A Miracle at Macy's

by Lynn Marie Hulsman

  Across the way, I see The Shops at Columbus Circle. It’s hard not to lose track of time when shopping in the uber-luxurious glass-fronted building with panoramic views of Central Park. If heaven had a trademark scent, it would be the comingled aromas of the merchants there. Shampoos from Aveda, bath salts from Crabtree & Evelyn, the rich leather smells from Coach and Etienne Aigner, the rich cocoa notes floating out from Godiva and La Maison du Chocolat, the tangy fresh fruit smell from Jamba Juice, the wonderful cooking smells like curry and sautéed onion rising from Whole Foods Market in the basement… even the sweat and freshly showered man-smell from Equinox intrigues.

  Visually pleasing at any time of the year, the shops have been amped up to the Nth degree, decorated with 14-foot three-dimensional hanging stars that hang from the 150-foot Great Room. Lit during the day with blue and purple lights, they’re easy to see from the park. Like an ice palace, the whole Time Warner Center, with its Shops on Columbus Circle, acts as an ornament to Central Park’s festive greenness.

  “Look, Hudson,” I say, pointing. “See the stars? I heard that they do the world’s biggest projected light show there, from the time the sun goes down to midnight, and that they play Christmas music and everything.” He cocks his head, body poised to pounce. He’s on high alert. “Oh, not now, Huddie. In the evening. Probably not tonight,” I tell him, “but maybe sometime. We’ll see.”

  And there’s Per Se… How long has it been since I’ve eaten at Thomas Keller’s sublime restaurant, I wonder. A long time, I think, as my mouth waters. I sigh, remembering passing through the simple, classic, blue painted doors and entering the serene, intimate restaurant. On paper, it would seem to be everything I hate, with its artfully arranged dishes, infusions, foams, and sugar cages over exquisitely shaped meringues. But the food won me over. In spite of the upscale presentation and cheffy techniques, the emphasis was on the simplicity and goodness of the food. The Butter-Poached Nova Lobster, humbly prepared with leeks, carrots, watercress and the most eye-wateringly brilliant sauce — a sauce bordelaise — remains to this day one of the top dishes I’ve ever tasted in my life.

  My shoulders stiffen as I recall, Oh, right. That was with James, too. I walk on, doing my best to concentrate on cut-diamond brilliance of the meal and tease it away from the memory of James scheming and plotting, and eventually wangling his way back into the kitchen to shake hands with Keller himself. Even though James had been with me, I’d dined alone that night.

  At the light, Hudson and I turn and drift with the herd across the street to Merchant’s Gate, the entrance to the park at 59th and Central Park South. As we wade into the crowd, I notice the array of food trucks selling delicacies ranging from warm roasted chestnuts, to sugared Dutch stroopwafels, to fragrant Indian samosas, to your basic New York hot dog with that world-famous onion sauce. Even though it’s freezing, there’s still a Mr. Softee truck out, and there’s even a line for the creamy cones.

  “C’mon Hudson, let’s go into the park and start home,” I say, tugging his leash toward the path. “Time to head back.” He sits down, panting and taking in the crowd. “You are a stubborn thing, aren’t you? You’re going to freeze your little tail off sitting on the concrete in this weather. I have work to do. Recipes to test. You can have a quick sip of water, and then it’s go-time.”

  I pull a collapsible water bowl and small metal bottle out of my coat pocket, and pour him a drink. He perks up, and helps himself with gusto.

  “That salmon was salty, huh boy?” While he drinks, I people-watch. Sitting in a chair by the base of the fountain, an elderly man with a wispy gray beard plays a warbling, Asian-inspired Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer on an erhu, pulling the bow back and forth with the grace of a ballet dancer. He’s competing with a group of Madrigal singers in full Renaissance garb, standing behind a sign proudly declaring Skidmore College Glee Club.

  Further out, I hear hip-hop strains coming from an oversized boom-box. Glancing over, I see that five fit youths in futuristic tracksuits and Kabuki masks are breakdancing. People dressed as cows are handing out individual Greek yogurts from refrigerators attached to oversized tricycles.

