can see them, but we can’t get at them, flames from the basement are coming up around the outside walls.”

The Dark Knight’s eyes narrowed as he looked over toward the window the firefighters were pointing at. “You can’t get to them, but I can.”

“They’re okay. I don’t think this one even woke up through it all,” said the Huntress, handing nine-month old Samantha Turner over to her mother.

“I don’t know how to thank you. And Batman, I thought he was retired!” said Julie Turner. “Oh, what’s he doing now?”

Huntress turned in time to see her father swinging back toward the burning building. Firefighters were waving their arms at someone in a first-floor window, trying to tell them to get away from the opening. “Oh. My. God,” said the Huntress slowly, as she realized what her father was doing. “Don’t go in there, don’t-“

It was too late. Batman soared through the air once more on a silken line, this time into the window of the burning building.

Inside the first floor apartment, flames were already licking around the doorway and the carpets were starting to smolder. Batman looked around quickly, apprising the occupants of the room. There was a man in his late thirties or early forties, a boy of about the same age as Martin, and a girl of perhaps five years. They were in a bedroom, the door to the hallway closed, but with flames appearing from under the door and around the edges. There was another door, most likely a closet. He looked up, but the ceiling was solid.

“Can’t hand you out through the window till they get the flames from the basement under control,” he told the father. “But I might be able to rig a line to-“

Batman paused, listening. Over the muted roar of the flames and the sounds of water hitting the building, he heard a crack, then a groan. “Not good. Structure is starting to break up. He looked again at the closet. “Over here!” he yelled, motioning for the family to join him as he opened the closet door, then reached for the hinge pins.

Outside, Chief Gilbert brought more hose squads around to try to quench the flames around the area where Batman had entered the building. He watched with the Huntress at his side.

“Sir, part of the wall has started to buckle,” reported one of the firefighters over the radio.

“Got the people off the roof?” he asked.

“Yes sir, aerial two is running all hoses now.”

“Good, keep at it, we’re in a race for time now,” said Gilbert, turning toward the Huntress. “We’ll get it knocked do-“

There was a rumble, then a crash as the back end of the building collapsed. Fountains of sparks flew into the air as four stories of wood and brick broke apart and came down in a heap.

“Dad!”

The Huntress started towards the burning apartment building even as several of the hose teams backed away from the back of the building where the wall had collapsed. The side window Batman had disappeared through was gone, lost under tons of brick and burning timbers.

“He’s your father?” asked Chief Gilbert. She nodded, unable to speak. “Look, I’ve worked with him in the past, and if anyone can survive that, he’s the one.” Huntress just nodded again as she reached for the JSA communicator on her utility belt. Before she could activate it, her radio earpiece crackled to life.

“Huntress? Can you hear me?” The voice in her ear was strained, and the radio transmission was full of static. But the voice was unmistakable.

“Batman?!? Are you all right?”

“I’ve been better. I’ve managed to get the family into a small closet, though the father got knocked out. I’ve got the door across my back, don’t know now much weight I’ve got on top of that.” There was a pause, then she heard him talking, apparently to one of the people there with him. “What’s your name?” “Kevin Swanson?” “All right Kevin, you see those compartments on my belt? Push up on the third one on that side.” “No, the one next to it. Now, see that capsule? Grab it and throw it at those flames.” “Good job, that will slow them down.”

“How many foam pellets do you have?”

“Should be seven more. Do you have somebody that knows the layout of the apartments there? Tell them we are in a bedroom closet, the bedroom must have been Kevin’s.” the sound of his voice was fading, becoming overcome by static “Maybe they can help direct the firefighters in here.”

“I’ll find someone, don’t worry. We’ll get you out of there.” There was no response but the hiss of dead air as the young heroine tried to raise another response from inside the building.

Already, every hose on the scene was directed at the area where the Caped Crusader had last been seen. A small front-loader arrived moments after the collapse, and started clearing away still-burning debris. Greg Robertson, the sole resident of the other first-floor apartment, sketched out the floor plan for the firefighters, and in less than 15 minutes they were near the area where Batman and the Swanson family were believed to be trapped.

