“It’s nice to meet you, Ms…?” smiled 4B, and she looked at Nora and then back to Aunt Mace. “I don’t know what to call you.”
“People call me all sorts of things, but Aunt Mace will do,” laughed the older woman. Nora realized she had missed Aunt Mace’s quick wit. Tired or not, the woman could spit one-liners and sarcasm like a Gatling gun.
“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Aunt Mace. Nora has told me a lot about you.”
“That means I need to get caught up on you, since Nora hasn’t told me a damn thing about you. Do you drink coffee?”
“A cup sounds nice.”
“You gals go ahead and stow your gear and then come on back up here and tell me all about your adventure. Shit-fire!” the old woman added, and Nora dodged a flick of the towel she held. “You had me worried!”
“I’m so sorry you had to worry, Aunt Mace.”
“Don’t waste time feeling bad, Eleanor. You’re safe and sound now. It’s all that matters. Now go get settled while I fix us up some coffee.”
Nora led 4B through the kitchen where Aunt Mace was already starting to pull out the things needed to make coffee. She’d already started the grinder and the rich smell of the fresh coffee grounds blending with the familiar smell of Aunt Mace’s house reminded Nora that she was finally home. They went out the back door, and 4B threaded an arm through Nora’s.
“Eleanor?”
Nora laughed. She was used to the question. She didn’t look like an Eleanor, and never went by it. It had also taken her a big chunk of her life to appreciate the shortened form of Nora. She considered the names old fashioned and, at one time, had tried to get people to call her Lea, but it had never stuck. Now, she kind of liked Nora and only tolerated being called Eleanor from Aunt Mace and Aunt Mace’s two best friends.
“My mom named me after Eleanor Roosevelt.”
4B studied Nora for a moment.
“I don’t see it.”
“Me either. I’ve never gone by it. Even as an infant, my mom called me Nora. Aunt Mace is the only one who has ever called me Eleanor. Well, her and her friends Ship and Elphie.” Nora explained the rest to her as they made the short trip from the main house to the small one behind it. “So, it’s Eleanor or Nora, depending on who you are. That’s the story, and I’m sticking to it,” said Nora, opening the door and standing in the tiny mudroom opening into the small cabin.
“Well, Nora’s my favorite name, now,” said 4B, with a gaze into Nora’s eyes that made Nora want to kiss her.
“Is it now?” she asked, refraining from doing any of the things that teased through her mind. “I’d give you the tour, but I’m afraid if we got near my bed, the coffee will get cold.”
“I completely understand. I would want to take my time with you, anyway,” said 4B, giving Nora a quick kiss and dropping her bag near the front door. Nora wrestled with the urge to grab her and take her upstairs anyway, but she just watched 4B gaze around the open area of the first floor, much of which was dominated by the living room. Then they retreated back to the front porch.
“You and your aunt certainly have different tastes,” said 4B taking Nora’s hand as they descended the front steps.
Nora’s décor was minimalistic in comparison to her aunt’s house, where every space was occupied with colorful art, knick-knacks, and crafts. In contrast, Nora’s open living room displayed only a handful of well-loved pieces of art adorning the walls, and a half-dozen carved totems gracing the surface of a few shelves and tables. Books filled the floor-to-ceiling shelves of one wall, and a low table standing behind her work desk was stacked with computer equipment. Other than that there were a few other pieces of furniture, but the room was uncluttered and neat.
“My aunt is a famous homesteader,” explained Nora, as they walked back to the house.
“Homesteader? Isn’t the time of homesteading—even in Alaska—long over?”
Nora laughed.
“You’re thinking of the homesteaders who settled our vast continent in the frontier days. Like Laura Ingalls Wilder and Mary Meyer. Today, it’s a term used to describe a person who finds artful uses for things that would normally be discarded. You know—someone who makes a shelf out of a wine crate or a picture frame out of an old window.”
“Oh. A recycler.”
“Yeah, only a recycler on crack. A homesteader makes recycling into an art form. Aunt Mace is the queen of it.”
“A local celebrity?”
