Page 65 of Cowboy Heat
Beau
La Lumiereisn’t at allwhat I pictured it to be.
The homes make a large circle, as far as I can tell, starting from the right after you drive in and going wide in an arc until you pass another home on the left before leaving. There’s nothing but trees and open space in the middle, along with what looks like a communal activity space set aside with a firepit, children’s outdoor play toys, and several lawn chairs cast around each.
I realize the fire pit is the light I saw at the end of the dark road Kissy ran down the night we met, confirming thatLa Lumiereand that road become one in the same. Without knowing that information, though, the collections of homes might appear to be nothing more than a cozy neighborhood.
Yet maybe not.
La Lumieredoesn’t really feel like a series of houses. Instead, it feels like one home created through several extensions. The limbs of the one body are made up of small homes in varying states of disarray. Mismatched buildings created by makeshift building materials and parts feed from one space into another. One house has a front porch overhang of plastic, another a window that’s been covered by duct tape, and a nearby house is using chicken wire and what looks to be concrete to keep a crumbling corner upright. Yards of patchy grass and dirt have no identifying separation. No mailboxes either. Just cars parked in front of houses on the ground and others next to the dirt road. A strip of land set aside behind one of the houses has row after row of clotheslines, each carrying several articles of clothing, that seem communal as well. There’s even a group of sleeping dogs lying across two homes’ yards up ahead. One dog lazily looks up at us but doesn’t make a fuss.
Then there’s the house at the head of the arc.
I know it’s Guidry’s before Micah points it out.
The house doesn’t match the rest, for starters, definitely the head of theLa Lumierebody. There’s two stories, for one. It has a fresh coat of paint, actual landscaping, and has double the width on everything else for another. The roof is shingled instead of sporting tin, and not a spot on the building seems out of place or worn.
It’s the nicest, biggest home in the area.
There’s also no way our arrival is going unnoticed by the neighbors, though Micah directs me to the back parking area behind the house like Kissy suggested. My little rental might match Guidry’s home, but it sticks out like a sore thumb in the rest of the community.
We go in through the back door with no interference at least. Micah uses his key and stuffs it back into his pocket once we’re inside.
“If Guidry was home, he’d already be talking to us,” Micah says as we stand in the small but clean kitchen. “Not many people come in through the back door.”
The kitchen opens up into a living room/dining area combo. The furniture isn’t new, but it’s well-kept and matches. There’s a flat-screen TV over two bookcases pushed together and a leather couch opposite. A few paintings hang on the walls of landscapes featuring fields and water fronts. Micah leads me to the hallway on the left. We pass the guest bathroom, the stairs, and are standing in his room all within a few steps.
I’m guessing Guidry’s hold over people extends to the boy’s room. It’s too clean for a kid. Too tidy. Even his shoes and books left out are stacked and situated in an orderly fashion. There’s a desk in the corner across from a full bed. Both are neat. A soccer-ball-shaped lamp sits on one of the night stands. Next to it, a framed picture.
Micah sets his bag on the bed. I go to the picture.
Kissy is young in it, a teenager I’d guess, but her hair is the same kind of wild that I’ve started to get used to seeing. Her smile is there too. Polite, pleasant, easy to remember. She’s wearing a rain jacket and matching boots. She’s holding a little hand in hers that belongs to a much-smaller Micah. I guess he’s six or seven. He’s smiling for all he’s worth, wearing flannel and a Honda baseball cap. There’s a third person in the picture, a man standing on the other side of Kissy. Younger but definitely Everett Guidry. He’s buttoned up in a nice long-sleeve and dark jeans. His hair looks to be styled. His hand is on Kissy’s shoulder, and he’s smiling fine.
It makes me feel something, looking at them. Mainly because I know their backstory. Or at least their shared history through Kissy’s point of view. She doesn’t want to be under Guidry’s thumb, doesn’t want to be the wife to his husband, the mother to his father for Micah. But as I look around, I see it’s the only picture framed. The only picture shown in Micah’s room. The frame itself is a work of art, big, bulky, and made of expensive wood.
I bet Guidry framed this picture himself.
It feels like a statement.
To Micah, to Kissy every time she comes here.
“Did Guidry give you this?” I ask.
Micah looks up from his bag. He nods. “That’s us on Remembrance Day, right before he got his award. We were in the newspaper too. He said it’s his favorite picture of us because of everything we went through.” The boy hesitates. “Remembrance Day is what the town does on the anniversary to mourn those who died then. It’s kind of a celebration though because they saved people too. Guidry saved me and Kissy from a storm when I was little. My mom died in it, and that’s why I live here with him.”
“I’m sorry about that,” I tell him, meaning both parts.
He shrugs. “I don’t remember her.”
I place the heavy frame back on the night stand. “I don’t really remember my parents, either.” My gaze goes back over Kissy in the picture. She had fourteen years of memories with hers. Micah and I never got that. I look to the boy again.
He’s thoughtful.
“I called Kissy ‘Mom’ on accident once,” he says simply.
I smile. “What’d she say about that?”
His cheeks redden. “She said I could keep doing it if I wanted.” He shakes his head. His gaze shifts to the picture behind me. All of him tenses. Not a lot but enough to show me that what might’ve been a happy memory between him and Kissy has been tainted. “I don’t mind calling her Kissy, though.”
