A Miracle at Macy's

by Lynn Marie Hulsman

  “Beeeeeh!” Buddy calls as he hightails it to the door. Still running, he takes one last look over his shoulder and calls out “Beh!” for good measure.

  “Sorry about Buddy,” Jenny said. “But you’re not supposed to be back here. I don’t have insurance to cover that.”

  “Understood. We won’t stay long. We were told you might know something about a dog.”

  “I know a lot about lots of dogs.” She pulls a whistle out of her cleavage, and toots three sharp blasts. A parade of various-sized canines file out from the goat-door. The fifth dog in the line of six is largely beige with calico splotches and scruffy fur. My heart gets caught in my throat. In a split second, tears blur my vision.

  He’s digging into the sawdust for all he’s worth. “Huddie!” I cry running toward him. I bend down and scoop him up in my arms. All of the other dogs start jumping up and banking off my knees, delighted at this unexpected interruption of the routine.

  But the second I bury my face in the dog’s fur, I know. This is not Hudson. I squeeze my eyes shut tightly to flush out two fat tears. Whimpering, the little dog licks my face. He knows I’m sad, I think. I give him a squeeze and a nuzzle.

  I hear clicka-clicka and the five dogs on the ground obediently sit.

  “We were looking for information regarding her dog, you see,” Henry explains to Jenny. “Not dogs in general.”

  “You lost your dog?” Jenny asks me, expression sympathetic. Still holding the patchwork mutt, I nod. “I’m real sorry to hear that. It’d break my heart if I lost one of mine.”

  Henry hands her a flyer. “We’d be very grateful if you’d keep an eye out for Hudson, here. He was last seen in the general vicinity.”

  Jenny takes a long look at the flyer, and her eyes soften. “Your boy looks a lot like Teddy, there. I’ve got lots of dogs, but that one’s special. Found him at a supermarket, upstate, huddled in a towel in a rusted shopping cart. Someone must have dumped him.” As she’s saying this, I cling tighter to the sweet, warm bundle of dog in my arms. “At least they left him where someone would find him. Best thing that ever happened to me, and that includes both of my marriages.”

  She approaches us, gently rubbing the wild hairs back from Teddy’s eyes. “Who’s a good boy?” Teddy’s tail thumps against my coat.

  “That dog’s my bread and butter. Smart as a whip, and born to the stage, but it’s more than that. I’d love him even if he didn’t work a day in his life. That dog’s my baby, know what I mean?”

  “I do know what you mean.” When I hear myself, my voice sounds small. Jenny nods to me. “Yep, you get it.”

  “Tell you what,” Jenny says to Henry. “I’ll pass a stack of them pictures around to the folks here. We’re onsite till after New Year’s. I’ll get people to keep an eye peeled.”

  “Thank you, Jenny. That would be very helpful.” I notice that Henry doesn’t pull his curtseying ways with Jenny. It’s pretty clear she wouldn’t fall for it. Like they say, ‘know your audience.’

  “We’re based upstate, even though we’re on the road a lot. All my animals are shelter kids and rescues. I’ll put the word out, and post on the pet adoption websites I work with on Facebook.”

  Reluctantly, I give Teddy one last kiss on his bony little head, and set him on the ground. Instead of wandering off to join the other dogs, he sits on my foot.

  “There’s Buddy,” Jenny says, waving toward the goat at the backstage curtain. “He knows what time it is. If I don’t feed him soon, he’s likely to start more trouble to get attention.

  “Beh!” Buddy declares staring right at us. Instead of charging us again, this time the goat pointedly reaches over and begins chewing on the plush red velvet drape covering the backstage flap.

  “Buuuuuuuuhdy!” Jenny warns, stomping off in the goat’s direction. “I’ll call you if I hear anything!” she shouts.

  I gently slide my boot from under Teddy’s rump, and give him a final neck scratch.

  Empty-handed, I follow Henry out into the expanse of New York City.

  ****

  “Shall we walk?” Henry asks me, as we’re waiting for a cab. Holiday shoppers and tourists ensure that yellow taxis are scarce around now. Our next move is to go back to where Hudson was lost. I don’t have a much faith in the plan, but I’m on a downswing and I can’t think what else to do.

