A Miracle at Macy's

by Lynn Marie Hulsman

  *****

  “Sit down there,” Officer Curtis, or Craig as I now knew him, said to me, motioning to a park bench around Central Park West. “You need some water. You’re going to make yourself sick if you don’t slow down. That won’t do you or Hudson any good at all.”

  New York starts getting dark in the winter at about four thirty in the afternoon. We’re sitting in the ever-increasing blackness, and I have no clue what time it was. The only real light is coming from the twinkling snowflake decorations on the west side of the Natural History Museum. My feet are throbbing, and I am so frozen through I can’t feel my limbs anymore. Still, Hudson’s out there alone somewhere in the city. I can’t just give up. He needs me.

  “You want a hot dog?” Craig calls from the steaming cart half a block from where I sat. I shake my head no. We’d been all over the south side of the park, east and west. The officers had radioed all their friends on beats on the north side with Hudson’s description, and they sent a report in to the station. There’s was nothing left to do.

  “Drink this,” Craig said, handing me a bottle of water. He munches hungrily into his hot dog. “Listen, Charlotte, you need to go home and get some rest. Hudson has an identity chip. Someone will probably find him and bring him into a vet, or he could wind up at the pound. The first thing they do is scan. Plus, we have all kinds of people out there looking for him now. I’d keep on going, but my Moms has Bingo night at her church, and I promised I’d go home and take care of our dogs. There’s a houseful. We have three fosters right now, on top of our own three.” He chuckled. “This one, I call her Fang, is a puppy and she can’t stop gnawing on me with those little needly teeth.”

  I think about how little and frail Hudson was when I brought him home, and tears pool in my eyes. I will myself not to cry.

  “No, of course you need to go. You aren’t even on the clock.” I turn my back and wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. “I’m fine. Thank you for everything. You’ve been amazing.”

  He stands up. “Well, I’m not done. I’ll make some calls, and tomorrow Scrivello and I will keep looking and asking around. Plus, we scanned that photo of yours, and my crew at the station’s been passing it around to the other precincts. I have your card, and you have mine.” He wads up the paper from his hot dog, and takes a step toward the 86th Street subway station. “Don’t worry. As a cop, I see things like this work out lots of times.”

  And the other times? I think to myself. I need to be alone. I can’t feel all of this in front of someone I’d just met. To be honest, I can’t feel this much in front of anyone. I’m more comfortable being alone when things are going badly. It’s what I’m used to. “Go!” I tell him, forcing a smile. “It’s all going to work out.”

  “Sure it is,” he said, smiling back. “You go home, now, and call all your friends and family. The more people you got working, the sooner you’ll find that dog of yours.”

  “Right!” I said brightly. My gut feels hollow as I take mental inventory of my friends and family. Apart from my online friends, Charlotte’s chefs, there was… Aunt Miranda. And, of course, Hudson.

  “Will do. I’m fine. Go home and take care of your pups.” I make myself start crossing the street toward the west side, so he could feel free to go.

  “Alright then. You have a good night, Charlotte, and keep the faith.”

  “I will!”

  I watch him disappear up the block before I let my body sag. I know I have to get home and take some kind of action, but every step feels like dragging a bag of lead weights without my furry little friend by my side. I plod on. There’s a little dog out there who needs help, and I’m the one to help him. Just like before, just like when he came to me. He’s mine and I’m his.

  When I finally reach my building and start up the stairs of my brownstone, I feel the loneliness right down to my bones. It’s like climbing Everest. I know why. When I open my apartment door, I know there will be nothing there to greet me but darkness and silence.

  Chapter 3

  I wake up with a start in the half-light of the early Manhattan morning, facedown on my sofa in a puddle of drool. Panic electrifies my body as I re-remember Hudson is gone. My eyes feel like they’ve been doused in a combination of lemon juice and glue. They sting, but I can’t quite pull them open. I’d spent the early part of the night alternately laying down, feeling like a freight train was racing through my brain, then leaping up and pacing the apartment. I wonder how many hours of sleep I’d I’ve had. Two or three? I had been sure the police would call, or that someone at the shelter would get in touch to say that Hudson had shown up. My cell phone never left my hand.