Suddenly, the rubble shifted, then a section rose upward. Like a hatchway opening up, Batman heaved the closet door up and back, rising up to the cheers of the assembled firefighters, residents, and neighbors, as well as several reporters who had arrived on the scene. “Get a medical team over here!” he called, indicating where Ed Swanson lay unconscious on the floor. “He got hit by a section of wall in the collapse.”

Rescue personnel swarmed in to take the children out and make a quick assessment of their father. Batman got down on one knee in front of the daughter. “These men are going to check you over and make sure you’re all right, okay?” She simply nodded, one small fist rubbing at an eye. “What’s your name?”

“Trista.”

“Well, Trista, I see your daddy is already waking up, so everything should be all right now, right?”

“Except for Lucky.”

“Lucky?”

“Lucky is my cat. He ran out of Kevin’s room when we went in there.”

“I see,” said Batman, putting a finger under her chin and lifting her face to look in her eyes. “You know, animals are pretty smart. They know when they’re in danger, and where to find safety. And I think Lucky found a safe spot to hide.”

“You do?”

“Yep.” Batman reached under his cape and pulled out a thin, tourtoise-shell cat that was holding on to the back of his utility belt. “Unless I’m mistaken, I think this must be Lucky,” he said, handing the cat over to her.

Out away from the fire, a woman with graying red hair knelt with a camera. As she saw the Dark Knight hand over the cat, her finger pressed down on the shutter release.

“Are you all right?” asked the Huntress as soon as she could speak to her father without others overhearing.

“Think I pulled a muscle or two in my back, and my left knee is sore. The cat left a few scratches on my back, too.” Batman smiled. “All things considered, not bad for an old has-been.”

“Has-been?” Huntress laughed as she waved off a pair of reporters. “HA! You handled that like you never hung up that cape!”

“Let’s get out of here. There’s more to be done tonight.” Batman started off at a trot towards the Batmobile. “This time, you can drive.”

“Huh? What are you talking about?” asked the Huntress as she caught up with him.

“Commissioner Wayne needs to check in on the situation,” said Batman, easing into the passenger side seat and reaching for the mobile phone. He placed a call to Police Headquarters, which was routed through the department’s communications system to Battalion Chief Gilbert.

“We have everyone out, Commissioner, thanks to Batman and the Huntress,” said Gilbert, when asked for a situation report. “Building is a total loss, it’s going to take a couple hours to get it completely under control.”

“Wait a minute, Chief. Did you just say Batman?” Huntress placed a hand over her mouth to stifle a most undignified snort.

“Yeah, nobody knows how that happened, and he’s already gone. But it was him, I’m sure of it.”

“I’ll take your word for it. What about the occupants?”

“I’ve been trying to reach the Red Cross, see if they can take care of them.”

“Let the good folks of the Red Cross enjoy their Christmas, Larry. Bring them out to my house, I can put them up here for the night.” Batman glanced over at his daughter to gauge her reaction. The smile on her face reassured him. “If you need help with transportation, notify Ninth and Tenth Precinct, they should have transport vans available.”

“If you say so, Commissioner.”

“I do, Chief. I’ll let you get back to work.”

Batman hung up the phone and looked at his daughter. “I know it’s a crazy idea, but I really don’t want those kids to remember this Christmas as the one that was ruined by a fire.”

“I understand Dad, and I like the idea. I just hope you know what we’re getting into.”

“You have no idea, Helena,” replied Batman as he let his head fall back against the headrest and closed his eyes. “You have no idea.”

As soon as the Batmobile came to a stop, Bruce Wayne was out of the car and running to a desk. He thumbed through a rolodex file, then dialed a number on the phone and waited for an answer.

“Liz? It’s Bruce Wayne. Could I speak to Charlie, please?”

“Charlie’s still at the store, Bruce. You know him, he’s got to make sure everything is ready for the day after Christmas sale.” Miles away, Liz Wainwright sat before a roaring fireplace. “You sound worried, Bruce, what’s wrong?”

