An image of Henry appears in my head snuggling Hudson to his chest, my little dog’s muzzle nestled in the crook of Henry’s neck, and I drift off in a half-hallucination. My hand reaches out to pat Hudson, and Henry turns his face to gently kiss the back of my hand. I can’t tell if I’m watching the movie, or I’m in the movie.
Henry’s face is soft. He’s mouthing something, but I can’t hear the words. I’m reaching out to touch his face, but he takes my hand instead, and slides a ring on my finger. The cold of the metal is electrifying. He puts Hudson down at my feet, and my boy is jumping and twisting in the air, barking and barking. I’m so happy I cannot stop laughing. Cut to us running as fast as we can, Hudson chasing us with his tongue flapping. Henry and I are beaming at each other, me holding up my dress so I don’t trip. Henry calls “C’mon, boy,” to Hudson, and we fall. He lands on top of me. We’re rolling, and rolling. Hudson licks both of our faces, walking over our bodies with his needle-sharp, little paws. Henry’s on top of me, but I don’t feel crushed, just warm. I love you, I try to say, I love you, but no sound comes out because Hudson is barking, and we’re kissing and kissing…
I’m pulled up by the shoulders, and the dryer snaps off.
“…but it wasn’t cancer in the end,” Jane is saying in her high, nasal voice. “After all that, it was just a boil, so they lanced it,” She continues. “And she went home with a band-aid and some sleeping pills.”
I’m dizzy, and I struggle to come up for air.
“Girl, you look green,” my stylist says. “Here, drink this,” he says, uncapping a cold bottle of Smart Water and handing it to me. “If you wasn’t feelin’ well, you should’ve said somethin’. It’s not everyone who can stay bent over in that position for that long.”
“That’s what she said,” Jane chortles.
“Stop it,” Penelope hisses, jabbing the snickering girl in the ribs. “Well I, for one, think she looks gorgeous.”
Once the room stops rocking, I look at myself in the mirror. I have to agree. Between the hair and the makeup, I’ve never looked better. “Now let’s get go get that photo snapped.” In no time at all, I’m de-caped and spritzed, and the three of us are on our way.
“When Henry sees you, his eyes are gonna pop out of his head,” Jane says.
This time, I don’t even make an attempt to protest. I just silently wonder if she’ll be right.
*****
We get off the elevator on the 8th floor of Macy’s, and the holiday buzz hits me in the face like heat from an oven when I’m checking a cake. The song Toyland plays merrily and as we walk closer to the action, I see children all around me looking like they’re about to explode with joy. A cheerful sign with a cartoon Santa and smiling kids shows us the way to go, and we pass under an arch labeled, Santa’s Workshop.
All around are life-sized scenes featuring statues of elves hammering jack-in-the boxes, Mrs. Claus passing out trays of cookies, and lettered blocks large enough to sit on. Behind a snow-capped fence sits a shiny train emblazoned with the name, 34th Street Express, in swirling gold letters, and a proud father holds up his little boy in front of it while the mother snaps photos. The little boy has glasses, and it makes me think of Henry as a child. Would he have enjoyed the thrill of Christmas in the city, or would the sheer magnitude of it overwhelm a child from a simple village. I decide he would have loved it, and I imagine a tiny Henry beaming with wonder like the little tyke in front of me.
As we round the bend to pass through yet another Christmas scene, this one with Santa’s sleigh, I see adults who I know aren’t all parents, lined up with freshly scrubbed kiddies, decked out in everything from their Sunday best, to elf costumes, to superhero outfits. I scan the crowd, wondering who among the grown-ups are grandparents, godparents, guardians, and social workers. There’s a pang in my heart. Every kid, to a tee, looks caught up in the magic. You all deserve this uncomplicated joy, I think. I wish you all happiness, I say silently, beaming goodwill over the crowd.
We pause, to let a twenty-something girl dressed in a green-and-red felt costume lead a group of kids holding onto a clothesline with handles spaced evenly apart, and wearing tshirts that say Samaritan’s Home, to the front of the line.
I watch as a family of mechanical statues in a gingerbread house open presents in front of a decorated and fully lit tree. In a repeating scene, a mother embraces a pajama-clad girl in pigtails after she holds her dolly high above her head. Over and over, the girl rejoices, and the mother pulls her in for a hug.
