Ishtar's Gift

Normally the competing screeches and squawks of the exotic bird exhibit would excite Julie, but today was turning into a very bad day, and the cacophony was giving her a headache.

She’d just passed her third anniversary of working at the Timber Lake Wildlife Sanctuary, and her sixth month working with the birds. All of her charges were rescues—some with missing talons, some with injured wings—but her favorite was a blue-and-gold macaw named Ishtar. Rescued from a pet hoarder a year ago, Ishtar had arrived at the sanctuary on Easter weekend, and Christos Papadopalous, ever the romantic, had used the Easter/Ishtar connection to give her a name at last.

Julie thought of Christos now as she made her morning rounds, cleaning enclosures and speaking softly to the birds. She missed him, but thinking of him was better than spiraling out with stress over her mother’s declining health or how much they’d been getting on each other’s nerves since Julie had invited her to move in and share her small two-bedroom apartment.

She sighed, trying to push back the oncoming headache. Ishtar began bobbing up and down on his perch as she approached, fairly vibrating with excitement, and despite herself, Julie felt a smile spreading across her face.

“Hey, Ishtar,” she said in greeting. “Do you miss Pop, too?”

That was how they’d addressed Christos—never by his first name, or Mr. Papadopalous, just Pop. He’d been a fixture at the sanctuary for decades, until a sudden heart attack had taken him a few months ago at age 76. She remembered him showing off the old pictures of him in the main office—performing surgery on a wolf, or feeding a grizzled brown bear—and how she’d marveled at his movie-star good looks and quiet confidence from his youth. It made her sad to think of him in his final years, weaker and slower than someone of his character should ever be, but she was happy, too. He’d brought a lot of life and laughter to her work.

Ishtar clucked her beak a couple of times and replied, “hello, hello,” one of the few words she knew, but she kept her peace about whether she missed Pop. Her voice was a croak, almost robotic sounding, as most macaws’ voices were. Still, Julie could pick out Ishtar’s voice from a roomful of birds. Pop had taught her how to recognize the subtle differences.

#

“Today’s the day,” Roger announced later, when they were both in the employee lounge on their breaks.

Julie sighed. “Do you mean…?”

“Yeah.” Roger had the good grace to look mournful. “We’ve waited ninety days, according to the company policy, but nobody’s come to clean Pop’s locker. It’s time. And since you two were close, I thought that…you know…you should be the one to do it.”

“But you’re the manager. Please? It makes me so sad, just thinking about it.”

Roger sighed. “The man had no family. It’s probably just old pay stubs and candy wrappers. Keep what you want and throw the rest out, I guess.” His phone buzzed, and he glanced at it before turning away.

“I have to take this,” he said, not meeting her eyes. “Just get it done, okay?”

He hurried off, phone pressed to his ear.

“Idiot,” Julie muttered, not unkindly. With a sigh, she approached the line of lockers and, with great care, opened the one with Pop’s name on it. Employees were allowed to use their own locks on the lockers, but almost nobody did. They were a small group, but they all trusted each other. They had to, in case of an emergency.

Roger had been right about the pay stubs, but no candy wrappers were in sight. The pay stubs were stacked neatly on the locker’s shelf and kept together with a binder clip, and Julie knew without looking that they would be carefully ordered by date. Hanging on the hook was Pop’s lightweight sweater, and a spare pair of shoes sat on the bottom. There were no pictures or keepsakes taped to the inside of the door, although many of the other workers liked to do that.

The only other items were a well-thumbed large-animal medical text and a shiny black lockbox, about the size of a child’s shoebox. Julie lifted the box from its spot on the shelf and inspected it in the bright light of the lounge. It was well made, strong and solid, and a combination lock held it closed in the front. She rapped on its lid, but could glean nothing about its contents. She had a feeling she wasn’t getting into it without some effort.

Julie placed the box and the textbook in the grocery bag that had held her lunch, and after a moment’s hesitation, she added the sweater. The shoes were worn nearly straight through to the soles, so she threw them out.

In the moment before she closed the locker door she saw something else, pushed back against the rear wall: a small black notebook. It must have been hidden under the box earlier.

With shaking hands, feeling somehow intrusive, she retrieved the notebook and thumbed through its pages. It was about halfway filled, mostly with notes about the animals’ health and details of each day’s work, all in Pop’s careful handwriting. She flipped to the last page with writing on it, and her heart stopped when she saw her name.

Julie:

I knew you’d find this. I made Roger promise that you’d be the one to go through my locker. It didn’t seem right to ask you directly, because I didn’t want to upset you. I’m sorry for keeping you in the dark.

The doctors say my heart is weakening. Too many incidents in too short a time. There’s no reason to fool myself: I won’t be around much longer.

