“Asked, schmasked. I’m offering!”
“But I don’t want you to waste a favor from someone so important.”
“Bubbeleh, there is no wasting. You know those people that say a glass is half-full or half-empty. They don’t know the secret. The truth is, the glass is refillable. Where there’s goodness, there’s always more available.”
Impulsively, I throw myself into her arms. She hugs me back tightly. “Such a good girl.” She rubs my back before letting me go. “Now, you go get something to eat. You need your strength. Leave this to me and the ladies of Congregation Beth Israel! The mayor will be singing your praises on the 12 o’clock news, or I’ll eat my hat.”
I walk out with her into the snow-blanketed Manhattan morning, hail her a cab, and shut the door behind her, and wave goodbye.
*****
The aroma of espresso and yeasty bread in French Roast makes my stomach rumble, as I walk into the steamy-warm dining room and choose a cozy wooden booth near the bar. I’m checking my phone every five minutes waiting for Henry to check in and let me know what his scheme is and how it’s progressing.
I order a cappuccino and a basket of bread with butter and jam, and try to still my mind. The mental picture of Hudson’s harness haunts me. As much as I want to believe what Henry said about the note not being a serious lead, I’m not resting easy. I’m hesitant to bother Craig. He already spent so much time searching for Hudson. I sip my coffee, and it warms me. So does the memory of Craig, a virtual stranger, devoting so much time and energy to Hudson, and to me. I laugh out loud, remembering how he was ready to defend me against Henry in the park. It’s funny to think that they were now partnering to find Hudson, exchanging texts and emails at all hours of the day and night.
Belly full, and nerves somewhat slightly quelled, I pay my bill and step back out into the street. I’m not sure where I should go, so I start walking. I find myself walking down my block, stopping in front of my brownstone. It looks different to me; the way one’s home does after spending a year abroad. There’s no reason I couldn’t simply move back in tonight, except that I don’t want to. I consider climbing the stairs to my apartment, and packing a bag with a few of my own things. I look down at my boots, gleaming red in the accumulating snow, and zip the zipper of my new coat to my chin. I like what I have on. I wonder if my old clothes will suit me when I return to them. Rather than think too much about the answers to these questions, I walk on.
I find myself walking along the edge of Central Park, the last place I saw my Hudson. The impulse to call Craig with questions overshadows my feelings of shyness and I pull out my phone. As it rings, my breathing quickens. I know I’m delicate right now. If he brushes me off, or chastises me for wasting a police officer’s time with my calls on top of Henry’s I’m afraid I might cry.
Just as I’m about to hang up, he answers. “Go for Curtis,” he says.
“Hi Craig,” my voice comes out softer than I expected. I clear my throat. “Craig, it’s Charlotte. Charlotte Bell? Hudson’s mom?”
“I know who you are,” he says. I can hear the smile in his voice. “I was getting ready to call you.”
“You were?”
“Yeah, I been trying to reach Henry all morning, but he’s not picking up.”
I’m walking faster and faster along the edge of the park. “Did you find something out?”
“Yeah, I sure did. I found out the joker who tried to bribe you is dumber than we thought he was. My buddy from the force is a detective, and he stepped in and pretended to be you. Told the guy he’d make the money drop, and to make sure to show up with the dog. The whole show was over in a matter of minutes. My buddy nabbed the guy, and brought him down to the station, threatening him with jail time for conspiracy to blackmail and he sang like a canary. He found the harness in a trashcan near the subway entrance by Columbus Circle. He and his other knucklehead pal saw the story about Hudson on New York One and decided to try and be big dogs. They’re both in a mess of trouble now. Should’ve stayed on the porch with the other little dogs.”
“Thank you for letting me know, Craig. I’m so relieved,” I tell him. And I am, but also a tiny bit let down. As horrible as it was to imagine Hudson in the hands of kidnappers, it was a lead. Now we were back to the trail being stone cold. “Anyway, I should let you go. I know you’re at work.”