“She’s an international celebrity.”
“She doesn’t strike me as a traveler.”
“She’s never left Alaska. Hell, I don’t think she’s ever left Juneau. But she doesn’t need to. She has a website.”
“A website?”
“It started out as a blog and then went viral. The world knows her as Auntie Mace from Mace’s Place.”
Nora didn’t have time to explain more, since they were already at the back stairs to Aunt Mace’s house.
Nora moved around the small kitchen preparing a simple dinner for three while 4B played gin rummy with Aunt Mace. When 4B started to lie down her cards for the third hand in a row, Aunt Mace tossed down her own cards in disgust.
“I believe you have deceived me about your inexperience at rummy, young lady.”
“I told you she can’t stand to lose,” said Nora in response to the helpless look 4B gave her. “Aunt Mace, I warned you she just has phenomenal first timer’s luck.”
“I think she’s just pulling the wool over our eyes.”
Nora shot a look at Aunt Mace, trying to tell the feisty woman to play nice. Aunt Mace was the most competitive woman Nora had ever known, and even though the teasing was in good fun, the woman’s strong personality could be a bit intense at first. She didn’t want 4B’s feelings to get hurt. But 4B winked at her, telling her it was okay.
“There’s nothing wrong with a little teasing. And to be honest, I could be the gin rummy world champion for all any of us know. But until you told me the rules tonight, I had no idea how to play.”
Nora, with 4B’s permission, had told Aunt Mace about her amnesia.
“Well, it’s nice to see someone else win for a change,” said Nora. “The ladies come over almost every day and Aunt Mace rarely lets them win. So don’t let her beat you down.” Nora turned back to stir the spaghetti sauce, but spun back with the spoon in her hand. “Oh! And, no matter what she says, don’t play her for money!”
Aunt Mace was about to respond when 4B cut in.
“So, Nora told me you have a thriving web business, Aunt Mace.” 4B looked innocent as she dealt a new hand, but Nora could identify a skillful subject change when she witnessed one.
“Thanks to her,” said Aunt Mace, smiling as she looked at the cards she carefully arranged in her hand. She cackled to herself and Nora knew the look. It said that Aunt Mace thought she had the winning cards.
“I think the way you recycle things is brilliant. Like the flower bed you made out of a real bed frame near the back porch. It’s clever and very pretty.”
“That’s one of my most imitated gardening ideas,” said Aunt Mace with a smile.
Nora was grateful for the diversion 4B had created by bringing up Aunt Mace’s work. She was quickly learning that 4B was able to fend for herself.
“The rowboat flower bed is a best seller, too,” added Nora, stirring the pot of sauce on the gas burner. The delicious aroma of vegetables and simmering chicken filled the room as she prepared Aunt Mace’s famous chicken marinara. “That one is really big in the Northeast and Seattle. The metal bed-frame flowerbed is huge in the Midwest, while in Europe people tend to go for smaller containers for their live flower displays—milk cans, teapots, dresser drawers.”
“Too bad I can’t make money off of ideas,” grumbled Aunt Mace. “But I’m not complaining. I have more than I need. Thanks to Nora.”
“Would it be crass to ask how the website works? You post ideas and people share them on social media. How do you earn money for your i
deas?”
“Advertising revenue,” said Aunt Mace pulling a card and grimacing. She tossed it onto the discard pile with a disgusted tick of her tongue.
“At first it was just the placement of click-through advertising on Aunt Mace’s site,” explained Nora. “Alaskan tourism is pretty lucrative, if you can figure out how to get your hands on it, which we did. Then it was through pushing traffic to linked pages. But now she makes the most money from consulting.”
“Consulting?”
“Aunt Mace has a blog called “I have this thing…”. As in I have this thing that I want to do something with, but need some help figuring it out. People pay ten dollars and submit a picture of something they want to convert into something useful and Aunt Mace sends them ideas. They get one idea described in an email for ten dollars, three ideas for twenty-five. She’ll draw a picture and sign it, if they send her fifty dollars. I’ve been trying to get her to at least double the price for the drawing.”