“I need his help, Liz. I have 25 people who’ve just lost everything in a fire. Is there a number where you can reach him at the store?”

“Oh, my word, Bruce! Of course, he has a private number for when the store is closed. Here,” she said, and rattled off the number.

“Thank you, Liz, and Merry Christmas.”

Bruce pressed the hook on the phone, then dialed the new number. After several rings, Charlie Wainwright answered from somewhere within the Wainwright Department Store.

“Charlie, it’s Bruce. I’m sorry to be calling on Christmas Eve, but I need some help here.”

“What is it, Bruce?”

“There was a fire at the Brooklawn apartments, and I’ve got 25 displaced residents coming out to Wayne Manor. First thing I’ll need is sleepwear, and clothes for them to wear in the morning.”

“That’s no problem, give me rough sizes and I’ll bring them out there myself.”

“Thanks, Charlie, but I’m thinking bigger. There’s a bunch of kids here, and I feel like playing Santa. Can we do a midnight run on your store, once I get an idea what they want?”

There was a pause while the store owner thought it over. “Let me call Kenny Mercer, he’s got a bigger toy department over there, and we can split things up.”

“That would be great, Charlie. Just give me a bill, and we’ll settle up by the end of the week.”

“The hell I will, Bruce! You think I’ve forgotten how you pulled strings at Gotham General to get Liz’s surgery moved up? You think Lenny forgot how you loaned him the money to rebuild his store after that fire 20 years ago? This one’s on us! I’ve just got one question – how are you going to know what to get these kids?”

“I told you,” said Bruce, glancing over at one of the display cases in the Batcave. “I feel like playing Santa Claus.”

It was shortly after eight o’clock when an former school bus painted in the blue and gray of the Gotham Police Youth League pulled up in front of Wayne Manor. The front door of the grand old house opened, spilling light on the snowy driveway. Bruce Wayne stepped out, followed by his daughter Helena.

“Come on now, let’s get you all inside where it’s warm. We have a fire lit in the den, to your right as you go in,” he said to the folks coming off the bus. “We’ve got rooms ready for all of you, or nearly ready, but first, let’s get you all something to eat.”

Helena marveled as her father took charge of the situation, guiding over two dozen people into the house, making each of them feel as if he was doing this just for them. She helped a woman guide her four children into the house, the same woman whom she had led up to the roof of the burning building less than two hours earlier. Patty Ingram carried her youngest girl, and guided another by the hand. Her husband was helping their neighbors, the Dillons, off the bus as Helena took the hands of the two oldest Ingram children, Laurie and James, and led them into the house.

“Is this a hotel?” asked Laurie, looking up at the large, tudor-style home.

“No, this is my dad’s house. His family built it a long, long time ago, when this was all a big farm around here.”

“Do you have horses?” asked Laurie.

“She said it used to be a farm, it isn’t anymore,” said James.

“Actually, we do have a couple of horses for riding,” replied Helena. “Maybe you can meet them tomorrow.”

Ed Swanson, with a bandage wrapped around the back and left side of his head, walked slowly up the steps, with a heavy-set young man standing by his side. “Thank you, Greg,” said Ed when he reached the top. “Where are the kids?”

“They’re already inside, Ed. Just be careful, the doctor said you very nearly got a concussion.”

“Commissioner, do you want us to stay here?” asked one of the police officers who had accompanied the victims of the fire on the police department bus.

“No, Lieutenant Jenkins, I think we’ll make out all right,” replied Bruce. “But before you go, there are a couple trays of food in the kitchen that I want you to take down to the precinct house when you return. Something for the on-duty officers tonight.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Jenkins, waving two other officers over.

Moments later, in the den, Bruce stood by the door looking over the assembled group. “What do you think, Hel? Have we got enough beds?”

“Depends on if you want the kids in the rooms with their parents. Not enough bedrooms to split up the boys and girls in each family, unless some of the kids want to bunk together.” Helena tilted her head for a few seconds, lost in thought. “Say, Dad, did you ever get around to converting the loft into a train room like you talked about?”

