“They might if we tell them he’s being experimented on.”
“Charlotte, please,” he says. “Driver, could you let us off on the right-hand side, please? In front of the steps. Thank you.” He takes some bills out of his wallet, and pushes them through the slot. “May I have a receipt, please?”
“What if they do take animals to other countries? Probably the laws are more lenient in places like South America or the Ukraine.”
“Shh. Just a minute.” He takes the receipt. “Thanks, keep the change.”
He climbs out of the cab, and extends his hand to help me. It’s larger than I expected, and warm. I pull hard on it, and scramble out of the back seat. I demand my phone back, but he pockets it. “If Hudson’s in international waters, it may already be too late.”
“We’re going to look around here, then we’re going to spread out in concentric circles. We are not calling the FBI.”
“I’m going to call my cop friend and ask him which department handles open water crimes. I’ve read about Scientologists taking people 8 miles off shore…You know, they could have just sailed him right up the Hudson River.”
“Charlotte,” he says, warily. “Please look at me.”
“I heard what Mrs. Rabinowitz said. It’s just that if Hudson is already across the border, we have to act now.”
He’s holding me firmly by the shoulders. I reach in his coat pocket to try to fish out my phone, but he holds my wrist in his big hand.
“Shh, shh, shh. Take a deep breath.”
“I have to find Hudson,” I break his grip, and burst into a jog, taking the famous Lincoln Center steps two at a time. Lit internally by LED lights, they welcome me in dozens of languages.
“Charlotte, please wait,” Henry calls, chasing me.
I have to get this energy out of me. I just keep thinking of Hudson being blindfolded, and tied up by James Bond villains. I run into the horseshoe-shaped space of the center among glass buildings advertising The Nutcracker ballet, and the opera Aida. I’m passing the fountain, when Henry overtakes me, wrapping both his arms around mine. “Stop. Just stop.”
“I can’t stop, don’t you see?” I search his eyes, looking for confirmation that he understands me. “He’s my baby. If he’s gone for good, or hurt, or worse, then I don’t know what I’ll do. Do you get it? Do you?”
“Listen to me,” he says softly, and loosens his grip. “I understand.” He leads me over the edge of the iconic water feature. “I know what it’s like to lose something you care about.” His eyes cloud over, and he goes very quiet. I listen harder.
“You feel off balance right?” Gently, he pushes my shoulders till I’m sitting. “You feel like someone’s pulled the rug out from under you, don’t you?”
I nod.
“Right.” He sits down opposite me. “Have you ever heard the term ‘mania’?”
“Yes, of course.”
“That describes the state you’re in at the moment.”
Of all the condescending things to say! I can’t help but bite back. “Because I suppose you’re England’s answer to Sigmund Freud? I don’t need to sit here and be criticized. I need to find my dog.” I hop down, but he catches me by the arm.
“Hear me out.”
Reluctantly, I take a seat.
“It’s not a criticism. Not at all. It’s an acknowledgement that what you’re feeling is perfectly natural. The highs, the lows. The wild rollercoaster feeling. You’re in a crisis. I know what that feels like.”
I collapse a little. That’s a good word for it. Crisis.
“And people in a crisis need others to take over.” I huff out a little noise of protest. “Temporarily,” he says in a soothing voice, as if he’s trying to hypnotize me. “Give me a chance. Allow me to think logically for you while you can’t do it for yourself.”
“I seriously cannot believe you just said that. Do you know women at all?”
I cross my arms. I’m aware I’m making a nasty face, but he’s doing a poor job of convincing me to go along for his ride.
“How many people have you known who are truly bad?”
“Lots!” I cross my arms.
“No really. I mean truly bad people.”
I think. Mum was flighty and negligent, but she loved me. I know that. She just never learned to be a grown-up, and she died before she had the chance to redeem herself. There’s the freak that tried to send me porn through my blog, but it was garden-variety topless lady stuff. It was creepy, but not truly, truly evil. I think harder. Penelope Granger? Now I was scraping the bottom of the barrel. James maybe.
