I’m talking to hear my own voice, but Yard doesn’t know that. He pants up at me cheerfully, his whiplike tail going in circles.
That’s his answer to everything. A smile and a tail wag. And strangely, most times it’s therightanswer.
To my immense relief, the back doorisopen. Hitting the light switch, I step inside and blink.
Luc hasn’t only been working on Cash’scottage. He’s been working on this place too. Which is a surprise, because from the outside, it isn’t any different than it was ten years ago. It’s still a large rectangle with a tin roof that’s sloped on all four sides like a pyramid—the design is more aerodynamic and less susceptible to lift during a hurricane. Built out over the bayou on stilts, it’s whitewashed and rather dull looking. The only thing that glints or shines on it are its windows. Two on each side.
Used to be, the inside matched the outside, sparse and more than a little drab. Arranged like a studio apartment, it’s one big room, with the kitchen at the back and the living room and bedroom at the front. The only interior door is the one that leads to a tiny bathroom just big enough for a pedestal sink, a toilet, and a standup shower.
The layout hasn’t changed. But everything else has. There’s new mint-green paint on the wooden walls. Shiny new appliances and cabinets and countertops grace the kitchen. And colorful rag rugs warm the wooden floor that’s been stripped, sanded, and refinished. The space where a threadbare plaid couch used to sit is now occupied by a leather sofa that’s the deep, rich hue of chicory coffee. The brass bed, which used to be covered by a faded blue comforter, now sports a beautiful quilt and crisp, fresh sheets.
I always felt like the place was a camp house at best, a fishing shanty at worst. But now? It actually feels like ahome.
There are touches of Luc strewn about. His guitar is on a stand in the corner. His work boots are by the door to the front porch—one is tipped onto its side, making the pair look drunk. I’m drawn to three photographs hanging on the wall. When I get close, I gasp.
It’s a memory.
It’s…us.
I can still hear the irritation in Luc’s voice when Cash couldn’t—or wouldn’t—get his pose right…
“What’s wrong with you?”Luc grouched. “Is that your idea of artistic?”
“It’s as artistic as I get,” Cash declared. “Just take the damned picture.”
Luc looked at me for help, but all I could do was shrug.
“Fine,” Luc grumbled, snapping the photo.
Now here it is on the wall. The frame on the right shows eighteen-year-old Cash with a string of twinkle lights strung around him, looking annoyed and a little put-upon as he stares out at the bayou. His hands are shoved deep into his pockets. There I am, too, in the middle picture frame, my hair blowing in the wind. A full moon shines down on me as I try to please Luc with my dancing pose. And there’s Luc in the frame on the left. Hedefinitelylooks the part with his raised arms lit up with twinkle lights, a supplicant to the night.
Luc was always the creative one, coming up with fun ways to document our lives together. And these three photos, simple as they are, accurately capture who we were. Cash, all brooding and argumentative. Me, trying my best to make each of them happy. And Luc, so sensitive and imaginative.
Smiling, I take one last look at the photos before ambling over to the sofa. Luc has repurposed an old travel trunk as a coffee table. I set the framed cocktail napkin and the binder full of letters atop it and notice an open leather-bound journal.
I reach for it, intent on closing it, but then the two simple words centered at the top of the page catch my attention. In Luc’s decisive scrawl, he’s written:I Dream.
These are his private thoughts. I shouldn’t read them. IknowI shouldn’t. I tell my hand to flip the cover shut, but the silly appendage mutinies. My eyeballs join the insurrection and quickly scan the rest of the words on the page.
In air heavy with the scent of dark water
Sweet with the smell of mangrove
I dream
Deep in the belly of the bayou
Where cattails sway and alligators play
I dream
In tough times and endless days
Through old torment and new suffering
I dream
With a broken heart that has not healed
