A Miracle at Macy's

by Lynn Marie Hulsman

  He leaps out of his bed and runs from the kitchen to the hallway. I hear a ching ching and I don’t even have to turn my back to know that my determined little roommate is rattling his tags, leaping up against the wall under the little blue plastic IKEA hook shaped like a dog’s rear end. He’s trying to grab his leash.

  “Seriously? I have a countertop covered in mincemeat and dough waiting to be made into tiny pies. You’d love a mincemeat pie, wouldn’t you, boy?”

  He doesn’t rise to the bait.

  “Besides, I haven’t had enough coffee yet. Do you really need to change the game plan?”

  With one concerted leap, he snatches the loop of the leash in his muzzle. He stands there, staring.

  “No, I won’t do it.” I cross my arms in defiance.

  “Both you and Aunt Miranda need to learn to respect my boundaries.”

  No response.

  “I know you don’t need to do business. You always hold it until 11:30.”

  More staring.

  “The answer is no.” I turn my back on him. “Schedules are healthy. I read that all the best parents keep their children on schedules. I had no parameters when I was little, no rules. I read in Psychology Today that can make you feel unsafe.” I peek over my shoulder.

  Hudson hasn’t moved a muscle. I wonder if he’s breathing. He doesn’t even blink.

  “Hudson…”

  Still as a statue.

  “Oh, OK!” I heave myself out of my desk chair and pull my coat from the rack.

  Hudson breaks his freeze, and begins a frenzy of circling, first one way, and then the other. I crack up. “Do you love me?” I ask him. He runs at me, and banks off my calf. He’s scratching frantically at my leg, as if to climb me. I know he wants to give me a kiss, so I bend down so we’re nose to nose. He gives me a bounty of face-licks, then stretches his neck out so it fits in the crook of my own. He rubs his cheek against mine, with a few upward jerks. “Aw … huggies!” I say. It’s a thing we do. “You do love me! Sweet boy. OK, we’re going out,” I explain, pulling on my knit hat, “but we’re not going to the dog park. This is just a quick relief break, then I’m coming back to make coffee, and get back to work. Got it?”

  I click the ring of his leash onto his harness, and hold open the door.

  “Did you hear me? Five minutes. That’s final.”

  For a quick second, his eyes twinkle before he bounds onto the landing, and skitters down the stairs.

  *****

  Scratching to get in the park gate, Hudson pulls hard on his leash as I juggle my Starbucks flat white. It spills all over my mittens.

  “Huddie, there’s a reason we make coffee at home. You talked me into leaving the house against my will, can you at least be patient?” I fumble with first one gate, then another. There are always two gates at dog runs: Opening them one at a time contains the “flight risks.” Once we’re inside, I squat down try to unfasten the ring on Hudson’s leash, while maintaining my balance. A man with sunny reddish-blonde, curly hair and warm, brown eyes smiles at me. “Looks like you’ve got your hands full.”

  “He’s a handful, all right,” I mumble. Hudson whines impatiently.

  “Doesn’t the run look fantastic? The community board pitched in funds for all these twinkle lights and the decorations. I hardly recognize the place with all the Christmas trimmings.”

  I take a minute to glance around. It’s breathtaking. The chain-link fence is festooned with glowing shapes made from strings of lights: A dog bone, the outline of a dog, a dog’s face, a dog dish that says “Spot,” on it. And there are various sizes of Christmas tree in every corner, decorated with strings of popcorn.

  “Oh, wow,” I whisper involuntarily.

  “I know, right? I heard they chose popcorn for the trees since it’s biodegradable. Peeing on them is encouraged. By the dogs, of course. Merry Christmas to them.”

  Now I’m on my knees in the dirt and gravel, still struggling to free Hudson. I perch my coffee carefully on a large rock.

  “Listen, Puppy Dog,” I say, “you have to stop pulling if you want me to undo this.” He’s spied some of his neighborhood dog friends and he’s eager to get into the mix.

  “Hold still,” I tell him. “And before you run off, remember this: We’re only staying five minutes. Don’t look at me like that. I know I said that before, but I really do mean it. Pay attention to the time. I don’t want to have to embarrass you in front of your friends.”