“Hold up!” he tells me. “That’s not all I was calling to tell you. A bunch of my buddies at the station, and the other guys Scrivello and I have been reaching out to about Hudson are all torn up about the nasty stuff that’s been showing up on Snapchat, and Instagram, and whatnot. Long story short, one of the sketch artists was doodling around and she made a sketch of you and Hudson.”
“Could we send it out with a press release?” I ask excitedly. “Maybe that would help people see that Hudson and I really are real.”
“Hold up. Yeah, sure, we could do that, but that’s not the best part. We passed the sketch around, showing everyone what a cute dog Hudson is, and that got a couple of the fellas who go through security camera tape thinking. They said, ‘What if we did a public service announcement-type thing? Like a rebuttal to the load of bull that this story got made up by the dog food company?’ So, Scrivello and I started out doin’ a real serious video where we were like character witnesses, ya know? Like a commercial, right? Thinking that if cops set the record straight, then people would listen. And then, heh heh,” he starts laughing.
“What?” His laughter is contagious and I find myself starting to smile. He keeps trying to tell his story, but breaking up. He’s so tickled he can’t get it out. I keep moving, waiting for the punch line. I realized I’ve walked all the way to The Plaza, and I’m not even cold. Despite the temperatures and the occasional flurries, my fast-pumping blood has me nearly in a sweat. Finally, I can’t take it anymore. “Craig! Tell me!”
“It’s plain crazy, is what it is. So we taped ourselves being all sincere, then one of the guys starts buggin’ out, and he does, like a rap version of what we just said. Just cutting up and being all silly. So then, this detective who’s a hip-hop aerobics instructor on the side, starts bustin’ some moves. Hooooooey!” He’s laughing again, and I can just picture him wiping his eyes, grinning ear to ear.
“Tell her the good stuff,” I hear Officer Scrivello say in the background.
“Hold up, I’m getting there. So, here’s the deal Charlotte,” he says, turning his attention back to me. “We did this whole video, with like sampling and choreography, and everything. That one guy from the video surveillance lab’s got mad editing skills, and it turned out looking way more professional than anyone thought when we were just goofing.”
“Tell her,” I hear Scrivello nudging.
“I am, Leonard! Will you stop talking in my ear? Damn! Sorry about that Charlotte. So anyway, he put it up on YouTube, and it’s got way more hits than any of those stupid parody videos saying you’re a liar. They’re calling us the Hip Hop Dog Lover Cops. You gotta check it out.”
“I will, I promise. Craig, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate everything you’ve done. And Officer Scrivello, too.”
“Call me Leonard!” I hear Scrivello yell.
“Will you quiet down? Sorry, Charlotte, I got you on speaker. Anyhow, you don’t have to thank us, we had fun. Besides, that’s what New York’s Finest do. We serve and protect. And we take care of our own.”
I like the feeling of being one of ‘their own.’ Of being anyone’s own.
It feels so much better than being all alone.
*****
I check my phone again for the one hundredth time. Where is Henry? I consider bothering Aunt Miranda to see if she knows where he is, but I don’t want to get him in trouble. I don’t know where he is or what he’s doing. She could very well want him onsite at the pop-up restaurant. Best not to draw attention to him.
I’m right in front of The Plaza. I think about how much fun I had stuffing my face with five-star delicacies, and
bantering with Henry. I smile to myself, remembering what a great mood I was in, despite my near-death-by-pretzel-cart experience.
I turn down 5th Avenue, navigating my way through the salmon-stream of window shoppers, taking in the delights of the decorated storefronts of the designer shops. New York really is the best place to be for Christmas, I think. I take in the sheer number of window shoppers, and marvel at the variety of accents and languages I hear in the snippets of conversations I’m overhearing as I walk.
I feel a buzzing in my pocket, and dive for my phone. It’s Henry!
“Yes?” I answer breathlessly.
“Charlotte. Where are you?”
“53rd and 5th.”
“Good. Head to the suite. I’ll meet you there in 20 minutes.”
“Where are you? What’s the matter?”
“I’ll tell you everything in person. Talk to you soon,” he says, and the phone goes dead.