  As I moved from room to room, filled with an energy to act, but having nothing to do, I’d stop and pick up a squeaky toy here, or a morsel of kibble there, each time calling, “Huddie!” before realizing again and again, like Groundhog Day, that he wasn’t there. Everywhere I looked was another reminder of our life together. The framed photo of us at The Chelsea Piers Mixed-Breed Dog Show, the prescription bottle of antiseptic the vet had given us when he stepped on that nail on Amsterdam Avenue, the fluffy donut bed I’d splurged on from Orvis with his name embroidered on the front.

  Awake now, and at the end of my tether I punch Aunt Miranda’s number in via “Favorites.” Actually, it should be “favorite,” since she’s the only one. Despite the pre-dawn hour, she picks up before the second ring.

  “Oh hello, darling,” she launches in immediately. “I only have a split second, but I’ve rung to say I’m mortified I haven’t gotten in touch since the fiasco at the tree lighting.”

  “You didn’t call me, I called you.”

  “Be that as it may, I’m standing in The Russian Tea Room overseeing the set-up for an informal meeting of the G8 leaders, but you didn’t hear that from me. Would you believe the Prime Minister of Canada flat out refuses to sit at a table where smoked sable is being eaten? Claims it makes him gag. Usually Canadians are the least of my worries, always so polite.”

  “I don’t care about the tree lighting,” I interrupt her, stripping off my sweaty clothes from the night before, and pulling on sweat pants and a sweatshirt.

  “That’s the attitude!” she bursts in. “Shake it off and move forward. Let it go, or get revenge. No point dwelling. By the by, I’m still not up to speed with what happened, but rest assured when I find out, heads will roll. Say you aren’t cross with me.”

  “I’m not, but…”

  “Well, I should think not,” she cuts me off. “Doubtless you got some underling’s back up, and in the short term that can only lead to a dead end. Until you’re prepared to shoot through the heart, never show your gun. Have you still not read that copy of the “Art of War” that I had Cerie ship to you?”

  “You are not listening to me. I’m trying to tell you that Huddie is missing.”

  “He’s quite small…have you checked under the bed? You know, at one time Cerie was a warrior. I once watched her bring Joan Rivers to tears! I loved Joanie, God rest her soul, but Cerie was right. The Gucci bootlets were too youthful.”

  I sense that she’s in the middle of a monologue, and not about to come up for air any time soon. I take the time to run into the kitchen and pop a capsule into my Nespresso machine. I’m going to need coffee today, and lots of it if I’m going to find my little needle in the haystack that is New York City.

  “Aunt Miranda, do you even care that my dog is missing? Do you?”

  “Of course, darling, but I’m in the middle of a story. Just let me finish my thought. Losing Cerie was like losing my right arm, let me tell you. I will never, as long as I live, understand how she could have chosen to take leave just as I was on the brink of locking down the curation of Caitlyn Jenner’s world debut.”

  “Didn’t you say she was in labor?” I demand in exasperation. “For God’s sake, Aunt Miranda.” I slam down my coffee cup.

  “We all make our choices, don’t we? Any old hoo, I’m calling to break the news th
at Christmas Day lunch at yours is defo a no-go. I’m sorry, darling, it’s just the event planner for the Vatican Christmas Dinner quit in a huff. It seems the new pontiff is a good deal more humble than previous ones, and he’s insisting on keeping it simple.”

  “Aunt Miranda! I called to talk about Hudson. I don’t have time to talk about Christmas.”

  “Several cardinals are in an uproar, and Jacques Desmaisson refuses to work with such a low budget, “low” being in heavy inverted quotes, you understand.” While she rattles on, I pour milk in the frother, and watch it swirl and foam.

  “Aunt Miranda,” I say, cutting in where there’s a breath, “I need you to focus. On me, for a change.”

  “Oh, but don’t you want to hear my genius plan to make this disaster an opportunity by introducing a shabby-chic element? Picture it: The Vatican meets Pottery Barn meets Summer in Provence! It goes without saying that all of the gold staffs and mitres could distract from the theme, but my new assistant has some ideas that could tie it all together.”

  “You are seriously not going to listen to me, are you?”