“See? You know people who are annoying, nasty, maybe even manipulative or unethical, but no one truly sinister. And the ones you hear about on the news are the exception to the rule. It’s like sharks. Everyone goes around thinking that the minute someone dips their toe in the sea, they’ll be eaten alive by Jaws. It’s sensationalism. Do you know how many people actually die each year at the hands, or rather, mouths, of sharks? Eight. Only eight people. But the Discovery Channel people and the news media would have you believe differently.”
“Go on. I’m listening.”
“Now,” he says, gesturing around to the flush-cheeked people around me, dressed in bright winter coats, fluffy scarves, and quirky wool hats. “How many people do you know who are good?”
Most of them.
I look up, blinking my eyes. I hadn’t even noticed the giant, glimmering ice sculpture of The Nutcracker rising from the center of the fountain. A second ago, it was like I was seeing New York through reverse binoculars. I breathe in. Everything felt so much more spacious all of the sudden.
“See? Think about all of the people you know who would help Hudson, and never dream of harming a hair on his head.” I conjure up a parade of smiling faces. All of the people at the dog park, Mrs. Rabinowitz, The Refrigerator, taxi driver Vijay Singh, my agent Beverly, Aunt Miranda. I even think of people I don’t know well, like the checkout girl with the orange extensions from Zabar’s, and my super, and all of Charlotte’s Chefs. They’d all do the right thing if they found a dog like Huddie.
“OK. You win,” I tell him. “I’m calm. In my own way”
He breaks into a wide, crooked grin. I haven’t seen him smile yet. He looks so different. Suddenly, he looks familiar, like I should know him from somewhere. I can’t help smiling myself.
“Do you trust me?”
I think about it. “No,” I answer honestly. “I don’t know you.”
“Do you believe I’m on your side?” he asks.
“Yes. I can believe.” For now.
*****
Henry takes the lead, and I follow, as he approaches tourists and city dwellers bustling across Lincoln Center’s plaza on their way to do last-minute holiday shopping. If you haven’t spent much time in New York City, I’ll fill you in on a fact. Most of the time, when a stranger approaches, New Yorkers keep on walking. It’s not that New Yorkers aren’t good people, it’s just that we generally have someplace to be.
That said, if a New Yorker susses out that you need help, and aren’t going to A) Weave a story about how you were robbed on the way to Penn Station and need $40 for the train, B) Distract them while you ever-so-gently lift their wallet, or C) Commandeer their much-needed public privacy by glomming on and following them wherever they’re going, they are largely very generous.
Henry does a masterful job of coaxing people in while being brisk enough not to waste their time. I’m heartened by the number of men and women who stop to answer his questions about having seen a lost dog. The majority take a flyer and promise to get in touch if they see anything. His harshness has fallen away. In stark contrast to how he was the night we met, he’s inviting. It’s probably all an act. You don’t get to be Aunt Miranda’s partner in crime without a certain amount of salesmanship.
“Excuse me, ladies?” he asks. Four very young women eye him, then stop and turn around. They’re all wearing thick puffer coats over what seems t
o be nothing. On closer inspection, I see that they all have on double-thick tights that match their respective skin tones. To a girl, they all have tight buns perched atop their heads, interlaced with sparkling red and green ribbon. As a group, they look surprised. I realize that’s less a function of their emotional states, than the ostrich-like false eyelashes they all sport. Not one of them is as tall as my shoulder.
“Yes?” The leader of the bird-like pack answers. “Are you lost?”
“No, nothing like that.” Henry beams a charming smile at them, and they all answer simultaneously with wide smiles and batting eyelashes like a flock of flamingoes. I examine Henry. It goes without saying that he’s handsome. I mean, he’s tall, and he has that broad shoulder/slim waist thing going on. And there’s his beard, and the glasses. I know certain girls like that type. But really! These girls can’t be more than 19 or 20, and Henry is, what? 30? 33? I watch with interest. “I was wondering if perhaps you’ve seen this little lost dog?”
They all huddle over the flyer with a chorus of “Aww!”
He has them in the palm of his hand.