“No I didn’t. Haven’t been up there since you went off to college, actually.”

Helena grinned. “I know how to make this work.” She stepped into the room and spoke up. “Okay, girls, here’s the deal. You can sleep in sleeping bags in the rooms with your parents, oorrrr, you can sleep up in the loft with me, and we’ll make it a slumber party.”

Five of the eight girls in the room jumped up at the idea, the other three being too young to be interested in a slumber party.

“Boys, we have a room for you, bunk beds, and we’ll bring another bed in there. And folks, that leaves rooms for each couple or single for the night,”

“Mr. Wayne, I, that is we, don’t know how to thank you,” said Mark Ingram, speaking for the group.

“Don’t worry about it. For now, let’s see about getting some food in you, those who want it, and we should have some sleepwear arriving shortly.” Bruce waved everyone towards the adjacent dining room. “We’ve put things out in there. But if you’ll excuse me for a moment, I, um, I have a phone call I need to make.” With that, Bruce walked out of the room.

Kevin Swanson was in the dining room, with a plate holding a sandwich, some carrot sticks and a couple of Christmas cookies, looking for his sister. He looked back into the den, and saw someone stepping in through a door leading outside that made him shout out loud. “It’s Santa Claus!”

There was a commotion of shouts and cries from the assembled children as they rush back to the den.

“Hello, hello, my friends. I heard you had trouble tonight, and thought I should stop by here before I begin my rounds. Come on, come on over, let me see that you’re all right.” Santa sat down in a well-worn rocker by the fireplace, and waved over the closest child. She scrambled up on his lap, a big grin on hir little face. He ran a gloved hand through her curly blonde hair. “So, Trista, you and Kevin and your dad are here. But where’s Lucky?”

Her eyes grew wider as she answered. “He’s in the kitchen, sleeping.”

“I guess it was a pretty rough night for him, too.”

“Uh huh,” said the girl, nodding. “But Santa, I know a secret.”

“You do. Well, you know, you’re not supposed to tell secrets.”

She stretched up so she was whispering in his ear. “Oh, I think it’s okay to tell you, Mr. Wayne. But not right now.”

One by one the children walked over to where Santa sat in a well-worn wooden rocker. He talked to each of them in a quiet voice, so nobody else would hear. And with each child, he asked what they wanted for Christmas now.

The visit was over in fifteen minutes, then Santa stepped out through the door onto the balcony overlooking the back yard of Wayne Manor. Then he took off in a spring, down the steps, and around the corner of the house. He stepped into a basement door, and made his way to an old coal-burning furnace, one showing the signs of long disuse. He reached up and turned a lever, and one side of the furnace opened up revealing a stairway. Down went Santa, into a cavern below the house. As he walked, he pulled off, first, his hat, then his beard. Bruce Wayne’s face was revealed, a look of concentration on his aged features. He made his way to a desk and picked up pen and paper, and started writing from memory, the list of items for each child.

He came to the end of the list, Martin Evans. “That’s a pretty tall order for Santa, Martin, but let’s see what we can do about that.”

It was a little after midnight when Helena Wayne stood looking out a window as a car sped out towards the manor’s front gate. She chuckled and turned away from the window, only to find someone standing right behind her.

“Whoops, Here, let me take that before you spill it,” said Greg Robertson, reaching to steady the mug of hot chocolate that she held in her hands. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“That’s okay,” said Helena, running a hand through her long dark hair as she relaxed her hands from the fists that had reflexively formed when she was startled. “I thought everyone was sleeping by now.”

“My fault. I didn’t drink the cocoa.” At her raised eyebrown he smiled. “When I saw how your father was ‘recommending’ it for everyone, I figured he had something up his sleeve.”

“Just a little herbal remedy our family butler kept around for nights when I couldn’t sleep,” said Helena, remembering the times Alfred had offered it for her mother when Batman and Robin were reported to be in dangerous situations. “I doubt some of the children could have slept without it.”

“Good idea. I’m more of a night owl, myself.” Greg tilted his head toward the window. “So, where’s your dad off to at this hour? Christmas shopping?”