But listen, don’t be sad. You know me—I’m always smiling. It just means I’ll be seeing Delores again, and sooner than I thought I would.

You know I’ve always liked puzzles and riddles, and you’re so patient with me when I share them with you. Well, I have one last puzzle for you.

The box is for you. I don’t care what you do with the rest of my things, but the box is yours. Ishtar will tell you how to get into it. It seems fitting, because we both love that stupid bird.

You’ve been a great comfort to me, and great company. I hope I’ve been the same for you, too.

Love you, kid.

--Pop

#

Julie’s mom was watching old reruns of I Love Lucy when Julie came home from work. The ability to stream old shows had become one of her greatest joys in recent months.

It was later than usual, because she’d had to compose herself after finding the letter in Pop’s little black notebook, so she got right to work on dinner while catching her mom up on her day.

“So he left you a note and a box?” She had her mom’s full attention—the TV was paused, and she thought she saw something of the old mischievous glint in her eye.

Julie put down the knife she’d been using to cube sweet potatoes. “Yeah, but I have no idea how to get into it. Ishtar was no help. I felt like an idiot trying to get something out of her, but she just kept saying hello, hello, and squawking in my face. Once she said hungry, but that didn’t help.”

“Huh. Well, you could just smash it open.”

“I know, Mom. But Pop wouldn’t have wanted that. You heard the letter; he loved puzzles. It’d be, like, disrespectful to his memory.”

They lapsed into comfortable silence, and a few minutes later Julie heard Lucy and Ricky bickering about something on the TV. Julie took the opportunity to take inventory of her life: thirty-five years old, an only child, taking care of her ailing mother after moving her into her two-bedroom apartment, which had felt much roomier beforehand.

The problem wasn’t just Beverly’s health; it was the pills that kept her going on a daily basis. After the death of her husband of forty years, she’d just kind of…given up. Her health had taken a big hit, and she’d never really recovered. All of Beverly’s savings had gone into her husband’s cancer treatment and hospice, and now Julie was forced to make some tough decisions. Before long, the two of them would have to move into an even smaller place, just to save money for Beverly’s medication.

After dinner, Julie helped her mom into bed, where she would probably read for an hour and then fall asleep. The routine of every day, the sameness, sometimes threatened to suffocate her.

Alone on the couch, Julie pulled up Timber Lake’s website on her phone and navigated to the wildlife page. Every animal in the sanctuary was there, organized by habitat, and for a long while, she just stared at Ishtar’s photo and wondered how to unlock the secrets of the box.

#

The dial on the combination lock went from 0 to 39. The obvious solution was a date of some kind, but that would mean that the year couldn’t be between 1940 and 1999, because that would be out of the 0-39 range. She didn’t know Pop’s birthday offhand, but he was the only one old enough for that to work. Besides, that had nothing to do with Ishtar, who was supposed to be the key to solving the puzzle. Ishtar’s own birthday was unknown, but the date she’d arrived at the sanctuary—April 12, 2020, or 4/12/20—didn’t work. The European date format of 12/4/20 had also been a bust.

Frustrated, Julie found herself in front of Ishtar’s perch that Saturday, even though it was her day off.

“What’s your secret, pretty bird?” she asked for the tenth or twentieth or hundredth, time, but Ishtar just clicked her beak and rubbed her head against Julie’s outstretched hand. The macaw accepted some nuts from her and raised one leg to clean a talon. The light caught the slim identification bracelet around her leg as she did so, and the numbers glinted so brightly for a moment that Julie had to look away.

A moment later, inspiration struck her.

Ishtar bobbed on her perch and made contended cooing noises as Julie gently turned the bracelet to read the digits imprinted on it: 220930.

Six digits.

22. 9. 30.

It fit.

That had to be it.

Fighting back a whoop of triumph to avoid scaring the birds, Julie kissed her fingers, pressed them to the top of Ishtar’s head, and jogged back to her car.

#

She counted $20,000 in the black box, rubber-banded together in twenty stacks of $1,000, all in fifties in hundreds. On top of the cash was another note from Pop, in the same handwriting as before:

Julie:

This is for you. I don’t want to hear any arguments from you, either.

Everyone says I don’t have any family, but that’s not quite true. I have one daughter, and she married rich and lives overseas and has no use for this money. She’ll get the rest of my estate when the time comes, but I know your situation, and I love you for the sacrifices you’re making.

You’re like a second daughter to me. Thank you for showing kindness to an old man. I hope this helps to ease your burden.

--Pop

“You beautiful man,” Julie breathed. She felt light-headed. She’d only counted the money once, but she’d read the note at least half a dozen times since opening the box.

She blinked, and the money was still there.

“Mom!” she shouted, closing the box again and tucking it under one arm. “I have good news!”

THE END