From a cacophonous burst of high-pitched baby voices, I can pick out the phrases, “He’s so cute,” “I had a dog like that when I was little,” “Poor baby!” and “When did you lose him?” When the din dies down, the ringleader tells Henry, “We’re ballerinas, so we’re here every day. We can keep an eye out for him.” She looks up from beneath the canopy of lashes and says, “Have you ever seen The Nutcracker?” She gestures toward the 5-story high banner, which features a delicate ballerina dancing among life-sized toys and giant wrapped presents, hung in front of the architectural wonder of Lincoln Center’s crystal palace windows.
“Almost, but not quite.” His cheeriness fades, and is replaced by what appears to be deep thought. “Never mind, though,” he brightens again. “I’m sure the performance I missed would have paled in comparison to the current run with you ladies dancing.”
“You were in New York years ago?” I ask.
“Yes, but that’s a story for another time,” he tells me.
“Here’s my number,” the smallest of the girls bursts forth from the sidelines, literally pushing me aside to get to Henry. The ringleader shoots daggers at her. “If you want house seats, I mean,” she continues, duly cowed.
“We’ll ask around about your dog,” the ringleader tells Henry. Not one of them has cast so much as a glance in my direction. The whole invisibility thing I had working for me this morning is obviously doing its job. “And I’ll call you if we hear anything. Is that your number on the flyer?” she simpers.
“That,” Henry says, “is the number of Nichols Bespoke Events. I work for the firm.”
“I’ve heard of them,” she says. “They did Fashion Week here last year, didn’t they?”
“Very good.” He bestows his grace on the girl, and she receives it with beaming pride. “We’ll do it again next year. Contact me ladies, if you’d like passes.”
His offer is rewarded with a bouquet of high-pitched shrieks that I suspect might call to every lost dog in the city. “And remember, if you hear anything, please do get in touch.”
“Did you look back there?” the smallest one asks, bravely asserting herself. She points in the direction of a tent at the back of the sprawling plaza. I heard some barking earlier.
“I was going to say that!” the ringleader chastises. “Anyway, we have to go now. We only have half an hour for lunch and it takes 10 minutes to walk to Jamba Juice. Wardrobe will be furious if we’re late. We still haven’t been fitted for the candy cane costumes.”
“Thank you for your time, ladies. And thank you for being my eyes and ears on the ground.” He bestows one last smile, as they glide off in a graceful swoop.
“Right then, that’s a few more soldiers in our army.”
I’m not sure if I’m impressed or disgusted.
He gestures toward a tent city, not unlike the staging area at Rockefeller Center, situated to the left of the sumptuously bedecked rooftop Christmas tree. In my daze, I hadn’t noticed it before.
“Shall we?”
I nod, and follow him.
*****
Henry pushes back a flap at the back of the cavernous, multi-roomed tent and peeks in.
“We should go in the front,” I tell him.
“We’ll just be told they’re not open for business.” He motions for me to follow him. My nerves are already pulled tight without having to worry about being arrested for breaking and entering. I peek over his shoulder at what appears to be a locker room. He’s inside and crossing to the next door before I can stop him. A low, thunderous rumble stops me dead in my tracks. I’m sure my eyes must be as big as saucers when I look to Henry for direction. Another basso eruption, this time culminating in a neck-prickling roar sends me running toward Henry. I press myself against him, clutching his arm.
“What was that?” I whisper.
“Lions,” he says matter-of-factly.
“Lions?”
“Could be tigers.”
“What the hell?”
“It’s a circus,” he says, shrugging me off, and peeking through the next door.
“In midtown?”
He turns around and stares at me hard. “Yes, in midtown. It’s the Big Apple Circus. Didn’t your aunt ever bring you here as a child?”
“She did not.”
“Well, surely you’ve walked past? It says it on the tent, larger than life. Big Apple Circus.” I shrug. “Do you or do you not live here?”
“I don’t go out much at night,” I mumble.
He assesses me, cocking his head. “I know more about Manhattan than you do, it seems.”
“Fine. You win. But now that I am at a circus, I’d really rather see any Large African Cats from the safety of a theater seat.” I pull him backwards. “Let’s go.”