  “I don’t know.” I’m losing momentum.

  He takes a long look at me. “All right?”

  “Not really,” I tell him. Whereas the air felt crisp and promising this morning, all I feel now is cold. Seeing Teddy in there, holding him in my arms, it really drove home that Hudson isn’t going to be waiting for me at home when I get there.

  “He might not be, but wherever he is, we’re going to find him. See that statue of Dante Alighieri there?” He motions to the centerpiece in Dante Park, the little triangular oasis nestled across from Lincoln Center and above the historical Empire Hotel. “I see that as a sign of hope. You know The Divine Comedy?” I nod. “Then you know the story of a man who went through hell and came out the other side refreshed. It ends with him peaceful and in Paradise.”

  I try to match his optimism with a smile. I can tell by the alarm on his face that I’m not quite pulling it off.

  “Even the park itself is a beacon of hope. This idyllic little green space, from which you can cool down by watching one of the city’s most spectacular fountains in the summer, or warm up by drinking in the lush greens, golds, and reds of the Christmas tree in the winter, was once a condemned property. Did you know that?”

  “No, I didn’t.” I wonder how he does. I survey the scene. Several stalls are set up to vend handmade gifts. There’s a farm-stand selling burlap-wrapped loaf cakes, and jars of jam tied with tartan ribbons. Another sells raffia ornaments. Still another offers CDs of the dulcimer-rich Christmas carols the proprietor is piping out from a speaker.

  “It’s true.” He suddenly shouts, “Taxi! Darn, lost another. Anyway, did you also know that the final scene of the film Annie Hall was shot here?”

  I perk up. “Really? Seeing that when I was really young made me want to come to New York!”

  “Same here,” he tells me, with a tilt of his head. “Huh,” his eyes twinkle, and I can see him filing that bit of information away. “How old were you?”

  “Twelve.”

  “Weren’t you a bit young for something that sophisticated?”

  I’m embarrassed, like I always was in front of normal, traditional moms who’d raise an eyebrow at what my mother allowed me to do. “My mother didn’t believe in censorship. People called her Bohemian. She didn’t care, though. After she got pregnant with me, a lot of the family’s old friends snubbed her in their boxes at Wimbledon, and at weddings and deb balls. She didn’t care. And the fact that she didn’t really rankled some of those who ran in her circles, and who’d been at school with her, and especially annoyed my grandparents. They died when I was small. From what I hear, she infuriated them along with everyone else. I still don’t know if she was freethinking or crazy, but I will tell you that it was downright horrible watching Eyes Wide Shut with her. Stanley Kubrick may well be a genius, but come on. After that, believe me, I wanted all the boundaries.”

  “Hold on a minute, was your mother Lily Bell?”

  “Yes, I thought you knew that.”

  “Why would I know that?”

  “From Miranda.”

  “No, I didn’t. You mean Lady Lily Bell?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see,” he says. “Taxi!” He tries to hail another cab.

  “You see what?” I ask. He doesn’t answer. There are no taxis with their lights on anywhere up or down the avenue. “You know, let’s just walk,” I tell him, steeling myself for the exertion of it.

  Brrrring Brrrring!

  “Hello! Great, it’s our lucky day,” Henry says as a pedicab brakes to a halt in front of us. “Climb in.”

  “I’ve never ridden in a pedicab,” I saw wa
rily as he boosts me aboard. “It feels a little colonial if you know what I mean. How lazy are we to sit back and relax while this poor guy pedals?”

  “Nonsense! What do you charge, sir?”

  “Five dollars each minute,” the wiry Russian driver answers.

  “Do you like your job?”

  “I love my jobs. I have two. This in the day, gymnastic coach in the night. This keeps me fit and strong. An office job would make me perish.”

  “Can you take us across to the entrance of Central Park?”

  “Of course!” He bears down hard on the pedal to get us going, and we’re off to the races. I’m quite surprised at how fast we’re going.

  “Don’t you get cold?” I holler up to him over the sounds of the wind and the traffic. I wind my fuzzy scarf one more time around my neck, and pull the hood of my jacket up.

  “I love cold!” the driver shouts, turning around. He’s standing and pumping his legs, and we’re darting in and out of traffic. It’s kind of exhilarating. “If you’re cold, there is blanket. Have your man wrap you up.”