  He’s panting with expectation, and his curled tongue and open mouth form a goofy grin. I finally manage to free him from his restraint, and he races toward the clump of canines like a shot. He jumps up to nip the nape of a young Great Dane’s neck, and the oversized pup swings around playfully, nearly taking out a couple of Chihuahuas with his huge feet. The look of sheer joy on Hudson’s face as he throws himself into the throng of dogs makes me smile. The blonde guy catches my eye and raises an eyebrow. He thinks I was smiling at him!

  “Oh, no,” I mumble, waving my hand as if to erase the moment. “I was… well, my dog…” I say pointing.

  Embarrassed, I take a seat on one of the benches along the edge of the fence. The air is cold, but it’s warm in the midmorning winter sun. I loosen my scarf and take in the twinkly scene, trying to relax. I can’t help looking at my watch. I really wanted to start baking by now. I eat lunch at one and this unplanned trip is throwing off my schedule. There is no way I’m going to the tree lighting. Relax, I tell myself. Five minutes, I promise myself. Five minutes.

  Not far away, groups of school children are filing off of yellow buses and up the path to the Natural History Museum. They’re nearly as frisky as the puppies in the park. I don’t imagine much schoolwork gets done in the run-up to Christmas.

  On the corner of 81st, a group of musicians circle up and take out instruments, setting their cases in a bunch near a handler. A mom sits on the bench opposite me, and lifts her toddler out of a stroller. He’s wearing a knitted hat with reindeer antlers attached. The baby babbles and points at me. I can feel my cheeks start to turn pink.

  “Yes, that’s a pretty lady,” the mom says. The baby squeals, delighted, and points again. I wish the baby would focus on someone else. I pretend to be concentrating on picking Hudson out of the pack. Four more minutes, I tell myself, picking at a thread on my sweater sleeve.

  Hudson comes tearing toward me, running so fast that he’s scooping up gravel and flinging it behind himself with every bound. He comes to a stop and bangs into my knees. He shakes all over, and looks up at me, tongue still curled, goofy smile still in place.

  “Hello, my baby,” I say, scratching his ears. “Are you having fun?” My shoulders drop. Maybe we can stay for 10 minutes. It makes him so happy.

  “Who’s a good boy?” I bend down to let him lick my cheek and I nuzzle his whiskery snout. “You’re a good boy, right Hudson?”

  “His name is Hudson? That’s my son’s name!” The guy with the curly blonde hair comes walking up to the bench. I straighten up, and look at his face. He’s handsome, and I cannot pull my eyes away. Seconds pass as I try to think of something to say that won’t sound weird.

  C’mon Charlotte, I coach myself, he’s waiting. It’s been awhile since I’ve made conversation with a guy. Or anyone, really. I try to think of the last time I talked to someone face-to-face. Was it yesterday? The day before? I’m still staring. He’s still waiting. Just say something, I tell myself. Anything.

  “I named him after the deli where I found him,” I finally blurt. “He’d been living in the trash.”

  “Hey, that’s what happened with my son!”

  I stiffen, and suck in some air. “Really? I’m so sorry…or I guess, I mean, that’s great…?”

  He bursts out with a deep belly laugh. “I’m joking!” He sits down on the bench beside me. Hudson is my ex-wife’s surname, so we thought, you know, since he’d have my last name, that it was nice that he’d have something of hers. Do you have kids?”

  �
�No,” I say simply. I don’t elaborate, but I feel like he’s waiting for more of an explanation. He probably thinks something’s wrong with me. I want to tell him that I’m not even married, but saying that might sound like I’m coming on to him. I try to think of something else to talk about. “No,” I say again. Good one, Charlotte! I notice that Hudson has jumped up onto the bench beside the man, and is nuzzling his snout into his armpit. “Just… no.”

  “Well,” he says “this little Westie must keep you busy.” I don’t bother to mention that Hudson is a mutt. Everyone who meets him assigns him a breed. It’s like they see what’s familiar, and decide that’s what he is. The man leans back against the fence and stretches out his long legs. “Does your mommy spoil you, Hudson?” The way Hudson is pushing his head under the man’s arm makes it look like he’s nodding in agreement. “Yeah, thought so.”