  “Elfies! Come take a free holiday Elfie, compliments of Takasaki Worldwide. Takasaki: On the cutting edge of global technology! Free Elfies! No money to pay!”

  Hudson, chin dripping from his drink of water, lasers in on the high-pitched voice piercing through the din from a crowd of Japanese youngsters, dressed as Manga-style elves. They’re so hip it hurts, with the red and green streaks in their hair, black-and-white striped tights, off-kilter ponytails, and pointed high-heeled elf boots. That’s girls and boys, mind you. I feel tragically frumpy in my brown puffer coat.

  Hudson strains toward the Elfie tent, standing on his back legs, paws bicycling in the air, chest supported by his harness.

  “Wait, Hudson! Stop.” I shake out his dish, fold it up, and pocket it. Once I’m upright, he’s scraping his claws on the pavement, pulling me toward the tent.

  “Huddie, I’m not getting my picture taken,” I explain as I walk him over to the teeming gaggle of elves. One by one, revelers and tourists sit on the brightly colored sleigh situated in the center of the staging area, allowing Santa’s Helpers to drape them in festive scarves and to plop pointy hats with jingle bells atop their heads. There’s a mirror, so all newly ordained Christmas Troopers are able to see themselves. To a person, they all laugh when they catch sight of themselves transformed into elves. Upon exiting, they’re given a lapel button declaring, “I can’t ELF myself — I jingle for Takasaki!”

  “You want photo?” one of the elves demands, pointing straight at me. “Step up here. Take a seat on the sleigh! Sit now! Free, from Takasaki.”

  Hudson climbs the first step to the dais where the sleigh sits empty.

  “No thanks,” I call. “We were just looking.”

  “Come on! You take photo now. No one else waiting. Your turn. Come!” He picks up a scarf and a hat, and gestures toward the sleigh.

  “Not today. Thanks anyway. Come on, Hudson, time to go home.”

  “Oh, hello, little dog! Oh, cuuuuuuuute.” The elf comes toward me, arms outstretched, and Hudson starts dancing like a loon. “Mai, Sparkles, come! Come and see this little dog.” Before I know it, we’re surrounded by elves. “Let’s take an Elfie of this doggie!”

  Another elf picks Hudson up, and holds him high in the air à la Simba in the Lion King, and there’s a cacophony of Japanese phrases spoken in excited, high-pitched baby voices surrounding us.

  Like a flock of birds, the elves drift toward the sleigh, and I’m swept along, still holding the end of the leash. I can’t even see Hudson above all of the pointed hats, and I trip on the step leading up to the sleigh. I couldn’t fall down if I wanted to, though, because I’m shoulder-to-shoulder in a herd of Santa’s Finest.

  “Hudson!” I call, as I find my footing. The leash goes slack in my hand. I can’t see my dog anywhere. As if on cue, the crowd parts like the red sea to reveal my dog up on the sleigh being fussed over like Dorothy just before she meets The Wizard. They’ve stripped him of his harness and collar, and two elfin stylists are brushing back the wispy hair around his face. Is that hairspray? From the look on his face, he’s enjoying the fuss. An elf takes out a baby-sized green-and-red scarf and winds it around his neck, and another sets about fitting his little head with a tiny elf hat with jingle bells on top. A girl pulls an elastic headband from her own hairdo, and from what I can see, fashions a chin strap out of it and… what is that? Maybe safety pins?

  A crowd of impossibly tall and impossibly blonde tourists presses in front of me.

  “Look Astrid! Gus! See the elf dog?” They’re all wearing huge, thick sweatshirts that say, ‘Lincoln Nebraska Future Business Leaders of America.’

  “Excuse me,” I say to a tree of a farm boy, “I just need to get to the front to pick up my dog.” I can see the elves, phones out, taking turns leaning in to get in shots with Hudson. He has a smear of
lipstick on the white part of his muzzle from all the elf kisses.

  “That’s your dog?” The towering teen asks me. “He’s hilarious. He oughta be on TV or something.”