My stomach sinks to my knees. This has to be bad news, otherwise he would have just told me what’s going on during the call. I pick up my pace, eyes forward, and don’t slow down till the doorman of The Waldorf Astoria tips his hat, and ushers me into the lobby.
*****
I race through the lobby of The Towers, and open the door to the suite. Henry is pacing around the common room, tie off and sleeves rolled up to his elbow. He doesn’t smile when he sees me. He just says, “Hello, Charlotte. Please, sit down.”
I do as he says. I feel that if I try to take control, I’ll just delay getting the news I crave.
“Shall I order lunch?” he asks.
“Eating is the last thing on my mind. Tell me what is going on, now.”
He sits down in the wing chair across from me. Leaning forward, elbows on his knees, he looks me straight in the eye. “I’m going to be blunt with you, Charlotte. What happened is not good. I take full responsibility. I should have seen that backlash of the type that occurred was possible. I feel I led you into a trap.”
“No Henry, you had a good plan.” I wish I could blame him. It would feel so good to channel my anger and frustration somewhere, but Henry didn’t deserve it. “For a while there, it looked like we were getting somewhere.”
He shakes his head. “I’ve worked in publicity, and I have experience with the media. I never should have let this get out of our hands. I’ve allowed them to make you a villain, and the Hudson story a representation of all that’s wrong with big corporations taking advantage of the little people of the world.”
I scoff. “There are no big corporations in this story.”
“Of course,” he says, closing his eyes and rubbing them hard. “But as I said, the story has gotten away from us. We’re so far from the truth now, I wonder if we can ever steer this ship back there.”
“I think I’ve made a start.” I tell him about Mrs. Rabinowitz and the mayor, and Craig’s YouTube video, and The Gay Men’s Chorus.
He takes a deep breath, and lets it out. “All of that is great. Well done. But as I said, things are bad. Bad in an epic way. I’ve been wracking my brain to solve this, and I think I have the answer.”
“Great,” I tell him. “Let’s hear it.”
“I already know you aren’t going to like what I have to say. So let’s start from the top.”
I sit still and listen.
“I’ve been talking with every spin doctor I’ve ever met. To a person, their advice to me was the same.”
“What did they say we should do?”
“I’m getting there. Once they spelled it out, I spent the morning on the phone with every person I know in the news and infotainment world, from intern to hotshot. In fact, that’s why I was up and out so early this morning. I was aiming to put you in front of a camera this morning, but I was too late. The best I could do was to get you booked on air for a breakfast show tomorrow morning.”
I feel the blood drain from my face. “No way. I’m not going on a morning show, if that’s what you’re saying.”
“But the good news is,” Henry says, bypassing my refusal, “I pulled in a million IOUs and managed to get a face-to-face with Matt Lauer. I’ve never pitched so hard in my life. It was touch-and-go, but I managed to convince him the story would be a real heartstring-tugger with a unique Christmas twist. In the end, he agreed that it could be a real ratings booster. He’s interviewing you on The Today Show tomorrow morning at 8:30. We need to have you at the studio by 6 a.m.”
My head thrums. Every cell in my body is frantically sending out warning signals to my brain, telling me to run. “No,” I say, sitting on my hands to quell the energy that’s gathering to propel my body into a run. “I’m not going to do it.”
“Yes,” he says shortly, “you are. You have to go on The Today Show and prove that you are a flesh-and-blood girl who loves her lost dog. You’ll need to be charming, and personal, and make viewers see that you deserve their help. You have to tell them your story. You have to make them believe.”
“I was barely able to tell you my story,” I say, hands trembling. “I can’t go on national television. I’m not Miranda. I’m not you. I don’t go around drawing attention and making a big show of myself.”
Henry fixes me with a hard look. “This is an opportunity. I advise you to take this chance to show New Yorkers Hudson’s disappearance wasn’t some kind of stunt to dupe them.”
“I can’t. I just can’t. We have to find another way.”
“There is no other way, Charlotte. We have tried all the other ways. This is the end of the road.” He’s angry.