“Shh!” he tells me, freezing in place. “Did you hear that?”
There’s a growl, but this one sounds much less threatening than the previous noise.
“Listen!”
A high, loud bark cuts through the silence.
“Come on,” he says, taking my hand and pulling me through to the next makeshift room. Seated at a makeup table is a man in a clown suit, but no makeup, reading a newspaper. Off to the side, there’s a stylist curling the hair of a bearded lady sitting in a retro pneumatic salon chair. “Wrong way,” she says, without turning around. “Ticket booth is out front.”
“We were wondering if you could help us,” Henry begins. The skinny girl with the rough complexion swivels the chair around to face us. A wide grin spreads across the bearded lady’s face, and she begins to twirl her mustache suggestively with her finger. “Oh, I can help you, I’m sure of it,” she says.
I feel the earth tilt on its axis from the strangeness of it all, but Henry doesn’t miss a beat. “Have you lovely ladies, by any chance, seen this little dog?” He steps forward, and proffers a flyer to the seated woman.
“Real cute, ain’t he, Darla.” Darla takes a moment to consider it, staring hard at the photo of Hudson. Finally, she nods.
“Real cute,” she confirms.
“Have you seen him?” Henry asks sweetly. “It’s only that he’s been missing since yesterday and I’m quite worried for his safety. He isn’t, as you might say, street smart.”
“That’s a pickle,” Darla says, returning to her project of curling the bearded lady’s lush, glorious tresses into a multitude of sausages.
“Grandma,” the bearded lady shouts to the man in the clown suit. “This gentleman here lost his doggie. You seen it?”
“Nope,” Grandma replies, not bothering to look up from his paper.
“Old grouch,” she hisses. “Grandma has a lot to learn in the way of manners,” she apologizes sweetly to Henry. “But I’ll tell you what. You go through that way, take a left, then take another left, and you’ll wind up in the Big Top. Jenny’s in there working with the porcupine and the goat. Her dogs m
ight be in there, too. She’s practically Doctor Doolittle, that girl is. If anyone can spot a stray, it’s her.”
Is it my imagination, or does Henry bow before stepping forward to, and I kid you not, kiss the bearded lady’s hand. “Thank you for your kindness,” he says, backing away without breaking eye contact. “Good day to you all,” he says as he walks briskly in the direction of the Big Top. I hustle to catch up.
“Are you kidding me with that? Who do you think you are, a rogue-ish duke from a Regency romance?”
“You get more flies with honey than you do vinegar,” he says, not slowing down. “Give the people what they want, as the old saying goes.” I follow him through a narrow passageway that smells like damp hay and cotton candy. Every time I think he might be a decent human being, he rekindles my suspicion. I push my frustration aside. If he is the devil, I’ll have to turn a blind eye to ethics for the time being. At least he’s using his evil power to help Hudson.
Henry pushes open one more flap, and I gasp at the sheer expansiveness of the room. Standing in the circus Big Top, it’s really hard to imagine we’re in the middle of New York City, surrounded by fleets of taxicabs, and chrome and glass skyscrapers.
A muscular woman in a lycra suit waves a baton at a wooden box and a low, lumbering porcupine waddles out. She holds the baton high in the air, and the prickly creature ascends a ramp, and triumphantly comes to a halt on a hip-high platform. It sniffs the air, but I’m not sure that’s part of the act.
A flurry of motion catches my attention, and I see that a rambunctious white goat comes flying out from backstage, lips flapping, and hooves thumping. It sets its sights on me, and panicked, I dive behind Henry. “Help!”
“Buddy!” Jenny the trainer calls.
Like a ninja, Henry crouches into a squat, waiting for the goat to charge him. He expertly takes hold of the goat’s horns. The impact throws Henry backwards, into me. I land on my rear. From my sitting position, I see that Henry and the goat are in a battle of force. The goat is pushing Henry; Henry is pushing right back. They stay locked in this wrestling hold until Jenny arrives. She takes the horns out of Henry’s hands, turns the goat toward the door, and makes a clicking noise with her mouth.
A Miracle at Macy's Page 9
