“We’d better find Santa’s Corner and collect Hudson,” Henry tells me. He leads the way past a stand selling Nutella-stuffed Chimney Cakes, a luxury soap and body scrub stall called Sabon, three outdoor Ping Pong tables, all of which are in play with lines of expectant challengers, garlanded and ribbon-wrapped gas lamps, and countless numbers of bundled revelers seated at the very French-looking little metal tables and folding chairs.
As we approach the grotto space, Henry gets ahead of me. A sea of bodies comes toward me, like an ocean wave, pushing me backward.
“Henry!” I call out.
A leather-gloved hand slices through the crowd, and takes my own. With a firm hold, Henry leads me.
Here we come a-wassailing among the leaves so green, here we come a-wassailing so fa-ir to be seeeeeeeen, love and joy, come to you…
Without preamble, we are surrounded by Santa’s caroling entourage. He is being led, parade-style, to a waiting sleigh parked on 42nd Street. Maybe not so much a sleigh, as a convertible Jeep with fake reindeers on wheels attached to the front, but I’m alarmed that he’s leaving.
“Henry!” I call over the din of carol singers, “Grab Santa, he’s leaving.”
Henry lets go of my hand, and begins jogging along the outside of the group. “Santa!” he hollers. “Mr. Claus!” I see his head popping up as he strategizes about how to reach the jolly old fellow.
“Pardon me, pardon me,” he says, elbowing elves and snowmen aside, “I need to speak urgently with Father Christmas.”
…may God send you a happy new yeeeeeear!
The second the singing dies down, Henry swoops in to commandeer the attention of the big fat man in the bright red suit. I see him grab Saint Nick’s arm, talking very fast as he continues to jog alongside the procession, but I can’t make out what he’s saying. Santa answers with an impressive belly laugh, palms cradling the legendary bowl of jelly, before looking both ways furtively before leaning in, and giving Henry an earful. He pulls a flask from the pocket of his velvet suit, and offers it to Henry. I see Henry hold up a hand to decline, and the flask is put away. Ranting away, Santa gesticulates wildly, pointing at an imaginary watch on his wrist. Henry nods solemnly, and crosses his heart.
We wish you a merry Christmas, we wish you a merry Christmas…
Santa’s crew strikes up the chorus, and the elderly elf joins in with gusto. He dances along in the procession with his arms around the shoulders of a young, blonde elf in a short, fur-trimmed skirt. He’s belting out the carol and punching the air with gusto. As the parade moves on, his hand slides farther and farther down the elf’s back until he’s cupping her rump with his black-gloved hand. She shoves him hard with her shoulder, and he’s knocked sideways. Not missing a beat, a couple of the burlier elves catch him and set him upright, while he adjusts his wig and hat. It looks to me like they’ve been down that road before.
We pull over in front of a candle vendor to get out of the pressing crowd. We have no choice but to stand still and watch in silence since conversation is impossible when they’re singing so loudly. We’re shoulder to shoulder as we squeeze together to allow the revelers to stream by. Our fingertips brush, and Henry pulls his hand away, making a show of needing to cough into his fist. I remember the feel of his hand as he held mine, pulling me through the throngs of people. It felt big as it engulfed my smaller be-mittened hand, and warm and substantial. James and I never walked holding hands. I wouldn’t let him. We just…weren’t that way.
When the din decreases, Henry fills me in. Turns out, Hudson was there earlier. One of the snowmen saw him tap-dancing around the sleigh. She (it happened to be a she, so, maybe one of the snowwomen?) saw that people were giving him treats like pieces of steamed pork bun, and shish-kebab in exchange for little tricks like ‘paw’ and ‘sit.’ She thought it would be a great idea to take a hat from one of the animatronic Santa puppets in the Christmas Tree Shop, and put it on Hudson’s head. He was game, and patiently sat on Father Christmas’s lap during the reading of Twas the Night Before
Christmas, much to the delight of the crowd. After that, he’d slipped back into the crowd. Someone said they saw him riding on the little French carousel with a boy in crutches, but nothing after that.
“So what was with all the secrecy?”