Had my mother known she’d be leaving me early, would she have made more of an effort to hit these well-known benchmarks of childhood? Would she have bought me My Little Pony toys, and Silly Bands? Would she have taken me to sit on Santa’s lap? Would she have taken me to Disney?
Penelope signals for us to come with her, and we follow the winding path until I finally see the big man seated on his oversized chair, smiling benevolently at a sincere toddler who’s exactingly explaining the size and shape of the toy he wants this year.
When I have a child, I think to myself, I will make sure he or she feels normal. My child will feel safe, and whatever my child’s friends are into, I’ll make sure my child knows about it. I want my child to have hoards of friends, and riotous birthday parties.
I burst out laughing, surprised at myself. When James had talked about having a boy who liked surfing like he did, or a girl with my green eyes, I’d told him I didn’t want kids. At the time, I didn’t think I had enough to give. Or maybe I just didn’t want kids with James.
“Come on, Charlotte, you’re up,” Penelope says, tugging at my elbow.
She signals the photographer, and leads me to a little gate in the fence that’s barely knee-high. She pushes it open, and sends me through before it springs back shut. I walk the faux cobblestone path leading to Santa’s big chair. There’s snow on the ground that’s scattered with giant pieces of foil-wrapped candy and all-day lollipops. Short fir trees dot the lawn, dripping with icicles and stuffed woodland creatures peek out from holes in the ground.
Santa smiles, his wire-rimmed glasses lifted by his rounded, red cheeks. True to form, he’s wearing a thick red suit trimmed in thick white fur. His boots are the real thing not some costume overlay; they reach to his knees, and they have rubber soles. They’re polished leather. Nice, but not as nice as mine, I think proudly. He beckons me over, and by the time I reach his knee, I’m stricken with shyness.
“Ho, ho, ho,” he says theatrically. “Come tell Santa what you’d like this Christmas.”
My heart is pounding, and I can’t move my legs.
His demeanor changes, and he looks at me, really looks at me, with his kind, faded blue eyes. “Don’t be shy.”
“It’s just, I’ve never done this before,” I tell him. “Silly, really,” I say, trying to laugh it off.
“I wouldn’t say so.” He stays very relaxed, breathing in and out like he has all the time in the world.
I make myself approach confidently and take my place on his knee. I notice that his white beard grows soft curls from behind his ears, unlike the beard of the skeevy Santa from Bryant Park. The photographer holds up his hand, and I raise my chin, and smile for the camera. I’m surprised at the big flash. It’s been ages since I’ve had a photo taken with anything other than a cell phone.
“Again,” the photographer says, “again.” We do that several times until he signals that I should rest. He looks down, adjusting his camera.
“Well, then,” I say to the man dressed as Santa Claus. “Thank you very much.”
“But you haven’t told me what you want for Christmas.”
I feel myself blushing. “There are kids waiting.”
He says, very calmly, “You’ve waited your turn. I’d say you’ve waited a very long time.”
When I think about what I want, my throat constricts. I make a move to rise up from his knee, but he very gently pulls me back in. “What would you like for Christmas?”
&nbs
p; “My dog is lost,” I whisper. I clear my throat, and say a little louder, “I want him home.”
He doesn’t smile, but he fixes me in his gaze, nodding. His watery blue eyes sparkle. “Don’t worry. You’ll get Hudson back.”
“Charlotte,” Henry calls, waving above the heads of the crowd. “Over here!”
“Henry!” I’m so happy to see him. I look up and smile, and see one final flash, and the photographer says, “Now that’s my shot!”
Penelope opens the fence, giving Henry access to the area, and I blink, taking in all of the activity around me. It’s like I just woke up. Eager to get out of the spotlight, I hurry to the exit where there’s an elf to lead me through. Looking back, I see Henry shake the old man’s hand. The man says something, and Henry bends down to whisper in his ear. Penelope and Jane have crossed behind Santa’s set-up to meet me, and Penelope signals to Henry to come through the elf exit.
“Do you want to wait for the photos?” she asks. “I can put a rush on them.”
“Could you have them messengered to the Waldorf?” Henry asks. “If so, please put it on Miranda Nichols’s account.”
