A Miracle at Macy’s: There’s only one dog who can save Christmas. Lynn Hulsman Marie

feet onto my thigh.

      On the television, other musicians, sports stars, and the mayor of New York join the singer on the stage in front of the soon-to-be brilliantly illuminated tree. The camera pans the audience. People are holding up their phones and tablets to snap photos. Suddenly, I’m glad I’m en route. I can’t believe I almost passed up this opportunity.

      When the camera pans to the very edge of the stage, I see Aunt Miranda.

      “Look, Hudson, there she is!” I wave frantically, as if I’ll really get her attention. “Hiya, Aunt Miranda! Hi!” Hudson barks.

      “No barking in the taxi,” Vijay says. “Look, there is your Radio City Music Hall.”

      “I’m a New Yorker, I know where Radio City Music Hall is.”

      “Touché,” he says.

      Hudson pants and smiles, eyes on the TV. Can he see Aunt Miranda, I wonder? She looks impeccable in a classic winter white wool coat with a large golden brooch, reminiscent of the bronze Titan Prometheus statue that graces the lower plaza of Rockefeller Center. I’m sure it was no accident. Aunt Miranda is the very essence of style. Standing next to her, typing into an iPad is a young man I’ve never seen before, with wavy light-brown hair falling over the edge of his roundish tortoise-shell, horn-rimmed glasses. He has a neat, close-trimmed beard. He’s smiling, I think. Is he? I can’t be sure, since the shot isn’t a close-up. Maybe it’s just the way his heavy eyebrow arches. He looks like he’s thinking of an amusing story or a joke.

      It’s usually Cerie who assists Aunt Miranda, but I recall that she’s on maternity leave. If her right-hand assistant is gone, no wonder my aunt is more tightly wound than usual.

      “Look Hudson, look at that man with Aunt Miranda. Who do you think he is?”

      The guy is wearing a deep oxblood-colored leather pea coat with a chunky forest-green scarf twined around his neck. It looks hand-made. I wonder if he chose his clothes, or if Miranda “styled” him. He looks up at the scene onstage and smiles a satisfied smile, unmistakable this time. It’s so unrestrained, it makes me smile too.

      For half a second, I wish I were there, smelling the pine scent of the enormous tree, and enjoying the rumbling of the bass singers in my chest during the carols. I feel wide-awake, even though usually it would just about my bedtime.

      The guys’ eyes twinkle behind his glasses for a moment before Miranda points to something up in the tree, and his eyebrows knit together. I can’t see his face anymore, because he’s furiously scrolling through his tablet. I wonder what’s wrong. All of the sudden, the man disappears and the screen is blue, demanding that I touch a button declaring whether I’d like to pay with cash, credit, or debit. I have the sensation of the film breaking in an old-time reel projector. I feel a bit robbed. I wanted to watch him longer; to know what changed his mood.

      “Here we are, as close as I can drive,” says Vijay. “There are police barricades, so I’m very sorry, but you must walk the rest of the way.” Hudson stands up on his back legs, front paws against the window, eyes bright and expectant.

      “That’s fine,” I say, tapping the touch screen and sliding my card into the machine. “We expected that.” I tip him 25%. He did, after all, rescue both me and my little dog from frost bite.

      “Thank you, miss,” he says, pushing the receipt through the slot.

      “Merry Christmas!” I tell him, opening the door to a crisp blast of wintry New York air.

      “I don’t celebrate Christmas.” He waves a hand indicating his turban and dark skin. “The nativity story isn’t sweeping Punjab, if you hear what I’m saying.”

      “Oh, I’m sorry, that was rude…”

      He cuts me off, smiling. “No need to apologize. Many, many people confuse me with Brad Pitt!”

      I open my mouth to respond, but my brain is working hard to catch up. He really doesn’t look anything like the Hollywood actor.

      “Joking! Of course I don’t look like Brad Pitt.”

      I laugh uncertainly. He should probably work on his routine.

      Hudson leaps onto the sidewalk and is straining on his leash.

      “Well, happy winter and good luck with the stand up,” I say, just before slamming the door hard to make sure he’s not heating the whole of the outdoors. I hear, “Don’t forget! Vijay Singh at Caroline’s. Very funny!”

      I feel a smile spreading across my face as I walk across the sidewalk on 50th street toward the huge crowd. “This is fun, isn’t it Huddie?” I call above the din of the throngs and the amplified Muppet version of All I Want for Christmas is My Two Front Teeth that’s coming from the ceremony site. There are tourists everywhere, and to a person, they are all wide-eyed and beaming. As we approach, I spy the hundreds of flags surrounding the ice rink. Normally, the flagpoles fly the colors of every country in the United Nations, but this… I have to catch my breath. To herald Christmas, all of the flags have been replaced by red, green, and gold banners. Against the majestic gold flagpoles, and the myriad lights draped in the potted trees, shrubbery, and along the walls and fences, it makes my heart soar with the promise of what Christmas will bring. And that’s to say nothing of the lush, towering evergreen, standing at the ready to be set aglow. There’s no other word for it, I feel uplifted. Hudson scrapes ahead of me as if he’s trying to dig up the concrete; he’s clearly eager to get into the mix.

      As we get closer to the tents from which stars, PAs, and Teamsters emerge, the crowds become thicker. I bend down to scoop Hudson up, and clutch him to my chest. “Ready boy?” His skinny tail thumps against the front of my coat, and I give him a big smooch on the muzzle.

      People are clearly here to celebrate. The attendees range from bare-legged young women in filmy coats and cocktail dresses, who are so fashion-forward they wouldn’t dare don tights with their stilettos, even in this cold weather, to families wearing matching parkas and knit caps declaring, “Wheeler Family Reunion—Xmas NYC,” to young couples who have such eyes for one another it’s a wonder they can even see the skyscraper of an evergreen.

      A door to what looks like the holding area catches my eye, and I set my sights on beelining through all the bodies to get there. The surprise at my enjoyment of being here is pumping adrenaline through my body, and making me feel like I’ve had a split of Champagne, though I’m stone-cold sober. I have to admit, I’m kind of loving it. Maybe I’ll become the kind of girl who goes to the Macy’s fireworks along the river, or dresses up and boards a Halloween float in the West Village.

      One thing’s for sure: Hudson is in his element. Chest-to-chest, I can feel his little heart drumming rapidly, and his curled tongue is out and bobbing up and down with each step I take. I call that expression his “perma-smile.” I love that he’s happy, but I could do without the wet dog saliva on my already freezing ear. Note to self: Next year, wear earmuffs to tree lighting.

      We shoulder our way through the revelers, and finally make it to the door of a white tent. I hear general buzzing inside, with the occasional shout. I’ve been on enough “sets” of Aunt Miranda’s events to know that tension will be high as the stage managers inside are ruled by the stopwatch, and the talent is marking time, waiting to be led to the stage. I approach a refrigerator of a man, wearing a black suede overcoat, dark glasses, and a formidable headset.

      “Hello, sir,” I begin.

      “You can’t be here, move to the right, miss,” he cuts me off.

      “I’m supposed to be here, you see…”

      “No entry without a laminate.”

      I saw that I was going to have to pull the Aunt Miranda card. I hated myself for what I was about to say. “I’m on the list.”

      “Name?” He barks.

      “Charlotte Bell.”

      He picks up a clipboard from the