New York, New York—August 1961
Vera really should have learned by now that there was no such thing as a quick errand when her uncle came along.
She’d been staying with her grandfather’s brother, John, and his wife, Ora, for the last few weeks to acclimate to the big city before the start of her freshman year at Barnard.
In that time, she could count on one hand the number of times Great-Uncle John had managed to go to a place directly and then come right back without delay.
Aunt Ora claimed that the problem was that her husband used to be a journalist before he became a full-time illustrator for scientific texts, and that he never quite lost the quiet curiosity that made him so good at his former profession.
“You have Washington, DC, plates on that truck, I see,” Uncle John said to one of the men, who was resting his elbow on a wooden crate as he enjoyed a foul-smelling cigarillo. “My wife and I lived there for a time until her work brought us here in the twenties.”
“Before my time,” the man mumbled, the cigarillo bobbing. His thick brows rose as he looked past the elderly John Otis Morse and spotted Vera. “Wait, that her there? Your wife?”
Uncle John laughed. “Oh, goodness, no. This is my nephew’s youngest daughter. She’s staying with us until school starts. She’s going to Barnard in the fall,” he bragged, and Vera felt her face heat with embarrassment.
“Ah, congrats,” the man said, clearly not knowing anything about it except that it was apparently something relatives seemed to find worth telling strangers on the street.
This could have marked the end of the conversation, but instead her great-uncle said, “When my wife and I lived in Washington, she worked as a naturalist at the Smithsonian.”
The man suddenly seemed more interested. “Really? That happens to be where we’re moving these things from.”
“Yes, she was an ornithologist. Studied birds. Mostly retired now, though, of course.”
“No kidding,” the man said, standing up straight and taking the cigarillo from his mouth to drop it on the ground and squash it with the heel of his work boot.
“These are from the bird department. They’re opening a new one here, apparently, and the Smithsonian people are giving the museum a permanent loan of some of their excess, uh, what’s it called? Spes’mins.”
“What an amazing, amazing coincidence!” Uncle John exclaimed. “I wonder if any are specimens that Ora collected herself. I’m sure she would love to come see them once they’re on display. Say hello to some old friends, so to speak.”
The tone of Uncle John’s voice had ever so slightly changed in a way that caught Vera’s attention.
She might have been hoping for a quick escape earlier, but now she was intrigued by his uncharacteristic exuberance.
Her curiosity heightened even more so when he gestured to the clipboard resting atop the crate and continued, “Is that an inventory? Would you mind if I took a quick peek, to see if I recognize anything I can tell her about?”
The man glanced around, then shrugged. “Sure. Guess there’d be no harm in that.” He handed Uncle John the clipboard.
“Murphy!” someone called from the cab of the truck.
“I’m coming!” the man hollered back. “Just put that back on top the crate when you’re done. If I lose that list my boss will blow his friggin’ top.” He remembered Vera’s presence and said, “Ah, pardon me, miss,” and left them alone.
Uncle John quickly went through the papers attached to the clipboard, flipping through rapidly enough that it was clear he was looking for something specific.
“What are you doing?” Vera asked.
He didn’t respond, instead moving his lips soundlessly as he scanned the pages. Finally, he came to what he must be searching for and whispered, “Thirty-one.” And then, to Vera’s absolute befuddled horror, he lifted his seventy-whatever-year-old body up into the back of the truck.
“Uncle John!”
He turned back to her, finger to his mouth insisting on silence. Then he selected one of the remaining crates and pushed it to the edge before carefully climbing down. “It’s heavy, but I think it’s manageable if we work together.”
“What is manageable?” Vera whispered, eyes darting around to ensure neither Murphy or any of his colleagues could see them.
“Carrying this away,” he said, voice strained as he tilted the crate toward them.
Vera had no choice but to grab a corner before it hit the pavement—or her toes. “Uncle John!” She could no longer keep the alarm from her voice. “What are you doing?”