“Of course, sir.” She smiles professionally. “Macy’s would be happy to do that.”
“I have to say, Penelope, Macy’s has treated me unbelievably well. First these amazing clothes…the sizes are perfect and I never dreamed I would wear styles like these, but I love them. Thanks for everything you did.”
“All part of my job.”
“And the makeup, and the hair…”
“She’s gorge,” Jane says. “A real Macy’s girl.”
Henry sizes me up. “I thought you looked different.”
“Men!” Jane laughs, a little too loudly.
“And prepping Santa Claus for my arrival. Do you do that for every kid?”
“What do you mean?” Penelope asks.
“You know, telling him who I am. Was that because of Aunt Miranda?”
“If I’d have thought of it I would have, but I didn’t tell him who you are.”
I look over at Santa Claus, jostling a giggling kid wearing a cowboy hat on his knee. He looks up from the boy and straight into my eyes. “Believe,” he mouths.
*****
“Come with me please, Charlotte,” Henry says briskly, nearly breaking into a run. “I’ve a very important matter that requires urgent discussion.” He grabs me by the hand, and we blow through the sitting room of the suite at the Waldorf, leaving Landry and the rest of the interns staring as we head directly into Henry’s bedroom. He slams the door closed behind us and falls down backward onto the big, white down-filled duvet like he’s making a snow angel.
“Are you well?” I ask.
He cracks up laughing. “Never better,” he affirms.
“What has gotten into you? You practically skipped across town, and when we finally hopped that cab, I think the driver was fairly surprised that you not only caroled from the back seat, but demanded figgy pudding.”
“Who’s being an old Scrooge now? It’s almost as if you wish I’d stayed onsite at Macy’s to work through the night.”
“No, I’m glad you didn’t. Frankly, I thought Miranda might insist.”
“Oh, she tried,” Henry said, standing up on the bed. I stood gaping at him. “But you should have seen me. First she lunged, with a ‘Getting on James Keyes’ good side could be a career builder’,” he mimed a fencing gesture, hand on hip, posture perfect. “But I parried,” he says, dancing backward, “saying, ‘your niece is distraught.’ She nearly had me with, ‘The mayor might drop by later for a spot check,’ but I triumphed,” he says, flicking his imaginary rapier, “by pointing out that she was leaving you alone at Christmas time.”
“What has gotten into you?” I ask, shaking my head and laughing.
“Freedom? The holiday spirit? All I know is that I feel drunk, even though I haven’t touched a drop. I haven’t skived off classes or work since…you know what? I don’t think I ever have!
He reaches down, and grabs me by both hands. He pulls me up on to the bed, and starts jumping up and down like we’re on a trampoline.
“Henry!” I scream.
“What? Do you think they’re going to kick us out of the Waldorf for jumping on the bed? I’ve handled royals and rock starts in my line of work. Trust me, this is nothing.”
Swept away by his sudden onset of festive joy, I start to jump in earnest, still holding his hands. At first, we’re jumping at odds like a seesaw going up and down, but eventually we’re in sync, bouncing together. We’re staring at each other in collusion, gasping from the laughter.
“Excuse me, Henry,” Landry is standing at the door, eyes averted. “I wondered if you wanted to do a debrief before we have to head back to the office.” I freeze, and wind up wobbling. I fall toward the sunken middle of the bed where Henry is standing. I scrabble for ballast, and wrap my arms around his knees. He crashes down on top of me, and we wind up a tangle of arms and legs, flailing like upturned beetles, trying to find a foothold on the squishy bed.
“I’ll leave you two alone,” Landry says frostily, backing out of the door.
“Wait!” I call. I’m huffing to catch my breath. “Don’t go!” I’m up on my feet and following her. “Do you have any information about Huddie?”
“Yes,” Landry answers, speaking not to me, but to Henry. “As I was saying, Shanna needs us back at the office, so I’d like to download what we know, Henry, if you have the time.”
Henry steps down off the bed, adjusting the tails of his shirt and running a hand through his tousled hair. “Of course. Go ahead. I’ll be right with you.” Landry stands in the doorway, not moving.
Eager to hear the news, I pass her by. “He’s all about the work,” she mimics in a high-pitched voice. “Yeah, right,” she snorts.
