But when Nick reached the sidewalk in front of the bakery, he saw a woman already there, ringing a bell at his station!

“Merry Christmas!” she said as people dropped money into his red kettle. Carrot-colored curls flowed from under her green hat.

“Excuse me, miss,” he said, though her lightly wrinkled face showed she was about his age.

“A donation for those less fortunate?” She vigorously jangled her bell.

“You’ll get carpal tunnel belling that way,” Nick said.

“Oh?” She stomped her red-booted feet onto a cardboard square. “What makes you the expert?”

“I long ago mastered the proper way to bell. And . . .” He pulled a square of red carpet from his tote bag. “Experienced bell ringers bring carpet, not cardboard, to stand on during their shifts.”

“Well, good for you,” she replied. A man exited the bakery. She flashed a dimpled smile and complimented his purple scarf. The man dropped a five-dollar bill into the kettle.

Nick frowned. “This is my station, miss.”

“Miss? Sweet! I haven’t been called “miss” in years. I’m Holly. And you are?”

Nick kept frowning. “My wife and I have been ringing a bell in front of this bakery in November and December for the last nine years. And I happen to be a Deluxe Bell Ringer. Standard Bell Ringers don’t get these prime stations or shifts. And I don’t need to flirt to get top donations.”

“Flirt?” She shook her head. “Because I said I liked his scarf?”

Nick lifted his tote bag. “In here, I’ve got the harmonica I play and the ornaments I juggle. That’s the way to get good drops in the kettle.”

She shrugged. “I signed up for this time and location last month. It was totally available on the website.”

“Website? Ha! Well, computers make mistakes, too.” Nick set down his tote bag, removed his harmonica, and began playing Deck the Halls.

“Oh dear.” She pulled a phone from her coat pocket. “I’ll just call the contact number on my confirmation email.”

Nick lowered his harmonica and shook his head.

“Look, Holly. I don’t care about your confirmation email. They made a mistake. This is my site.”

“Where is your wife, by the way? Did you scare her off with all your rules?”

Nick felt his eyes tear up. “Heart attack,” he whispered.

“Say again?” Holly asked.

“She’d sing while I played the harmonica,” Nick said. “My wife. Natalie. But everyone called her Nottie. She had a beautiful voice.”

“Oh.” Her face flushed. “Is she . . .”

He nodded. “Ten months, five days ago.”

“Oh! Oh gosh! I’m . . . I’m . . . so sorry,” she said.

A woman and a little boy approached the bakery and stopped in front of the kettle. The little boy looked at Nick’s harmonica. “Can you play ‘Frosty’ on that thing?” he asked. “Mama, if he plays ‘Frosty’ can I drop money in the red pail?”

The woman smiled at Nick. “Could you?” she asked. “‘Frosty’ is currently his favorite song.”

Nick closed his eyes, lifted the harmonica to his lips and began to play. He heard the little boy start to sing. And another voice, a sweet soprano. He opened his eyes, expecting to see the boy’s mother singing, but she was only nodding her head. Holly was the sweet soprano.

The song ended, and the little boy asked, “Do you know this one?” He began to sing, “Jingle Bells, Batman smells, Robin laid an egg, the Batmobile lost—”

“Leo!” The boy’s mom touched his shoulder. “Maybe later. We have to get your sister’s birthday cake.” She handed a ten-dollar bill to the little boy who exclaimed, “Merry Christmas!” as he dropped the bill into the kettle.

“Thank you, Leo!” Holly said. “And thank you for singing with us! ‘Frosty’ is one of my favorite songs too.”

“Very generous donation, ma’am,” Nick said. “Thank you.”

As Leo and his mom entered the bakery, the mom looked back over her shoulder and said, “You two make a good team!”

Nick pointed his harmonica at Holly. “See. That’s how I get good drops in the kettle.”

He waited for her to protest that she’d sung along with the kid and that had probably helped charm the big bill from the mom, but Holly was looking down at her boots and pursing her lips.

“Ten months, five days ago,” she said. She looked up at him. “That’s beautiful; we should all be lucky enough to have someone remember our passing like that. Me, I’ll be lucky if my cat misses me when I’m gone.”

Nick sighed. “I have a dog. Taco. He still misses my wife.”

“Scoops,” Holly said. “My cat. She doesn’t seem to miss my ex.”

Nick smiled. “Well, cats. They’re . . .”

“Not dogs,” she said.

They both laughed.

A woman paused before entering the bakery and dropped a dollar into the kettle. Fat white snowflakes began falling.

“Can you play ‘White Christmas’ on your harmonica?” Holly asked.

Nick nodded and began to play. He didn’t object when she started to sing.

Near the end of the shift, the kettle was almost full. Nick had juggled ornaments a few times when people dropped in twenties, and while he juggled, Holly had rung her bell and sung carols in a sweet, clear voice.

Nick was about to suggest they get coffee after their shift ended when her phone rang. She smiled as she talked into the phone. “Sure! Pizza sounds good, Felix. I’ll meet you there as soon as my shift ends here.”

Nick felt something scratch his throat.

Holly looked at Nick. “Do you like pizza?”

He forced a smile. “Pizza’s a perfect food.”

“Want to join me when we’re done here? The restaurant’s about a mile away.”

“You? And Felix?”

“His wife, too. Felix is my brother.”

The scratchy feeling in Nick’s throat vanished. “Sure.”

Holly smiled. “Anchovies and pineapple okay?”

Nick frowned. “Well . . .”

“Just kidding,” Holly said. “And I’m sorry about the mix-up today.”

“We made a good team.”

She nodded. “We did, didn’t we.”

“Tomorrow, too, then?” he asked. “I can bring a piece of carpet for you to stand on.”

She pursed her lips. “Maybe. Two conditions.”

Nick waited.

“Teach me to juggle?”

“I can try.”

“And tell me your name.”

“Oh! Sorry! It’s Nick!”

“You’re kidding.”

“Why?” Please don’t be her ex’s name, he thought.

She grinned. “Nick and Holly! A perfectly named Christmas bell-ringing team!”

SPIRIT CAPTIVE, Jerusalem in Poetry, Prose and Paintings

by Helen Bar-Lev

      Spirit Captive is the impressive collection of poems, short stories, memories and artworks that Helen Bar-Lev presents to us as a declaration of her love for Jerusalem, a city harboring as much pain as pleasure. Through Helen's eyes, we see contested Jerusalem through the seasons and the hours, a city of exquisite beauty. To appreciate the real spirit of this work we should start from the end: reading the poem Spirit Captive, we can feel the bond that exists between the poet and her chosen city. We can also sense the universality of Jerusalem – the painful, sometimes suffering, beauty that permeates it. In A Love Poem to Jerusalem, Helen wonders if God created the sweet air of the city just to intoxicate her and if every stone or gate or flower may have been created as a source of inspiration for her paintings. This book is Helen's masterpiece, where her poems, prose and paintings pay magnificent tribute to Jerusalem.

— from the review by Lidia Chiarelli, President, Immagine & Poesia, Italy

    Available from BookBaby and Bookshop.org, shipping now.

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