  “Thanks,” I say, trying to muscle past. The crowd is closing in, and I just get a glimpse of the chair Hudson was sitting on. It’s empty.

  “Excuse me,” I holler. I’m eye level with the shoulders of all the Midwestern giants. I stand on my tippy-toes to see if I can spot Hudson. I can’t. “Move!” I yell, garnering lots of affronted looks.

  “You don’t have to scream, Ma’am,” one of the boys admonishes. “It takes more energy to be rude than to be nice. Here, I’ll help you through.” He uses his body like a barge in an icy river in order to part the crowd, and I walk in his wake until I hit the step up to the dais.

  “Hudson!” I call. I don’t see him. My chest starts to feel tight. “Hey, where’s my dog? Where’s Hudson?”

  The elves all begin to look around their feet. Smiles melt from their faces as it’s clear he’s not there.

  “Where is my dog?” I demand, starting to feel dizzy.

  Their voices rise in a cacophony of panicked Japanese sentences, and a tall boy-elf holding Hudson’s collar and harness points. “There! There is the dog!”

  I swing around only to glimpse Hudson’s tail disappear between the tall Uggs of a teenaged girl and out toward 57th Street.

  “Hudson!” I scream. “Someone, grab my dog! Help!” I start to push my way into the crowd, but I’m like a salmon swimming upstream. “He doesn’t know what to do in traffic!”

  “Wait lady,” the boy-elf shrieks. “You forgot your selfie!” I don’t stop, but he manages to catch up with me. He lurches into my back, propelled by the sea of bodies, and says, panting, “All this yours! Take!” and shoves Hudson’s leash and harness, along with a piece of cardboard, into my hand. I think I spy some fur, down by a man’s expensive leather brogues, but I can’t be sure.

  I see a hole in the crowd, and take off into a run, but I lose sight of him. I keep calling, and launch my body like a bottle-rocket in the direction I last saw him. He must have crossed the street. My lungs constrict. What if he gets hit by a car? Out of nowhere, a horse and buggy speeds into my path, and almost runs me over. By the time it’s gone, I can’t see Hudson anywhere.

  “Hudson, here Huddie!” I cry over and over again. “Someone help me!” My blood is icy. I’m running in wide circles, paying no attention to cars and bumping into bodies everywhere. I’m too terrified to cry. I hear myself screaming Hudson’s name, and feel rawness in my throat. I stumble at the entrance to the subway, and almost go headfirst down the stairs. Shaking, I lower myself to the top step and sit down, even though there is a sea of humanity ascending from underground. If he went down these stairs, anyone could have snatched him and hopped the A, C, B, D, or 1 train in the blink of an eye. He could already be in another borough. It hits me. It’s possible I could never see him again.

  I hang my head between my legs and sob.

  *****

  “Miss?”

  Through a fog I hear a husky, male voice. It sounds impatient.

  “Hey, Miss. Are you listening to me? You can’t sit on the stairs. You need to move, now, or I’m gonna have to move you.”

  I take my face out of my hands, and look up to see a muscular, dark-skinned New York City cop, clad in traditional deep blue. The gun on his hip is inches from my face. Scrambling to me feet, I wipe my running nose. “Sorry, officer. I’m moving. There. I’m up.”

  Hands in his belt loops, he gives me a stern once-over.

  I try to tell him I’ve just lost my dog, but my face crumples, and I know that if I talk, nothing will come out but a wail. I clamp my lips shut.

  His stern demeanor turns to concern. He leans in. “Did someone hurt you?

  “No, it’s just…” I swallow the lump in my throat, and manage to say, “My dog was stolen.”

  He pulls a pad from his utility belt. “What did the perpetrator look like?”

  “OK, I don’t know if he was stolen stolen, but he wouldn’t run away. I know that.” A shiver skates through my body. He wouldn’t, would he?

  “Miss, in New York City, there are leash laws. Your pet should have been properly restrained.” He slides the pad back into his belt, and stands in front of me with his hands on his hips. He’s solid. His silver badge reads simply ‘Curtis.’ I can only assume no one messes with this guy. Still, he does sport a tiny candy cane pin on the collar of his turtleneck sweater. Maybe he has a soft side.