“Oh that. He explained that he’d double booked and was due at Grand Central Station’s Holiday Market and Train Display 10 minutes ago. He didn’t want to spoil the illusion of being the real Santa so he had to leave quickly.”
“Of course he’s not the real Santa.”
“Obviously, as there is no real Santa, but he didn’t want to spoil it for the children.”
“No, I mean the real Santa is at Macy’s.”
He raises an eyebrow. “First a magical dog, and now this? You’re going to ruin your image as a Puritan pilgrim from the Mayflower and Carson from Downton Abbey.
“You make me sound all spinsterish and uptight! That’s not me. I’m plenty of fun. In my own way.”
“Be that as it may, it’s clear to even the most innocent tot that this gentleman is no way Father Christmas. Did he think people wouldn’t cop on when they saw the ear hangers on the back of his whiskers? It’s his busy season, he said. In his own inimitable words, he told me ‘Everyone wants a piece of Santa, if you know what I mean.’ I assured him that I did not.”
I cannot help laughing. Once I start, I just can’t stop. Maybe it’s a release from carrying all the worry about Hudson. Or maybe creepy Santa imposters are simply hilarious. At first, Henry looks worried. As I keep laughing, his worried look turns stern, and I think he might scold me for improper behavior. Finally, a smile spreads across his face, crinkling the corners of his cerulean blue eyes. It widens, and suddenly he’s laughing, too. We laugh like that, then catch our breaths. Just as I’m wiping my eyes, and stretching out the aching muscles of my face, Henry squeaks, ‘Everyone wants a piece of me!’ and we’re both doubled over, clutching one another for support. We cross over to the point where we’re not even making noise, just pantomiming what people dying of laughter might look like. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice that Bad Santa has ascended his makeshift sleigh, and is waving goodbye to his fans. Just before the door closes, I see a multicolored streak duck into the vehicle.
“Hudson,” I gasp, trying to swim up to the crest of the laughter. “Henry, it’s Hudson.”
I point to the departing parade float. Henry immediately gets it, and regains his composure on a dime. “Let’s go!”
He takes my hand, and we’re off.
*****
We arrive panting and flushed at the Vanderbilt Avenue entrance to Grand Central Station. 42nd Street looked like a parking lot, so we travel the several long avenue blocks on foot. We stand at the top of the twin marble staircases for a moment, and survey the scene. The departure boards are to our right, a level down. We’re looking down on the well-known opal-faced clock above the information desk, which has been adorned for the holidays.
We could not have chosen a more hectic time to be here. “Like I said, Henry. When I find him, I’m going to kill him.”
Henry’s eyes are sweeping the station. “Do you hear how ridiculous you sound? Charlotte, he couldn’t have pre-planned this. It’s not like he’s been Googling New York Christmas holiday events with his paws.”
The sheer number of commuters and shoppers is staggering. College students and young city interns wait in line with their backpacks and duffels, eager to train home to their parents’ houses where their laundry will be done and plates of food will be set before them. Travelers from all parts of the world are arriving from their U.S. tours to experience a real New York Christmas in the heart of the city. Local families hustle to the Christmas Village to do last-minute shopping and bask in the atmospheric holiday train exhibition. And finally, we’ve managed to arrive at the end of the workday. Tired-looking men and women in suits wield coffee cups and newspapers for their journeys home to Croton-on-Hudson or Connectic
ut, pushing through the last few days before the blessed vacation week.
I look left and right, trying to pick out clues from among the swirling dots at the bottom of the staircase.
“I didn’t say he planned it, exactly. But this is the kind of thing Hudson wants me to do. You know, get out there. Be in the mix. I’m always telling him crowds aren’t my thing, and he just shakes his head and snorts.”
“Has it ever occurred to you that he’s just doing that because he’s allergic to dust?”
“Stop being such an old Scrooge. You just don’t know Hudson, that’s all. Once you meet him, you’ll get it.”
“Look. There,” Henry points to a woman walking in the opposite direction, with a dog tucked under her arm. He takes off running down the sweeping staircase, and I follow hot on his heels. “Madam!” he calls. About 20 women turn around, then keep walking. “Hello? Lady in the red coat! Excuse me.”