“Actually, yes. Dad’s always been funny about Christmas. He’s meeting a couple friends to pick up some things for the kids here. He wants to make sure this is still a Merry Christmas for them.”

“So that’s why he pulled the Santa act!” Greg laughed. “I’d like to have the dough to pull stunts like that.”

“You don’t have to be wealthy to do things for people. But, yeah, he does do things on a bigger scale than most.”

“I’m not knocking it. I better not – I was one of the first to receive a scholarship through the Philip Wayne Foundation.”

“That’s why you looked familiar.”

“Yeah, and here I am getting bailed out by the Wayne family fortune again.” At Helena’s puzzled look, Greg added “I had given up on getting into college before I won that scholarship. If it wasn’t for your family, I’d probably be a clerk at a fast food joint or something.”

Helena decided to change the subject. “Do you think you could help us get things set up when Dad gets back?”

Greg smiled again. “Sure. All I ask is a mug of cocoa, without your butler’s remedy.”

Helena laughed and led the way to the kitchen. “I think I can manage that.”

Shortly after three in the morning, two cars pulled up in front of Wayne Manor. Bruce Wayne got out of one, and two middle-aged men stepped out of the other. As they opened the trunks of the cars, the front door opened and they were joined by Helena and Greg. Charlie Wainwright and Ken Mercer, the owners of two of Gotham City’s largest department stores, were unloading bags of wrapped presents from one of the cars. “My wife came down to the store after I told her what we were doing, and insisted on doing all the wrapping herself,” said Charlie.

Helena joined her father as he unloaded a trio of bicycles from his car. “Should have taken Alfred’s van, I guess,” said Bruce as he paused to stretch his back.

“What you should have done, Dad, is get some rest,” scolded Helena. “Here let me get that one out, you roll the others up to the house.

“Yes, dear,” replied Bruce with mock submissiveness.

“Come on, let’s get this stuff set up inside,” said Charlie. “I’d like to get some sleep before my grandchildren wake up at the house.”

“You didn’t say your family was visiting,” said Ken Mercer. “Why don’t you go on home, we can get it from here.”

“Not on your life, Kenny. I’m not so old yet that I can’t finish what I started!” Helena laughed; tales of the friendly rivalry between the two store owners were legend in Gotham City.

It took most of an hour, but when they were finished, the den of Wayne Manor was prepared for a morning onslaught by eager children. As they prepared to leave, Charlie and Ken each handed Bruce a bundle of envelopes. “Make sure each family gets these, one from each of us.”

Bruce gave them a puzzled look. “What are-?”

“Just you never mind, Bruce. Just make sure they get them, okay?” said Ken.

“And don’t forget what I told you about that one gift,” added Charlie.

“Oh, don’t worry, I won’t forget. And guys, thank you.”

It was shortly after seven in the morning when a sleek silver car pulled in through the gates of Wayne Manor and drove quickly around the to the back of the house. When it pulled to a stop near a back door, two men got out of the car.

“Follow me, Master Richard. I should be able to tell if Master Bruce is in the house, and where he is at.” Alfred Beagle walked with a spry step belying his advanced years, pulling a key from his pocket and unlocking the door. The door opened into a modest living room. Alfred walked over to a panel with several numbered lights on it. He flipped a switch, and more than a dozen of the bulbs lit up. “'Pon my word, Master Richard. It appears Master Bruce has several visitors!”

“Funny, all these years and I have never been in your quarters, Alfred,” said Richard Grayson. “What are these connected to, microphones in each of the rooms.”

“Sensitive ones, sir, to pick up the sound of a person breathing. Naturally, the lights only tell me if there is someone in the room, and no words are transmitted.”

“So this is how you always knew where to find us in the house?”

“Precisely, sir. And, I see the light for Master Bruce's room is lit. I doubt that he would allow anyone else in there, so that is where we shall proceed post haste in our endeavor to find out what is going on.”

“Good. And maybe he can explain this newspaper story!” said Richard, smacking a rolled-up copy of the Gotham Gazette in his open palm.