“You know,” I snap, “you sit there and tell me I should do this, all smug and bossy. What do you ever do that’s risky? Maybe I’ll go on a morning show when you invite your poor parents over to New York for a proper family Christmas dinner? How about that?”
He’s furious. I watch him swallow what he clearly wants to say, and measure his words. “We are not talking about me. We are talking about a plan to get your dog back.”
I want to say yes, but I literally feel terror. He may as well be asking me to jump out of an airplane or go over Niagara Falls in a barrel. I press my lips together and shake my head ‘no.’
“How badly do you want your dog back?” His voice is sharp.
Feeling under a microscope, I search my soul. I want Hudson back more than anything, but exposing myself the way Henry is suggesting is out of the question. It feels like life and death.
“I don’t have time for this,” Henry says, standing up and stuffing papers into his briefcase. He doesn’t seem angry anymore. He just seems gone. “An array of experts have spoken. You have my recommendation,” he tells me, tone detached and businesslike. He walks briskly to the coat closet, and suits up to go out into the snow and cold. “I’m going to work. You have my mobile number. Call me when you’ve made up your mind.” He turns his back, and goes. I’m left with only the echo of the slammed door to keep me company while I search my soul.
*****
“Hello?”
“Hi, is this Vijay?”
“Yes, this is Vijay. I already told the other guy, I mailed the check on Wednesday.”
I keep walking. I’m fizzing with energy, but I have nowhere to go and no place to be. I just walk. “This is Charlotte Bell,” I tell him. “You probably don’t remember me. I was in your cab once. I’m not really sure why I’m calling you.”
“Charlotte, is that correct? Doesn’t ring a bell. Ha! That is a small joke.” He laughs at himself. “It’s funny because it’s true. You are right. I don’t remember you. Can you tell me more?”
Now I’m really embarrassed. What was I looking for when I fished out his card and dialed his number? “I’m in my mid-twenties, I have dark blonde hair, you took me to Rockefeller Center.”
“Yes!” Vijay exclaims. “Wait. No. Sorry, I do not remember you.”
I’m tempted to hang up. I feel my face heating up and I’m not sure if it’s from shame or the exertion of plodding along in the ankle-deep snow. “You were ve
ry nice to me. You let me bring my dog in your cab. Hudson?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, yes! Even if I had not remembered you from the cab, I have seen the dog’s photo in the paper. Also, my Twitter feed exploded with that cop dance video.” He chuckles. “Those guys are hilarious. They should go on America’s Got Talent. People love it when cops are funny. It’s like when football players do rapping and dancing. It’s entertainment gold. Believe me when I tell you this,” he says with an intense gravity. “I am an industry insider.”
“I remember that. You played Caroline’s, right?”
“I did. And I killed it. You would not believe the tape I got from that show. I sent it in to Last Comic Standing. Mark my words, this is the year of Vijay Singh. Then, with luck, my parents will stop going on and on about how I am wasting my medical degree by doing my ‘little shows.’”
“You’re a doctor?” I marvel.
“I am a licensed internist. I made my parents a deal. We agreed on a salary figure. I told them if I was not earning that amount within five years, I would not only join my father’s practice, but also allow them to arrange a marriage for me. It goes without saying that they are rooting for my failure. Ha!” He laughs. “Actually, that is more sad than funny. I’ll work on that.”
Blocks melt behind me as I chug downtown, race walking in an effort to relieve my tension. “I’m sorry, Vijay. You must be very busy. I’ll let you go.”
“On the contrary. I am waiting for my shift to begin. The guy before me is due to drop off the taxi we share any minute. Though I dread getting in today. Windows stay up on cold and snowy days, and I believe this guy’s diet consists solely of burritos and egg salad sandwiches.”
“Bleurgh, good luck with that. Anyway, I should let you go.”
“Wait, do not hang up. In medical school I was told that my bedside manner and intuition were my best assets. I hope you don’t mind my getting personal, but you sound depressed.”
“Oh, it’s nothing.”
“I don’t believe that is the truth. You can talk to me. Seriously, I am a doctor.”
A Miracle at Macy's Page 24
