University of New Orleans ScholarWorks@UNO University of New Orleans Theses and Dissertations Dissertations and Theses Summer 8-4-2011 FreeCell and Other Stories Susan Louvier University of New Orleans, [email protected] Follow this and additional works at: https://scholarworks.uno.edu/td Part of the Other Arts and Humanities Commons Recommended Citation Louvier, Susan, "FreeCell and Other Stories" (2011). University of New Orleans Theses and Dissertations. 452. https://scholarworks.uno.edu/td/452 This Thesis-Restricted is protected by copyright and/or related rights. It has been brought to you by ScholarWorks@UNO with permission from the rights-holder(s). You are free to use this Thesis-Restricted in any way that is permitted by the copyright and related rights legislation that applies to your use. For other uses you need to obtain permission from the rights-holder(s) directly, unless additional rights are indicated by a Creative Commons license in the record and/or on the work itself. This Thesis-Restricted has been accepted for inclusion in University of New Orleans Theses and Dissertations by an authorized administrator of ScholarWorks@UNO. For more information, please contact [email protected]. FreeCell and Other Stories A Thesis Submitted to the Graduate Faculty of the University of New Orleans in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of Master of Fine Arts in Film, Theatre and Communication Arts Creative Writing by Susan J. Louvier B.G.S. University of New Orleans 1992 August 2011 Table of Contents FreeCell .......................................................................................................................... 1 All of the Trimmings ..................................................................................................... 11 Me and Baby Sister ....................................................................................................... 29 Ivory Jupiter .................................................................................................................. 39 Sweet Life ..................................................................................................................... 52 Southern Belle .............................................................................................................. 62 The Little Rumboogie ................................................................................................... 75 Vita ............................................................................................................................. 101 ii FreeCell Sorry, you lost this game. Better luck next time. Games played: 3557. Games won: 3008. Play again? Restart this game? Exit? Restart this game. Why not? Everyone deserves another chance. I listen as the massive antique in the foyer reminds me in Westminster chimes that another fifteen minutes has slipped beneath the front door and away while I play another few games of FreeCell on the computer. FreeCell. Is that an oxymoron? In four more hours (and fifteen minutes) it will be time to serve dinner. Dinner for two. Not five. And what can I fix? I click on the ace of clubs and send it up to the top right corner of the screen, tiny bells ringing as it goes on its way. The deuce follows. More bells. The game continues until all the cards, in proper sequence, move into position as required. The last card, a king, rises up, and as he comes to rest, all of his subjects leap forward as if falling from a cliff, plummeting down, down, crashing into tiny fragments at the bottom of the green screen, like that Corelle bowl crashed onto the linoleum floor in the kitchen of our first apartment when I dropped it intentionally to prove to you that it was shatterproof. Congratulations! You won the game. Play Again? Exit? Play again. Who invented this game, anyway? Another form of Solitaire, as if another one is needed. A waste of time. Remembering the summer before my senior year in high school, spending days stretched out on a blue, flowered quilt in a field of waist-high, softly swaying grasses, I was isolated in the dense, lush growth, insulated by the poetry of Dickenson and Frost. The time wasn‟t wasted. Not to me. I lazily drifted off into those afternoons of possibility, marveling at the vast, blue sky, 1 and breathing in the life of my surroundings, drinking in the beauty of simply being, until evening‟s dimming light compelled me home. Home. Now I live with that hideous clock watching me. I despise the sardonic brass pendulum behind its distorting, beveled-glass facade, swinging back and forth, back and forth, trying to hypnotize me into believing it controls the continuum of life. The bonging reverberates through this entire house, shaking it down to the very foundation. Inescapable. The sound didn‟t always bother me like this. In fact, I scarcely noticed. Now the house is so quiet I can‟t help but hear it. Dammit. Sorry, you lost this game. Better