A flight of stairs and a dash down a hallway brought the pair to bedroom door. Alfred tapped lightly on it before entering, then waved a hand to signal Richard to follow.

“Ah, good morning! I'm glad to see you made home in time for Christmas!” Bruce Wayne sat at a small table by the French doors leading onto a balcony.

Alfred and Richard stopped in their tracks. “Bruce? You do know that you have a house full of people, right?”

“Of course, I do, Dick!” Bruce rose from his chair, a cup of coffee in his hand. “I expect they'll start waking up any time now. We should get downstairs before the kids get down there.”

“Kids? What's going on?”

“And what is the story behind Miss Vicky Vale's story on the front page of the Gotham Gazette?” Alfred grabbed the paper from Richard's hands and held it up. The headline, in three-inch letters, read “Batman Returns” over a photo of Batman handing a cat over to a young girl. “Was this you, Master Bruce?”

“It was, indeed, old friend. It's a long story, but it will keep till tonight. Now, let me see that paper before we go down, and see what kind of lies Vicky dreamed up.”

Gotham Gazette
December 25, 1978

Vicky Vale

In the midst of tragedy, Gotham City received a Christmas gift last night. More than two years after he announced his retirement from public life, the Caped Crusader appeared to save several families from a burning apartment building. According to Battalion Chief Larry Gilbert, a leaking gas line in the basement of the building at the Brooklawn Apartments ignited shortly after six o'clock, setting the first two floors of the building ablaze. Responding fire companies were able to evacuate the second floor, and the occupant of one of the first floor apartments got out of the building just as the firefighters arrived. That is when Batman and the Huntress arrived on the scene, launching themselves to the top of the building and rescuing the residents of the upper floors, bringing some of the residents down from the building themselves. (see picture, page A-4) After that, the Batman re-entered the burning building to rescue the trapped first-floor residents. All appeared lost when the back wall of the building collapsed, but Batman proved that he has not lost any of his time-tested skills as he managed to not only rescue the Swanson family, but finished his night off by presenting Trista Swanson with her cat, whom she had believed lost in the fire.

Thanks to the timely intervention of the Caped Crusader and the Huntress, the fire resulted in no deaths and only minor injuries to one of the residents and two firefighters. Neither of the costumed heroes had any comments for the press, but this reporter hopes that they are spending their Christmas day with loved ones, and enjoying a much deserved rest.

“Leave it to Vicky, to step out of her role as objective reporter for this one,” said Bruce with a chuckle as he laid the paper on the table, the inside photo of himself and his daughter swinging out of the building with the young children facing upward. “I'll have to see about getting a copy of that picture for the Batcave, though.”

“I think I hear someone in the hall,” remarked Richard.

“Let's get downstairs, then,” said Bruce.

Moments later, the den of Wayne Manor was overrun by eight shouting, screaming children as they saw the gifts stacked under the Christmas tree and realized that the gifts were for them. Each child was handed packages to take to their parents and the other adults before opening their own presents, though. As Helena Wayne read off the names on the tags, one child remained standing by himself. When all of the gifts appeared to have been given out, Helena called 12-year-old Martin Evans over. “This,” she said, handing him an envelope, “is for you.”

He stepped back and opened the envelope. Inside, was a second envelope, and a folded sheet of paper. He unfolded the sheet, and read it. “Martin, the gift you asked is not something that can be easily given. Your request for a job for your father in place of any presents for yourself is unusual, and shows great maturity for one of your age. What I can offer for your father is an opportunity. In the envelope are names and addresses of people for him to contact. I believe he will find a job with one of them. Take the envelope to your father, then look behind the couch. SC”

Martin did as the letter instructed him to, and after handing the envelope to his father, found a modest stack of wrapped gifts waiting for him behind the couch. As he unwrapped them, he watched his father.

Ted Evans opened the envelope given to him by his son and read the contents. He then walked over to where Bruce Wayne stood with a middle-aged man with graying temples and an older man watching the festivities. “Mr. Wayne?”