“Who wants to pay a hundred dollars for an old woman’s crayon drawings?” asked Aunt Mace. Then she laid down her cards and cackled. “Got ya!”
“They’re far from crayon drawings, Aunt Mace,” said Nora, snapping a dishtowel at the back of her chair and leaning back against the counter to watch the two women play cards.
“They are exactly that—crayon drawings,” said Aunt Mace counting the points 4B held in her hand. “Hey! You could have gone out already!”
“Oh! I suppose so,” said 4B, looking at her cards. Nora suspected the innocent look wasn’t completely genuine. “I guess I was distracted.”
“Those crayon drawings, as you like to call them, are unique and a testament to the homesteading genre you’ve almost single-handedly grown into a cottage industry in the last twenty years. They go for hundreds of dollars on auction sites, the demand is so high,” responded Nora. “You’d make a mint if you realized what you do is actually art.”
“Pfft!” said Aunt Mace, discounting the comment with a dismissive wave as she watched 4B deal out a new set of cards.
“She makes all of her art supplies by hand. She reconstructs crayons melted down from the broken discards donated by the local school, and she even makes her own inks and paper. Her drawings are excellent. She uses a voice recognition program to dictate the ideas, so she can churn through several of them in an hour. But the pictures can take an hour to draw by themselves. She’s a true artist. A bunch of her work is displayed in a gallery down by the marina, and another gallery in Anchorage sells out of them as fast as they get them,” explained Nora. “They’re all originals. She won’t do re-prints.”
“I’m the goddam Bob Ross of Alaska!” said Aunt Mace sarcastically. Then she pointed at 4B’s cards. “Now, you! You need to concentrate. I don’t want to win because your mind is somewhere else. Focus.”
4B nodded obediently.
“She’s been compared to Thomas Kinkade because of the ‘bright whimsy’ of her work,” bragged Nora.
“Really?” asked 4B. “Can I see some of it?”
“I don’t keep it here. That would be like displaying a portrait of yourself in your own living room,” said Aunt Mace, as she discarded a king.
“She doesn’t display her photographs either. It’s all in her studio.”
“Photographs?” asked 4B, picking up the last several discarded cards, up to a four of hearts. She laid down a run of hearts ace to five and then discarded. She still had several cards in her hand and Nora wondered if Aunt Mace was about to win another hand, the beginner’s luck having worn off.
“Aunt Mace used to be a photographer before she started the homesteading stuff.”
“What kind of photography?” asked 4B.
“Local wildlife, some studio work,” answered Aunt Mace, drawing a card. “It’s probably what gave me this rot-gut I got. The doc says all the mercuric acid in the development process seeped into my pancreas and festered. That was all before the digital camera, doncha know. But I loved taking photos. Capturing wild things on film. Developing my own prints.”
“Do you do portraits?”
“I had a contract with the local school district for a while. But I stopped doing it right quick. I think I lasted three years. Those kids were assholes.”
“Aunt Mace!” said Nora putting down the spoon she used to stir the sauce.
“They were!” insisted Aunt Mace. And then to 4B, she said: “Kids know I hate them, so they mess with me.” Aunt Mace tossed the card she’d just picked up onto the discard pile.
“You don’t hate kids,” insisted Nora.
“I really do,” said Aunt Mace looking up at 4B and then back down at her cards. Then she nodded her head at Nora. “She just doesn’t like to hear me say it out loud. Thinks it’s bad karma or something. It is what it is, is what I say. It doesn’t make me a mean old bitch. It makes me honest.”
“I have never called you a mean old bitch!”
“It’s what you were thinking, admit it,” replied Aunt Mace without looking up from her cards.
“It is not! I know from experience. Kids like you. When they act like assholes, as you so kindly refer to them, it’s just because they’re trying to get your attention. Besides, I was a kid once. You were nice to me.”
“Well, truth be told, you were a little bit of an asshole, too,” replied Aunt Mace, picking up the card 4B had just gotten rid of and winking at 4B.
Nora’s jaw dropped at her aunt’s declaration. She’d never heard this part before. Aunt Mace had never told her she hadn’t liked her.