  My heart is beating fast. Aunt Miranda might be right. I think I’ve lost the art of having to hold up my end on of the conversation with a live human. When my agent Beverly or book editors take me out to lunch, they’re always happy enough to do the talking, filling the space with business details. And when I make an appearance at Aunt Miranda’s parties or opening-night events, I stick to the background. Anyone who’s had a drink or two generally relishes the chance to monologue, I’ve found. My strategy is to stand next to the Champagne guzzlers. No need to say a word.

  Hudson is now fully seated in the guy’s lap. Should I scold him playfully? Is that the way dog people banter? I pull off my knit hat. My scalp is starting to sweat.

  “That’s my girl over there,” he says, pointing.

  He has a girlfriend and he’s flirting with me? It’s James all over again.

  “The spotted one.”

  I look at a klatch of dogs engaged in a ball game, and spy a Dalmatian.

  “Oh, your dog,” I try. “She’s lovely.”

  “Yeah, she’s a good girl,” he says. I exhale. I’m making this harder than it needs to be. Deep breath, Charlotte. OK, this isn’t bad. This is what I should want, right? To sit and chat with what anyone might call a good-looking man. He’s friendly. He’s not creepy. Look at me! I’m being normal.

  “Your dog is gorgeous,” I tell him, stretching myself. She really is. She’s all legs and flapping ears, filled with energy. One thing I never mind talking about is dogs. Hudson jumps off of the guy’s lap, and heads off to the waste bin, sniffing around.

  “Hudson,” I call, “leave that alone. Here, Hudson. Come!”

  The brass band at the west side of the museum strikes up, and we’re treated to a loud, merry rendition of Let it Snow.

  I check my watch again. It’s been over 20 minutes. I’m itchy to get home.

  “Huddie! C’mon boy. We should get moving,” I call.

  “Oh, are you leaving?” He looks disappointed. “I was hoping you’d stay for a while.”

  “We should go soon,” I tell him and I risk stealing a glance. He smiles. Breathe, Charlotte. This is how people meet people. I don’t feel a particular spark with this guy, even though he’s nice, but maybe this is how it’s supposed to be. Maybe slow and steady wins the race. “Soon-ISH, anyway.” I lean my back against the fence. ‘Ten minutes won’t throw me off my schedule too badly.”

  “People say Dalmatians aren’t the brightest bulbs on the tree, but that’s not true about Daphne.” There’s no rush in the man’s voice, no tension. It’s like he has no other plans for the day. He beams out at his dog. “She’s an angel, smart as a whip,” he says, his voice filled with affection.

  He’s so relaxed, I think. Are other people born like that? I wonder. I sip my now-cold coffee, just to have something to do with my hands. Am I missing a gene?

  “What do you do for a living?” he asks, scanning the playing field.

  “I’m a food writer, and I test recipes on the side. I have a blog.”

  “Do you have a card? With your website on it?”

  “I do,” I say fumbling in my bag. I’m down to my last one, it’s a bit damp, and crumbs from the bottom of my purse are clinging to it. I brush it off, and wonder if he’ll think it’s too gross if I hand it to him.

  “Cool. I’m an art director,” he says, taking the card and pocketing it. “My name is Ken by the way. My friends all call me a foodie. I hate that word, but it’s kind of true. I like cooking, and I really love eating out.”

  “Food is… really great,” I say awkwardly. He smiles encouragingly. “Really. I eat it all the time.” I’m starting to sweat. Not pretty. I try to scratch surreptitiously under my arms. Beneath my coat, perspiration is making me feel all prickly.

  “Glad to hear that. I was just thinking that I’d love to take you out to dinner some night. Do you like Ethiopian?”

  Oh my God. He’s asking me on a date.

  I see Hudson bounding up, holding something in his mouth.

  “Hudson! Put that down. We don’t pick up trash in our mouths,” I say. I hear my rigid, school-marmish tone. Does this guy think I’m a stickin-the-mud? “Hudson,” I try again, “bring that to me. That’s right. Come here. Good boy. I’ll take that.” I hope I sound less uptight. My peppy little angel is headed right toward me, so I bend over and hold out my hand.

  At the last minute, Hudson veers and lasers in on the guy. He drops the magazine from his mouth, onto the guy’s feet, and sits down, looking very pleased with himself.

  “I’ll get that,” I say quickly. I don’t want him to think my dog and I are litterbugs.

  “Don’t worry.” He’s already reaching for it.

  “No, really, I’ve got it.” I bend over to grab it and smack my skull into his.