“Please, call me Bruce.”

“Bruce, then. I, I don't know what to say. I've applied with both Wainwright's and Mercer's, and they didn't have any openings in their accounting departments.”

“Try them again. I have it on very good authority that they are looking for smart accountants who are flexible enough to help their companies adjust to new ways of doing business.” Bruce reached into a pocket of his smoking jacket. “Oh and these are for you and the other families, would you mind passing them around?”

Ted opened the two envelopes with his name on them. “They're gift certificates. One thousand dollars each, one from Wainwright's and one from Mercer's department stores.”

“I thought it would be something like that. To help replace what you've lost.”

Richard Grayson and Alfred Beagle looked over the tumult in the den, then looked at each other. “If I know Master Bruce, he has probably not considered breakfast for his guests,” remarked Alfred.

“Yeah, breakfast never was our most regular meal around here. You want help whipping something up?” asked Richard.

“I think that would be most prudent, given the number of mouths to be fed.” Alfred led the way through the dining room to the kitchen, expecting to find a mess left from the previous night. Instead, he found two men and two women bustling about the room, preparing trays of scrambled eggs, ham and fried potatoes.

“Oh! You must be Mr. Wayne’s butler, he said you might be arriving,” said an older dark-skinned woman. “Seeing as we don’t have any kids, we offered to take care of feeding the troops.” To punctuate her sentence, she slapped a stack of ham slices on a platter.

“So it seems, Miss-?”

“Mrs. Sarah Dillon, but if you try to call me Mrs. Dillon, don’t expect an answer,” she said with a smile. “I got to hand it to you, this is the finest kitchen I’ve worked in since the old Ritz closed down. Made it real easy for us to pull this together.”

“Don’t let her kid you, gents. She pulled it together, we’re just here to stir pots and carry trays,” replied the younger of the two men, who appeared to be only a few years older than Richard. He offered a flour-coated hand to the newcomers. “Steve Johnson, and that’s my wife Nora. Sarah’s husband over there flipping home fries is Paul.”

“I’m Richard Grayson, and this is Alfred Beagle. So, how can we help out?”

It was mid-afternoon when a pair of hotel shuttle buses pulled up in front of Wayne Manor. Christmas gifts and bundles of clothing were loaded up, and the former residents of the Brooklawn Apartments said their goodbyes to their hosts.

“I think we all appreciate the offer, Bruce, but we need to get started with getting on with the rest of our lives. And my company was nice enough to let us use the block of rooms they keep for clients at the Crown Hotel for a few days.” Steve Johnson turned to look over the group. “They’re also going to help us find new homes.”

“That’s great, but don’t hesitate to call me if you run into any problems.” Bruce handed him a business card, then walked down the steps to say goodbye to each family in turn. The last was the Swanson family. Ed still had the bandage on his head from his injury in the fire, and Kevin stayed by his side. Trista, though, was off talking with one of the other girls.

“I’m sure I’m going to catch it from Trista when she realizes we left before she could see the horses,” said Ed.

“Call me when the weather gets warmer. I’m sure Helena would love to introduce her to the stable.” Bruce turned as Trista came running up to them and jumped up into his arms. “Well! I haven’t gotten a hug like that since Helena was a little girl.”

The tiny blonde laughed. “Hugs are great! Like a Christmas present you can give any time.”

“Are you ready to go?” asked her father.

“Almost.” She leaned forward so she could whisper in Bruce’s ear. “Remember when I told Santa I had a secret?”

“Yes,” murmured Bruce, just loud enough for her to hear.

“Well this is it. Merry Christmas, Mr. Batman!” Before Bruce could react, the five-year-old squirmed out of his arms and dashed for the bus. “Bye!”

--------END-----------

Yes, I know the “official” story was that Bruce Wayne never donned the costume again after his wife’s death, up until the day he died. But, given the grief that Paul Levitz and other writers laid upon Bruce in the final years of his life, I thought it was only right that he have one last adventure, one that could remind us of the Batman we knew.

Merry Christmas, folks,
da ‘Cat!