“You were nice to me, though!”
“Only because I loved your mother. I was nice to her spawn out of respect. It’s only now you’ve grown up, that I can say I truly love you.”
Nora saw the mischievous grin and the wink Aunt Mace gave to 4B when she thought she wasn’t watching and she knew she was being played just as hard as those cards were.
“I love you too, you old crab cake!” Nora gave her aunt an impulsive hug.
“You two are cute,” said 4B, holding her cards to her chest. Nora thought she caught a look of longing in her eyes and wondered if 4B missed her family. “Can I see some of your drawings and photographs sometime?”
“Sure. Nora can take you down to the studio. I don’t leave the house much these days unless someone drags me out to see that vampire of a doctor of mine.”
“Where’s your studio?” asked 4B, drawing a card and laying the rest down before tossing out the two of spades.
“Dammit all! You had the card I was looking for!” groused Aunt Mace, laying down her cards to count up the points she was set back.
“Sorry,” said 4B.
“Don’t be sorry,” said Nora. “Aunt Mace’s reign as card queen won’t be diminished by losing a game or two. She used to work out of the space I live in now. But when I moved back, she took a studio down near the airport. The city wants her to move it closer to the marina, where the cruise ships come in, to attract the tourists. But she likes it where it is.”
“I can walk to work if it’s at the airport. The marina is too far away,” said Aunt Mace. “Of course, these days I can’t walk to the bathroom without taking a break.”
“I’d drive you,” offered Nora, just like she had a thousand times before. Aunt Mace always exuded a brilliant energy when she spoke about her work, but she rarely spoke about it anymore. Nora wanted to see more of that old spark, the spark she was seeing now. If Aunt Mace moved her studio to the marina, where tourists and friends alike would congregate to see her work, maybe the spark would heal her. But for the first time, Nora wondered if Aunt Mace was too tired to deal with all of that any more. She was sick. And she was getting older. Nora wasn’t ready to accept that the almost blinding energy her aunt had always exuded was starting to dim.
“I’ve been taking care of myself for seventy-two years, Eleanor. I don’t need you to start taking care of me now. Besides, I’m sure you’ve told 4B about your work. What I do is a hobby. What you do is amazing.
I don’t even understand it, but I know it’s changed the world.”
Nora smarted from Aunt Mace’s comment about being able to take care of herself. At the same time, she also felt the embarrassment of becoming the sudden center of attention. The mix of emotions she felt made her feel a little out of control so she turned away to stir the pot on the stove.
“Actually, she hasn’t told me much about her work other than she works on computers,” said 4B, shifting an expectant smile from Aunt Mace to Nora.
“You haven’t told her what you do, Eleanor?” asked Aunt Mace, picking up the cards and executing a crisp shuffle.
“It’s boring, and it hasn’t changed the world,” said Nora, adjusting the fire under the pot.
“It changed my world. I’d be living off of social security and my Alaskan Permanent Fund stipend if you hadn’t used your technology on marketing my nonsense.”
“Your work may have started as a hobby, but it is not nonsense,” countered Nora. Then she turned to 4B. “Aunt Mace is the queen of creative inspiration. I guess you can say I created a way to market it. I built a marketing software program designed to identify and leverage a target audience to support her work, and it sort of took off.”
Nora hoped the explanation would get the spotlight off of her. Although software development was fascinating to her, and she’d stood in front of countless audiences talking about her work at one time in her life, she knew it was boring if you weren’t in it. And she didn’t want to see 4B fake interest when she tried to explain it.
“‘Sort of took off’, my fanny! She invented something that almost every retail website uses to hawk their products. Tell her, Eleanor.”
Nora sighed, embarrassed to be put on the spot. She’d spouted her elevator speech countless times for marketing reasons, but it was embarrassing when she was using it to explain who she was to someone, especially 4B. “The concept isn’t unique. It uses a protocol that embeds information in images that sends information back to the originator so they can track the use of the image. The information is fed back to a program—“
Chasing Mercury Page 17