luck next time. Games played: 3558. Games won: 3009. Play again? Restart this game? Exit? Restart this game. Your mother insisted about the clock, telling you, “It belonged to your great-grandfather. He brought it over from Germany before the war. It‟s a symbol of faithfulness and stability, you know. Dependable. Every home must have a grandfather clock.” I almost had to stomp on my own foot to keep from telling the woman yes, every family must have a cuckoo, too, and you’re ours. But you never could appreciate my humor, and I didn‟t want your cutting glance of disapproval. You‟re so protective of your mother. You actually wanted the clock, thanking her, almost gushing, praising her thoughtfulness, embracing her with a warm, cuddly son of a hug and a soft kiss on her pulled-too-tight cheek. It made me want to gag. When the Kid Glove movers arrived in their matching, black jumpsuits and placed the dark, wooden behemoth against the foyer wall, the entire entryway took on a gloomy pall that has yet to lighten. I even tried having the walls painted a soft beige and changing out the drapes, hanging simple, white sheers to let in as much sunlight as possible. 2 You, my dear, expected me to be the custodian of the clock, the timekeeper, as part of my household routine. You demonstrated the proper way to raise the heavy, brass weights by their chains and adjust the screw at the base of the pendulum to maintain precise operation. The weekly schedule was one I had no interest in keeping. Several times you came home and found the pendulum stilled and the weights lying corpselike at the bottom of their mahogany case. After that, the responsibility of maintenance silently passed on to you. Congratulations! You won the game. Play Again? Exit? Play again. Another game. I left a message for the girls, but they haven‟t called. I know how tight their schedules are this first semester, and a few calm moments for a phone call must be nearly impossible to come by. They‟re busy. This is a great time for them. Hectic. Ha. I say that as if it‟s a new thing, as if life wasn‟t hectic from the day I was told there were three of them, not just the one I wasn‟t prepared for. Exhausting. Endless, it seemed. Where were you? Yes, I know, the breadwinner, out doing what needed to be done. I‟m unfair. Really. The phone rings. You‟ll be home early; the scheduled meeting was cancelled. Someone sick. Now you‟re early. Now. I wish, for once, the call would be to say you‟re working late. The monster bongs, four quarter-hours followed by four strikes at precisely 4:00 p.m., shattering my reverie. I minimize the screen, rise and head to the kitchen to begin dinner. Chicken. A big chicken, seasoned and soaked in Chardonnay. I pour some wine over the bird, some into a glass. The next monumental decision of the day? What‟s the side dish? My friend, Ginny, called last week to tell me about her latest promotion, a raise with a hefty bonus and a transfer to San Francisco. New position. New city. New life. I am happy for 3 her. Really. She‟ll probably celebrate with a trip to Saks, satisfy her Jimmy Choo cravings—a pair of boots, a thousand dollars. I know the ones she‟s been eyeing, too. Gorgeous. Frivolous. But she‟s single and has nothing else to spend her money on. I do wish I‟d been able to go with her and Elaine last month. Santa Fe seemed like the perfect spot for a long weekend to renew old friendships, but the budget didn‟t allow for it. You were quick to tell me that. All those years, I guess I was too busy to notice things like budget constraints before. But really, I couldn‟t leave the girls back then. They were just too young. Mashed potatoes. Instant mashed potatoes and a can of gravy. Starting from scratch is so much trouble. It doesn‟t matter, anyway. I‟ve been considering getting a job and invited your sister, Barb, over to talk about the possibility. Her response was, “It‟s a charming idea, sweetie, but what can you do?” I chew on that question now and want to call her, tell her she‟s a bitch, but the truth of her words itches like this maddening rash that‟s developed on my left shoulder recently. From the garden, something. A spider maybe, although there‟s no bite mark. I take out placemats, plates, forks, napkins, and set the table “just so,” like Mrs. Rouen taught me in Foods class in high school. A nicely set table was one of her many preparations for a perfect domestic life—the proper way to fold a napkin, the proper position for flatware, proper glasses for proper beverages. Yes, proper was instilled in me at a young age by Mrs. Rouen and her wise instruction. I wish she‟d taught me the proper way to spit, because that‟s what I feel like doing. I want to spit. Mrs. Rouen. Her smile always reminded me of a possum, kind of pale and thin-lipped, curled around to the sides. She was always smiling, looking at me with those too-close, beady eyes down that long, pointed nose, but the smile wasn‟t real.