I join the three other junior staff at the card table they’ve dragged over to annex the coffee table at Hudson Central. Folder, printouts, and photographs line every surface and the two young men and the young women all have their noses pressed to the screens of phones, tablets, or laptops.
Henry eases up, hands in his jean pockets, surveying the stacks. “Fill me in.”
“This stack contains what we’ve deemed to be credible leads. There are photos of Hudson here from places we know he’s been such as The Empire State Building, Times Square, etcetera, etcetera.” I pick up a picture from the top of the stack. It’s of a smiling, curly-tongued Hudson in front of the first-floor security desk at The Empire State Building just out of the sight of the guard who told us no dog could possibly have darkened the building’s doorstep.
“This stack is a maybe pile. We printed out tweets and posts describing sightings of a mixed-breed dog, and made copies of photos showing various dogs that might be Hudson. I read one of the tweets:
Mutt dancing to Mariachi band on a train platform. QT! Only in NYC #vacay
Underneath is a picture of the backside of a dog wearing a scarf being led through Bloomingdale’s revolving doors, but the dog is solid beige, and is as big as a Great Dane. “This definitely isn’t Hudson,” I say.
Landry snatches the picture from my hand, and lays it on a different stack. “Then we’ll put that in the False Leads category.”
“Talk to me about next steps,” Henry says, back in business mode.
“We think that the most compelling leads should be handed over to the police,” Landry begins.
“I can take care of that,” I say. “I’ll call my friend Craig. He’s a police officer,” I explain to the group. “If he needs the physical papers, I’ll messenger them over.”
“We’ve been contacting anyone with a likely story by phone, text, and social media. Obviously, we haven’t been able to get contact info for everyone, but we’ve left messages when possible, and we’re fielding responses.”
“The whole thing’s starting to pick up steam,” the redheaded guy in the hipster cardigan with the roll neck says to Henry. “Check it out,” he says, h
olding his phone up to show a video. “Animal Planet caught wind of the story, and they’re running an interstitial showing lost pets while they play sad Christmas music. Hudson’s photo is the lead and the closer.”
“Oh my gosh!” I exclaim.
“Gray’s Papaya has posters up at every store in Manhattan, right next to the ones that say, We are polite New Yorkers. They say, Be Kind and Find.”
The other girl hands me a sheath of papers. “The whole city seems to be having fun with this story. Look, Magnolia Bakery has a cake in the window with his face on it. This group from New York Road Runners doing a 5K along the river, are all wearing tshirts that say, Looking for Hudson on the Hudson.” She pulls out a picture of a group of firefighters. “I printed this one out in color.” It says, ‘Engine 3/Ladder 12 of Chelsea asks HAVE YOU SEEN THIS DOG?’ Four super-built fireman, wearing sleeveless, ribbed white tshirts with braces and their fireproof trousers surround the front page of The Post on which Hudson poses with Ruby. “It’s up on their website. After I saw that, I started calling fire stations up and down the island, asking them to do the same.” She stops to smirk. “After work, I’m going out with one of New York’s Bravest who I met on the phone. His name’s Diego. Jealous much?”
Landry types into her iPad, and pulls up another video clip. “New York One News has picked up the story. Someone from the office saw it on TV in a cab about an hour ago and called to let us know.” We all watch for a few seconds as Pat Kiernan, the news anchor famous for simply flipping through the papers at his desk and reading out what he finds interesting, holds up a Daily News with Hudson’s picture in it.”
“So cute and dorky,” breathes the young woman, who’s sorting paperwork. “LOVE Pat Kiernan.”
“Everyone does,” Landry coos back.
“Hey, that’s the Daily News,” I point out. That means the story is in two major local papers!” The other young man hands me a copy, and I flip to the story on Hudson. It’s a picture of Hudson, wearing a thick sweater with the I Heart New York logo knit into it, sitting on the lap of a twenty-something in an electric wheelchair. Service Pig Shares Slop, declares the headline. Beneath the larger photo, is a smaller one of a potbelly pig and Hudson, front feet on the table at Serendipity, lapping up one of their signature jumbo Frozen Hot Chocolates while the young man and his family look on, beaming.
A Miracle at Macy's Page 19