Finally she turns around. “Yes?” I get a clear look at her dog’s face. Not Hudson. I shake my head.
“Never mind,” Henry says, “Merry Christmas.”
We cover every square inch of the terminal, and even venture out onto the train platforms, where we hand out flyers to the porters known as redcaps and to passengers alike. We go down to the lower level to the elaborate food court. It’s difficult to traverse, it’s so packed with diners-on-the-go. The enticing aromas of the various cuisines from around the world begin to call to me. After my sumptuous tea at The Plaza, I thought I would never eat again, but that had been hours ago.
We look around Golden Krust, the Jamaican beef patty vendor. We go to the very end and inquire at Two Boots, the pizza place fusing recipes from both boot-shaped Italy and her sister boot-shaped locale, the state of Louisiana. I hand a flyer to the Middle Eastern proprietors of Eata Pita. The salt-of-the-earth New Yorker at the counter of Frankie’s Dogs to Go tapes a flyer to the front of his counter, and offers us free red hots with kraut, but I don’t feel we can afford to stop.
Finally, as we’re crossing a long hallway in the vault below the main level, Henry stops me. “Charlotte, you’re running yourself ragged again.” I put my hand against the cool, tile wall and gaze around at the series of domes and arches. The air is cool and damp. It’s almost like being in a Roman catacomb. I feel tired.
I know Henry’s right about spinning my wheels, but we were so close. “We almost had him. We let Hudson slip right through our fingers.”
“But that’s a positive, right? You saw that he’s not only alive and well, he also appears to be thriving. According to you, he’s having the time of his life. You said yourself that he’s looking for adventure.”
“You don’t believe that,” I tell him, narrowing my eyes.
“Well, no. I don’t. But, it’s clear that he’s not in danger. Forget what the stereotype is of New Yorkers being rude and cold, Hudson has been embraced at every juncture. Everyone who has met him has offered him food, companionship, and even a home if he needed one. People are good, Charlotte.”
I gaze down at the square, brown tiles on the floor and think about that.
“I understand that hasn’t always been your experience,” he says gently. But given the chance, most people want to help. Trust them,” he says, tilting my chin upward with his index finger. “Trust me.”
I take him by the shoulders and situate him in one corner of the vault, at the base of one of the arches. I hold up a finger, warning him to stay put. He nods. I cross over to the opposite corner of the vault and turn my back on him. Relying on the magic and the physics of The Grand Central Terminal Whispering Gallery, I say very softly, “I trust you, Henry.
I turn around and see his face across the vault. His eyes are soft, and it looks like he’s holding his breath. He heard me.
*****
With its vintage marquee lights lining the arches of the low vaulted ceilings, and its jaunty red and white Italian checked table cloths, Grand Central’s world-famous Oyster Bar is reliably festive at any time of the year. At Christmas, with the addition of dressed-up potted pines and swags of greenery and red satin bows, the cheer outdoes itself. Just stepping through the glass doors would even lift the spirits of the most hardened Scrooge.
Rather than join the diners in the main room, I motion to Henry that we should sit at the counter. Once again, he has convinced me to slow down and eat. He’s never been here, so I’ll enjoy the fun of watching him eat their unparalleled oyster stew or chopped clam pan roast for the very first time. The thing about sitting at the counter is that you are treated to both dinner and a show.
We slide ourselves onto the padded, swiveling, low-backed stools, and slide off our coats. There’s a chalkboard on the wall announcing today’s selection of oysters and clams, and the market price. The entertainment factor begins with the greeting from the ancient career waiter that could be described more as a grunt. Probably installed here since the forties, this man is here to supply us with beer and shellfish, not to make friends.
We each order the oyster pan roast, and before long, I’m taking a deep pull from a frosty mug of beer.
“I’m as thirsty and tired as I was this afternoon,” I tell Henry.
He’s checking his phone, brows knitted. “Could the lady have a pint of water, please? Thanks very much.” The crusty white-shirted waiter plonks down a glass in front of me. “For heaven’s sake, let’s avoid calling the ambulance again.”
“I don’t know. It might be fun to see Leo again.”