“Keeping a promise,” he said with an odd smile, and hoisted the crate off the truck.
—
The five blocks Vera helped her great-uncle carry the heavy crate were the longest of her life.
Every time they passed someone, she was certain they would be caught.
They had stolen something from the American Museum of Natural History.
A bird, she guessed, based on the conversation leading up to the heist. And that’s what this was, wasn’t it? A heist.
It would be exciting if it weren’t so absurd. Absurd and terrifying.
Her parents could absolutely never find out about this or they’d make her come home for the remaining weeks until the semester started so that she wouldn’t be influenced into committing any other criminal activity by her elderly relatives.
An amazing, amazing coincidence, Uncle John had said. But was it really?
“How did you know that…whatever this is…would be there?” she asked as they crossed what would—thank god—be the final intersection before they got to John and Ora’s apartment.
“I didn’t. Not for sure,” he said. “But when I heard the Smithsonian’s ornithology department was lending some of its collection to the renovated exhibits here, I thought it was worth looking into.”
She didn’t have time to ask any further questions, because they’d arrived beneath the awning of the art deco building her uncle and aunt called home.
The doorman, Wally, immediately stepped in to help them get the crate into the elevator and up to the sixth floor. “What’s in this thing?” he asked.
“Bird,” Uncle John said simply.
Wally’s only response was, “Ah.”
The city sure was a strange place.
Uncle John entered the apartment holding the crate all by himself, and promptly lowered it onto the rug in front of his wife’s feet. Aunt Ora, seated in a leather armchair, looked up from the book she was reading and asked, “What on earth is this?”
Vera leaned against the doorframe, attempting to catch her breath. Sweat beaded on her forehead. Ugh. And she’d just washed her hair last night!
Instead of answering his wife, Uncle John disappeared into the apartment, returning shortly with a crowbar, which he used to pry the crate open with as much haste as an old man can manage after hauling something heavy for a quarter mile.
He removed the top and reached in, tossing the paper and straw used as cushioning around the mystery contents out onto the floor.
“John!” Aunt Ora protested. “You’re making such a mess.”
“Never mind that,” he said. “I’ll clean it up.”
“Yes, you will. And I don’t want to hear a thing about your back hurting—” Vera’s great-aunt’s words were stopped in their tracks as her husband pulled a…a goose from the box?
A goose?
She was only an aspiring biologist herself, but Vera was pretty sure that’s what it was, even though it looked different from any other she’d ever spotted.
Even a neat bird wouldn’t put that look of shock on Aunt Ora’s face, though. There must be something more to this story, she thought.
“Fifty-three years ago, Ora, I promised you that Albus would be yours when he was dead.” Uncle John kneeled on the floor at her feet as if proposing.
It was a romantic gesture, Vera supposed, though she also knew she would probably be the one who would have to help him get back up when this was over.
“I might be a few years late, but here he is, my love.”
“How did you—”
“Ah. Best you not know.” He smiled at her sheepishly. “Perhaps I am still a pathetic scoundrel, but I’m also still yours.”
Tears filled her eyes. “You absolutely absurd man,” she said with clear affection. “But you know we cannot keep this.”
“Why not? It’s only what you’re owed. Consider it your final revenge on that bastard.”
Aunt Ora took Uncle John’s wrinkled hands in hers.
“My final revenge was that I lived a happy life, full of professional successes beyond my wildest dreams and more love than I could ever hope for, while Guy Ledford died alone, leaving no legacy beyond being associated with this singular goose. How petty it would be to take even that away from him…” She trailed off, transfixed on the bird standing eerily still on its wooden platform in the middle of the living room until Uncle John raised her hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss to her knuckles, seemingly pulling her from the memories inside which she’d become momentarily lost.
Suddenly her great-aunt’s lips stretched into a giddy smile that Vera recognized as the same expression as the one in the wedding portrait hanging nearby in the hallway.
“Then again,” Ora said, “fuck him.”