  “Yes, I know.” Weakly, I hold up the leash in my hand. “I live here. It’s just that he was taking a selfie…”

  “Your dog was taking a selfie?”

  “They dressed him in a hat and scarf… I need to get his collar from the elves… the giants kept me away from him…”

  “Miss, are you on drugs?” Officer Curtis whips out his flashlight, shines it in my face, and peers deep in to my eyes.

  “Of course not! Wait, you’re a police officer, right? Can you help me find my dog?”

  “Miss, this is New York City,” he barks. “I’m not exactly Fireman Joe from Podunk, Nowhere who spends all day getting cats down from trees. We have serious crimes to deal with.”

  Another cop, this one skinny as a whip, with an angular face and pink cheeks, sidles up to us. “Everything alright here, Curtis?” he asks, checking me out sideways.

  “I lost my dog. I need help,” I interrupt.

  “That’s right up your alley, Curtis,” the other cop says. “What kind of dogs do you and your mother have up there in the Bronx? Sporks? Porkies?”

  “Morkies,” Curtis mumbles.

  “That’s it! What are those little fellas a mix of?”

  “Maltese and Yorkshire Terriers.”

  “Yeah, that’s right, Curtis and his mom rescue little mixed-breed dogs. Tiny things. Pretty cute. Curtis loves dogs, don’t cha’ Curtis?”

  “Well, yes. I do. But we are on duty, Scrivello.” He pulls his partner to the side. I hear him whisper-hissing, “How’s it gonna look if at the end of the day all we have to show for ourselves is a citation for public urination and a found puppy?”

  “It’s gonna look like we made people keep it in their pants, and like we helped the distraught citizens of our fair city. You worry too much, Curtis. Probably why you don’t have a girlfriend. Help the young lady! We’ll crack the Columbian drug ring after Christmas. Come on, show the girl a picture of your dogs. You know you want to.”

  Without having to be asked twice, Officer Curtis pulls out his wallet, and flips it open. “The big bruiser there is Apollo. Don’t let his size fool you, though. He’s a teddy bear.”

  From what I could tell, Apollo could fit in a loaf pan and probably didn’t weigh 10 pounds soaking wet.

  “And here’s a picture of the girls, Aretha and Tina, from last Christmas.”

  “Lemme see,” Scrivello said, craning his neck. “Ah yeah, that’s when we took ‘em to see Santa Claus and hang out at the senior center.”

  I feel a surge of adrenaline. These men love dogs. Maybe there’s hope I could find Huddie today. “Please, Officer Curtis? Help me find Hudson.”

  “Oh, all right. You’re in this, too, Scrivello.” He puts his phone away, and takes his pad out again, letting out a big sigh.

  “Name and description of the missing person?” he asks me, pen poised.

  “Atta boy, Curtis,” Scrivello says. “Never fear, lady. You have the finest of New York’s finest on the job.”

  My heart lifts, and I begin to tell the story. “Hudson Bell. He weighs about 22 pounds, his hair is smooth and wiry…”

  “What color?”

  “Pretty much every color a dog can be… he has a pointy face, and bright eyes…”

  “Do you have a photograph?”

  “I do on my phone… wait!” I root in my backpack where I’d shoved the leash and cardboard the elf had given me. It was a picture frame, and inside was a fabul
ous photo of Hudson all decked out in his elfwear. “Here he is. That’s my Hudson,” I say, with a little crack in my voice.

  “Aww…” Scrivello says. “He’s a cutie. Looks like he’s smiling for the camera.”

  Curtis takes a long hard look at the photo, as if he’s memorizing every detail. Meeting my eyes, he says, sincerely, “I’m going to do everything in my power to find your dog, Miss.”

  In no time, we are combing the south side of the park, the way the police officers had been trained to do for a missing person. I look at my watch. It’s still morning. The sun is shining. I feel a smile spread across my face. Hudson and I would be safe and warm at home by lunchtime. Dinnertime at the latest.