Tadpoles in My Jar

McGregor's Nook

Betty

My heart sinks deeper into my stomach each day that I check the post box and don't see an envelope with my name written on it. I've learned to avoid the bronze-plated box; each hopeful glance only brings disappointment, like a drought waiting for rain.

Instead, I've learned to distract myself with walks around Greenwich Village, trying to shake off the unease that clings to me. I stop in The Beanery first, a ritual during my walks. They whip up the best cappuccino, but the hot chocolate isn't nearly as good as Marg's. 

Looping around the Washington Square fountain, I count my tracks in the snow, the cold air nipping at my fingertips. On my third lap around the fountain, I remember: tomorrow is James' 17th birthday. He hated that it fell so close to Christmas, feeling like an afterthought in the midst of the holiday rush. But to me, his birthday was always its own celebration—something I made sure of every year, with one gift for his birthday and another for Hanukkah.

I loved being part of the Bennett's Hanukkah celebrations. Even though I wasn't Jewish and couldn't speak a word of Hebrew, Mrs. Bennett welcomed me with open arms like I was family. Hanukkah felt different after she passed. I could see it in James' face, the way he stared at the menorah's flames, distant and withdrawn. What had once been a time filled with stories and laughter felt quieter, dimmer, like the light she brought to their home had faded with her.

Lost in thought, I wander into McGregor's Nook, a tiny bookshop on Waverley Place. The scent of aged paper and leather fills the air as I run my fingers along the spines of the dull colored books.

"Can I help you find anything?" a voice calls from around the corner.

"I'm just looking," I call back, slightly irritated that my moment of peace was interrupted. 

"I've seen you come in here a lot," the voice continues warmly.

I peek around the corner to see an elderly man in a green cashmere sweater, his hair a tuft of soft white wisps, and his kind face adorned with wrinkles that deepen with his gentle smile.

I step closer to the man, glancing around at the shelves. "I like coming here to clear my head," I admit. "Books are an escape for me."

He chuckles. "What's your favorite book?" 

"The Great Gatsby," I say, stepping towards him. "The idea of chasing a dream... even when it feels impossible. Fitzgerald had a way of capturing the hope in people's heart."

Suddenly, a white, long-haired cat with opal eyes tiptoes around the corner, rubbing against my leg. 

"Ah! I see you've met Fitzgerald," the man says with a laugh. "Named after the very author you mentioned."

"A fitting name," I smile, reaching down to stroke the cat.

"I'm Ed McGregor," he says, holding out his hand. 

I shake his hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you. I'm Betty."

"Betty," he repeats thoughtfully. "A strong name. Classic. So Betty, are you from the city?" 

"No, actually, I come from a small town in Ohio — Gallipolis," I say with a slight chuckle. 

"Gallipolis," he echos, sounding out each syllable . "I'm going to need you to point that out to me on a map." 

I laugh softly. "Most people do. Blink, and you'd miss it."

His eyes crinkle with amusement. "I imagine it's quite different from here."

"Very," I nod. 

He pulls a slim, hardbound book from his mountainous stack on the desk. "Have you ever read Sylvia Plath?"

"No, I haven't," I say, intrigued.

He hands me The Bell Jar. "Here, give this a read. Sylvia Plath was quite the enigma, a writer ahead of her era," Mr. McGregor says.

I fumble around in my bag for my wallet.

Holding up his hand with a smile, he says, "Merry Christmas, Betty."  

I blink in surprise. "Thank you, that's very generous of you."

"Come back and tell me what you think when you've finished," he says with a wink. 

As I leave the bookshop, clutching my new treasure, I wrap my red scarf around my neck. The city lights begin to twinkle, reflecting in the puddles on the streets. For the first time in weeks, I feel a flicker of hope, like the soft glow of candles in a menorah—small, but persistent against the darkness. Maybe this Christmas wouldn't just be a reminder of what I lost; perhaps it could be a chance to rekindle the light I felt back in Gallipolis.