  “Hold the phone, darling. You cannot put silver spoons in the Beluga caviar, you nitwit! That’s why we special-ordered an entire crate of mother of pearl ones! Sorry about that, as I was saying, Henry did a short stint in Connecticut last summer for Martha Stewart, you know. During the Post-Prison Renaissance. I stole him from under her nose. She’s furious. Suffice it to say, I won’t be shucking clams at her beach house any time soon. Still, it was worth it. Henry is a hungry young thing who works like a machine. I have him here through to New Year’s when he’s promised himself to Nigella Lawson for some launch or another. I’ll be sorry to see him go, even though he’s in the doghouse with me at the moment for the way he treated you at the tree lighting.”

  I feel a stab of guilt. “Don’t punish him on my account. Even if he is a puffed-up jerk.”

  “Don’t try and defend him! I’ll think of a little lesson to teach him. If you give the brilliant ones too much rope early on, they don’t learn discipline. If I check his ego, he’ll respect me for it and take it like a man. He’s the closest thing to a mini-me I have. No offense, darling.”

  “None taken. Believe me.”

  I slurp down my second coffee in one hot gulp, the bitter burn no match for the hole in my heart left by the fact that Aunt Miranda is continuing to ignore me. It’s no secret she has always been disappointed that I don’t click around behind her in high heels and a form-fitting pencil skirt barking orders at catering staffs around the globe. But you’d think she’d be on deck for me in a time of crisis. As if I’d want to be a robot like that stick-up-his ass Englishman she had toadying for her. I wish I didn’t need her. It would feel so good to just hang up on her. But today I do.

  I can hear crystal tinging, and people shouting in Russian.

  “Aunt Miranda! Hello? Are you even listening to me?” Why won’t she just pay attention to me and let her little shadow handle whatever is going on at The Russian Tea Room. He’s probably lording his power above PAs and waiters as we speak.

  I’m not sure if my heart is pounding from the two shots of espresso I just chugged, or from abject fear of never seeing my dog again.

  I check my circa 1955 red Bakelite kitchen clock, and see that morning is now fully upon us. “All right. No more monkeying around. It’s go time. You have to listen to me, now. Hudson is gone, Aunt Miranda. As in not here. As in lost!”

  There’s a beat of silence on her end of the phone. “Well, surely if he were dead you’d have heard by now, wouldn’t you?”

  I burst into tears with the force of someone turning on a jet-powered spa shower. Grabbing a kitchen towel to contain what has unexpectedly come forth from my nostrils, I consider what I hadn’t even allowed myself to think last night. That Hudson might be dead.

  “There, there, darling, I’m just trying to be practical. I didn’t mean to be insensitive, but it seems to me that this is an awful lot of fuss to make over a dog.”

  “He’s not just a dog,” I cough out, still sobbing. “I know you don’t like him, Aunt Miranda, but I can’t believe you’d say that. He’s my family.”

  “Oh, there, there Charlotte,” she says awkwardly. Aunt Miranda doesn’t do tears. “It’s not that I don’t like him, exactly. I’m just not a dog person, as they say. Cheer up. If you don’t find him, I’ll order you another.”

  The heaving sobs threaten to squeeze my heart till it stops. I’m gasping for a full breath. In the background, I hear someone calling, “Ms. Nichols, you’re needed in the staging area. The vendor sent 30 pounds of cheesecake instead of cream cheese.”

  “I hear that you’re upset, Charlotte. And truly, I am sorry, it’s just… hang on, I’m so sorry, one more mo… Then get your arse down to Food Emporium and buy every block of Philadelphia’ s finest in the dairy case! In 20 minutes, we’ll have the heads of the most powerful countries on the planet sitting on those rococo chairs to inhale their breakfasts while they solve world war! Are you going to be the one to tell them they’re going to have to eat naked bagels??? I thought not!”

  I put the phone on speaker, set it on the counter, and splash cold water on my face. A glimpse of my kitchen calendar tells me I’m falling behind on the recipes for The English Manor Cookbook and I haven’t responded to Charlotte’s Chefs on the blog in two days. My regular fans, like Martha26 and GrillDadNJ will be worried. I’m meticulous about responding to my blog followers. I consider them friends. But I can’t think about that right now. It’ll keep till Hudson is back safe and sound. I dry my face on my dishtowel and steel myself to move forward. All by myself.