  “No thanks, I’m good!” I say quickly as Henry reaches for the folded quilt. “Really, it’s only a short trip.”

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you something, Charlotte?” Henry says to me. I have to lean in to hear him. “Why didn’t Mrs. Rabinowitz know your name? She knew Hudson’s. I’m surprised she had to ask yours.”

  I’m uncomfortable with this line of questioning. “I just never told her, that’s all. Why?”

  “She certainly cares about you. I found it curious.”

  I stare forward, watching our driver’s shoulders rise and fall rhythmically as his legs power the bike. Just because I don’t get all pally with everyone I meet, it doesn’t mean I’m ‘curious.’ It’s just who I am. People don’t have to go around calling me ‘quirky’ and ‘offbeat’. If you ask me, the way I operate is perfectly normal.

  “So when was the last time you saw The Nutcracker again? I ask irritably. “If you want to get all personal.” I’m aware that I’m pouting, but I don’t care. I’m cold and I need coffee, and besides, he started it.

  “Here we are, edge of Central Park,” says our driver, braking abruptly near the 67h Street entrance. “Here is OK?”

  “Perfect,” Henry says, avoiding my question and paying the driver. “Say, if you happen to see this dog, would you call me?”

  “There is reward?”

  “Hmm, I hadn’t thought of it, but yes.”

  “Is big reward?”

  “Bring me the dog, and I’ll let you know.” Henry tells him.

  “You are more Soviet agent than English gentleman,” the pedicab guy declares, eyes narrowed. “I like it!” He bursts into a raucous belly laugh. “I try to find this dog.”

  “Come on,” Henry says brusquely, leading me through the mossy stone wall that borders this part of the park, “let’s walk in as far as Sheep Meadow and see if we can find that dog of yours.” He’s walking very fast, with his hands jammed into his coat pockets. I think I’ve struck a nerve.

  I stop.

  “You know, I think I’ve got it from here. Thanks for your help so far. Why don’t you go back to your office?” I pull out my phone. “I’ll text Aunt Miranda that you tried.”

  “Don’t be silly,” he says, ignoring me and marching forward. “I implore you not to text Miranda. Trying isn’t good enough. Besides which, I am not accustomed to failing. Hudson!” he calls out. “Here Hudson! Come!” With every shout, Henry’s steps become more aggressive and determined. “I am quite happy to be on this assignment.”

  “You’re just saying that because of Aunt Miranda.” Actually, I really wish he would go. I’m not used to spending so much concentrated time with any one person. I like having my own space. “She’s making you do this.”

  “While that was certainly true in the beginning, I am now invested in this challenge,” he says, picking up speed.

  I trot to catch up. “You are not hearing me,” I say, trying to catch a deep breath. “I am releasing you.”

  “You can’t release me,” he says, looking around. “Hudson! Here, boy!”

  “Maybe I can’t give you permission to go back to the office, but I can give you permission to leave me. Take the rest of the day off. Finish your Christmas shopping.”

  “Thank you, no. I don’t have Christmas shopping.”

  “That sounds like you. You probably had everything bought by October and wrapped by November.”

  “That’s not accurate at all.”

  “Oh, you probably hired someone to do it for you, Don Draper-style. Like those men who have their secretaries buy scarves for their wives.”

  “For your information, Miss Know-It-All, I don’t do Christmas shopping.” He stops to closely examine a pack of six dogs, all being led by a professional dog walker. The guy gives him a dirty look. “Sorry,” Henry says.

  “Creep,” the guy replies.

  We go through the fence into the big, open, grassy area called Sheep Meadow. In the summer, the place is packed shoulder-to-shoulder with people picnicking, throwing Frisbees, kicking balls around, and sunbathing. For now, it’s simply a rare and sprawling open space. I look up to see Belvedere Castle towering over the Delacorte Theatre where free outdoor Shakespeare is played yearly to the citizens of New York. If I concentrate hard on only that view, it’s easy to believe I’m in a medieval kingdom.

  Swinging my eyes over a little, however, I can see the tops of the skyscrapers that signal the beginning of midtown to our south. The juxtaposition of the former farmland and the concrete jungle never fails to make my head swim. Henry just keeps plowing forward, and shouting for Hudson.