“He was highly unprofessional,” Henry mutters into his beer.
“Oh, come on. I’m cured, aren’t I?”
“You’re cured, that’s all I’ll agree to. And a good thing, that. I was roundly chewed out by your aunt for allowing you to be mowed down by a runaway pretzel cart. I’m not sure those mustard stains will ever come out of your track suit. Won’t happen again on my watch.”
I don’t respond, and instead nurse my beer. Behind the counter, a chef expertly chops the jumbo fresh oysters into pieces using a cleaver. I watch as he turns the valves on two of the tureens and I hear the hiss of steam. The kettles are similar to double-boilers, and hang from stands pivoting to decant finished soups directly into bowls. He tosses in generous, unmeasured lumps of butter, pours in clam juice, and slides in the chopped clams.
“Something the matter?” Henry asks.
I screw up my courage and ask, “Was Aunt Miranda the only reason you cared if I lived or died?”
“Of course not. How could you ask that? I was only saying that she was worried as well.” He glances at his phone again, and says, “Excuse me,” before typing into it.
Our chef pulls two expansive soup plates from a stack, and lines them both with triangles of white toast. He pours a generous amount of cream into the tureens, gives a stir, then adds a spoonsful of chili sauce, dashes of celery salt, and shakes of Worcestershire sauce. Quickly, he fishes out the oyster pieces, and layers them onto the toast. Then, he tips the tureens, submerging it all in a thick, creamy broth. The bowls are filled to the brim, and I’m impressed that the waiter so quickly ferries them to the counter without spilling a drop. Behind the scenes, the chef fills the kettles with water, cranks up the steam, tips out the liquid, gives a wipe with a fresh kitchen towel, and he’s ready for the next order.
Henry puts his phone away, and leans over his bowl, inhaling the fragrant stew. He takes a sip of his beer and proclaims, “Now this is about as perfect a moment as I’ve experienced for a long time.” He swivels his stool to face me. “Are you happy Charlotte?”
“I am, but I feel torn. How can I enjoy this cozy atmosphere, the warmth, the indulgent food and drink, when I know Hudson isn’t curled up at home in the window seat waiting for me? Before I go out, Henry, I always fluff his nest and arrange them just how he likes them. I didn’t bring much with me from England, but I did bring each and every knitted afghan blanket Bridget ever crocheted for me.”
“Who’s Bridget?” he asks.
“She w
as our cook.” I stir my soup, and float a few round, puffy oyster crackers on top. “My nanny, really.”
“Are you in touch?” he asks.
“It didn’t really work that way. Anyway,” I shake my head hard to clear the memories, about Bridget and Hudson. “Once his nest is ready, I always call to him. ‘C’mon, boy, time to dig in!’ He burrows way down deep, thinking he’s camouflaging, so he won’t be spied and disturbed. You should see it Henry,” I’m laughing now, and I dab at the corner of my eye with my heavy white napkin. With his combination glossy and wiry coat, with its wild patchwork of colors, he looks like he was knit together from the scraps from Bridget’s yarn basket, just like the blankets were. Before I leave, I always kiss him on the muzzle and promise to come back. I wish that he’d be there tonight when I go home.”
“Me too,” Henry says, facing me, his elbow on the counter and his cheek resting on his knuckles.
“So I do feel happy, Henry. But I also feel guilty. How can I enjoy all this when Hudson is out there alone?” Steam rises from my bowl and warms my face. I take a deep breath.
“Another round?” the waiter asks. I say no, as Henry is saying yes.
“Have another drink, Charlotte.” I hesitate. “Please.” He nods and the waiter retreats. “Surely you’ve heard stories on the news about owners moving and dogs showing up six months later having tracked their owners down all the way across America? Don’t you think Hudson is as smart as those dogs?”
“I know he is.”
“Then believe. Believe that people are looking out for him. Trust that he’ll either make his way back to you, or make himself known. Allow yourself an hour to have a nice meal and relax with a drink, and take care of yourself. Can you do that?”
“I do really like this soup,” I tell him, spraying bits of oyster cracker.
Henry breaks into a wide grin. “Then, for God’s sakes, woman. Grab it while it’s hot.”
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