  “Hello? Hello, darling? Are you there?”

  I consider just hanging up, and pretending the connection was lost but I take a breath, and answer. “Yes, I’m here.”

  “As you can tell, sweetheart, I’m swamped, but I’ve put you on my list. I’ll see what I can do. I’ll check in after the last chancellors and presidents are out the door and on their way to see The Book of Mormon. You cannot imagine how I had to move heaven and earth to get them orchestra seats for the matinee. Hottest ticket in town!”

  “You know, Aunt Miranda, I’ve learned not to expect much from you but this time I’m truly disappointed.”

  “Charlotte, please don’t say that. Really, I am trying to think of a way to solve your little problem.”

  “I thought talking to you might help. I feel worse than I did before I called.”

  “Darling!”

  “Maybe if I were a country star or the Prime Minister or something, you’d give me the time of day.”

  “Not another word, Charlotte. I promise you, the minute I’ve put the butts of the most powerful leaders in the world in their seats, I will solve your little dog problem. You have my word.” There’s a little pause. “Please. I want to help.”

  “Fine.” I doubt she’ll remember to call back, but it doesn’t matter. A lightbulb has gone off in my head, and I don’t want to waste another minute. “I have to go now.”

  “That’s better, then. Keep your pecker up. As I said, I will find a solution… Not Clamato! Are you out of your gourd? Two words. Shellfish allergies. Do you want to kill off a leader of the free world…” Aunt Miranda trails off and I hang up the phone.

  I pad in to the bathroom to quickly brush my teeth and twist my dirty-blonde hair up into a clip. I don’t dwell for a minute on my blotchy skin and swollen eyes. In my heather gray sweat suit, I’ll be nothing but invisible today. That’s just how I want it. Then I won’t have to slow down and explain myself to anyone. After the car accident, people always wanted me to talk. I hated that. I like being a grown-up. No one can make me share how I’m feeling if I don’t want to. ‘If you want help, look to the end of your own arm,’ isn’t that what they say?

  “Everything will be fine,” I tell myself in the mirror, just as I have nearly every day since I was 12, “Believe.” It’s been my mantra ever since Bridget, our cook and my
nanny, packed me up from the old house in England, and waved goodbye. I look myself straight in the eye.

  “You will find Hudson.” I get ready to go.

  *****

  “Geek Squad!” answered the cheerful tech support girl on the other end of the phone line. “What’s your problem?”

  What’s my problem? My problem is that my tiny dog is lost out in the freezing cold in one of the world’s biggest cities.

  “I can’t make my computer talk to my printer. I need to be able to scan and print. It’s urgent,” I reply. For over an hour I’d been trying to make flyers from the cardboard-framed Elfie that the young man from Takasaki had pressed into my hand. Time was ticking. I can just about manage my blog, and Microsoft Word, but no one could accuse me of being tech-savvy.

  “We can help you with that. Can you explain exactly what’s going on? Let’s, uh, start with the computer part.”

  Sighing with relief, I recount the frustrations of trying to make my ‘Lost Dog’ flyer with the planet Mercury taunting me from its position in retrograde, making all of my electronics and technology go pear-shaped.

  “Please hold.” She clicks off, leaving me to listen to the Geek Squad’s hold music. It’s a syrupy Muzak version of The Carpenters’ Close to You. I would have expected someone cooler from the Geek Squad. I sit at my writing desk, in the little maid’s room off the kitchen, and drum my nails on the desk. For something to occupy my mind, I click on to my blog while I wait. Yes, I said maid’s room. Yes, my brownstone is Pre-War. Yes, I know how lucky I am. I managed to buy it with what was left of Mum’s money after all the debts were paid. I needed a place with a big kitchen, and this one came kitted out with a Chambers stove and an industrial, French-doored refrigerator. It was a match made in heaven, so I splurged. I haven’t regretted it for one single day.

  I can’t stop looking at the photo of Hudson in his holiday garb. It’s clear that he had liked the elf who was snapping the photo. The goofy smile on his scruffy little face is evidence of that. His one black eyebrow is sky high, and he appears about as happy as he’s ever been. He looks so vital, like he’s just about to burst out of the picture and land in my lap.