  “Ow!” I say, rubbing my head. “I’m so sorry!”

  He’s got the magazine in his hand. “Don’t worry. He points to his head. “Hard as a rock,” he says with a laugh. “Hey, you didn’t answer. Would you go out to dinner with me?”

  I reach for the magazine, but the guy is examining it. He turns it over, and to my horror, it’s American Bride.

  Hudson’s on his feet, with his expressive tail high in the air, wagging like metronome on the verge of exploding, looking from one to the other of us.

  The guy laughs out loud, and points to the magazine’s cover. “You have to go out with me now. Your dog obviously has big plans for us.”

  I can feel my whole face go red. Could I go out with this guy? I wonder to myself. It’s been a long time. Why not? It’s crazy that I’m a food blogger and I haven’t eaten out at a nice place in… how long?

  “I guess dinner would be OK,” I say, doubting that’s the truth, even as I say it. I’m talking slowly, turning the possibility over in my head, thinking through any potential pitfalls. What would we talk about for two hours?

  “Great! Have you heard of that new place in Chelsea? The Fork?”

  “No, I haven’t.” I’m embarrassed. The truth is, I don’t know what’s hot or new on the city restaurant scene. “Is it new?”

  “Really new. It’s James Keyes’ latest. American comfort food. He’s the chef behind Four Chairs and East 4th. Do you know of him?”

  I feel like someone just dumped a bucket of ice water down my back. “Oh, I definitely know of him. In fact, I know him.”

  “Cool!” How did you get to know someone so famous?”

  “We went to culinary school together. You know what?” I say, scrambling to pull on my gloves and gather my belongings. “Thanks anyway, but I’m super busy. I really don’t think I can work in going out to dinner any time soon. I’m sorry, we have to go now,” I say, lunging toward Hudson, and snapping the leash onto the ring of his harness in one swift motion. I snatch the magazine from the guy’s hand, and zoom for the gate, dragging my unwilling canine behind me.

  “Wait!” the man calls. “Your coffee!”

  By the time he says it, I’m locking the second gate behind me. I chuck the copy of American Bride into a trashcan, and cut around the museum instead of taking the shortest route home. Hudson w
on’t stop tugging in the opposite direction.

  “Huddie, no,” I pant. “We’re not going back.”

  He sits down on his rump and gazes at me. It looks like he’s raising his one black eyebrow.

  “It’s just a bad idea. I just want to keep things simple right now. Let’s go boy,” I say, gently tugging on his leash. When I hit the avenue, I’m just starting to slow from a jog to a normal gait. My phone buzzes on my coat pocket, and I pull over in front of the German bakery in the middle of the block. I can smell the butter and raspberry from the Linzer tarts and my stomach starts to rumble. I’ve missed breakfast, now I just want to get home, make myself lunch, and maybe, just maybe, slip into my PJs.

  Pulling out my mobile I see a string of text messages waiting for me.

  Can’t phone, so texting. Utterly mad on Rock Plaza. Our life-sized Elf On A Shelf developed sudden-onset agoraphobia and won’t leave her trailer + pranking flash mob dumped buckets of marbles onto skating rink

  This just in: Xmas Eve at yours is no-go. Big celeb getting engaged onstage with the Rockettes. Say you’ll come to Radio City that night, and we’ll order in from Mangia. Still hoping to make it for Xmas dinner at yours. I don’t want you to be alone. x

  OH, and don’t think you’re skiving off on me tonight. You can be my date. I expect to see you here by 7 sharp. If you behave, I’ll bow out and fix you up with Kermit the Frog. xo

  I guess I’ve finally hit bottom. It’s come to my aunt accepting the fact that the only dates anyone can see me having are with a spinster or a puppet. Of course, I just threw away a chance with someone who seemed like a nice guy. Maybe I have become a crazy dog lady. But isn’t that OK? Is there a law that says I have to put on a coconut bra and dance on barroom tables every weekend? Why can’t I just be me, by myself, the way I want to be?

  “Excuse me,” a man barks, pushing past me to get in the door to the bakery. “Nut job,” he mutters under his breath before pushing into the shop. I look at the phone in my hand, and realizing I’ve been staring at it for quite awhile now. I glance down to see Hudson doing a little dance, hopping from one foot to another to another.