  “I’m confused. What do mean you don’t do Christmas shopping? You just said you don’t use a service or make some intern do it for you. Where do you get the presents?”

  “I don’t. I simply don’t participate in Christmas.”

  “How can you not participate in Christmas?” Have I missed something, I wonder? I’m feeling dizzier as this conversation goes in what I feel are circles. “Are you Jewish?”

  “No. My father is Church of England. That’s where I went to chapel when I was at school, but my mother is Irish Catholic. She took me to mass with her when I was a small child.” He smiles fondly. “That part I liked. Leaning on her arm as we sat in the pew, smelling the scented talcum powder on her soft, jiggly arms. Listening to her sing the hymns. She has a lovely voice. She could have been in the choir.”

  “Then what’s the problem with Christmas?”

  “I just choose not to participate,” he says sharply. “Can we leave it at that and find your dog?”

  “You can leave me,” I respond hotly. “Because I don’t want to have to hear you say ‘participate’ one more time. I told you I don’t need you, so why are you still here?”

  He stops in his tracks, growling a throaty noise of exasperation. “I’ve explained myself. Are you thick, or are you just trying to wind me up?”

  “Neither! I’m just telling you that I don’t need some huffy brownnoser following me around the park and slowing me down when I have important work to do. Now why don’t you go?” I plant my hands on my hips. “Go!”

  He swings around to face me. “I am not going to leave you alone, not matter how many times you tell me to. Is that clear?”

  “Is there a problem here?” A familiar voice calls from above my head, about a yard behind me. “Because I think the lady is telling you you’re not wanted.” It’s a helmeted Scrivello, sauntering up on a shining, muscular bay quarter horse. The animal sniffs at Henry, nostrils flaring.

  “Not at all, Officer,” Henry says, placing his hand on the horse’s cheek, pushing his long face to the side. I see Henry swallowing his annoyance, and attempting to look relaxed and casual.

  “Hey, I know you,” he says, lighting up. “What are the chances? Craig, it’s Charlotte. He was just gonna call you.” He says nodding to his partner riding astride a rippled e
bony-colored steed of his own.

  “Do you have news about Hudson?” I feel a flutter in my chest.

  “Sorry, Charlotte. We followed up on a few reports, but they were false leads. I was just gonna call to see how you’re getting by. Looks like it’s a good thing I found you in person.” He pulls back on his horse’s reins, and the animal raises its head, veins popping underneath the gloss of its short, black hair. “’Cause I don’t like the tone of your boyfriend’s ‘friendly discussion.’”

  “He’s not my boyfriend,” I declare.

  “I’m not her boyfriend,” Henry blurts at the same time.

  “Well, call it what you want, there are laws against any kind of violence against women, domestic or not.”

  “Violence! I assure you, I wouldn’t lift a finger against her or any woman. Charlotte, please tell the officers.”

  I hesitate for a second. I could make my wish come true with just the tiniest implication. As much as I’d like to be alone, I can’t bring myself to do it. This is the second time I’ve passed up a chance to throw Henry under the bus. If I were colder, I could have had him fired and arrested. “There was no violence, in any way, shape, or form. He’s a decent man,” I say begrudgingly.

  Henry nods vigorously, as Scrivello’s horse nibbles on his scarf.

  “He’s helping me find Hudson. It was a silly argument.”

  “Exactly!” Henry concurs, lightly patting the huge animal’s neck. “Nice horsie.”

  “Don’t eat his clothes, Flannel,” Scrivello says, “that’s not nice.” He makes no attempt to stop his horse’s munching, however, and I stifle a giggle as I watch Henry try to stealthily pull away, only to tighten the scarf into a makeshift noose.

  “Charlotte, would you come over here with me, please,” Craig says. The police officer steers his horse to the side, and beckons me with a crooked finger. Once we’re out of earshot, he asks, “You’re not protecting him, are you? Just say the word. You know I got your back.”

  “Honestly, it’s nothing like that. And thank you.” I’m moved by the formidable officer’s warmth. I feel a little swimmy, as the emotion of having a friend like that washes over me. I reach out and lean on his horse’s shoulder to steady myself.