Cross Current by Christine Kling Page B

the bass booming into the yard and seeming to fill the air with threat. Two muscular young black men in matching white undershirts, flashing gold in their grimaces, glared at me as they rolled by. I faced the street, keeping my eyes on them, refusing to turn my back. There was a slow-mo cinematic quality to the moment, like a high-noon face-off, the only element of speed being my pulse, which had kicked into overdrive.
    The door swung inward behind me, and I spun around, my hands rising in the automatic self-defense posture I had learned from growing up with older brothers. The man standing in the doorway was no more than five feet four and impeccably dressed in dark slacks, a long-sleeved white shirt, and a dark bow tie.
    “ Bonjour ,” he said, showing a wide mouth of crowded white teeth. His skin was the darkest black skin I had ever seen, but his hair, what little remained in tufts behind his ears, was bright white. “May I help you?”
    I stuttered at first, my mind still not disentangled from the menacing Impala. “There was, out there...” I turned around and looked at the street, but there was no sign of the car. “I mean, uh.” I turned back to face him. He was smiling patiently. “Forget that. Let me start over. The reason I’m here is because I have this boat, a tugboat, and I found this little girl yesterday. You might have heard about it. See, I was looking around the Miss Agnes and I found this card.” I held out the salt-stiff piece of cardboard. He looked at the card and said “Oh” in a very high-pitched voice, as if he had been startled by something. It was a funny sound, and I let loose with a matching shrill laugh.
    “Please,” he said, showing me his crooked teeth again, then he bowed his head and stepped back. “Come inside and we will talk.” There was music in the way he pronounced the English words. I had heard Creole accents that were harsh and difficult to understand, but this little man sounded more French.
    The room I entered was furnished simply, a living room with a threadbare green couch and armchair, and on the far side a yellow Formica dinette set that looked as though it dated back to the I Love Lucy era. The walls were painted with vibrant colors, each one different—yellow, teal, and coral—and one wall was covered with paintings. Through a door, I could see the kitchen with an industrial-size galvanized sink and huge pots and pans resting on the drain board. He pointed to the couch and waited until I was seated before settling into the chair. The silence stretched out as we sat, each of us waiting for the other to begin. I turned the card over and over, my fingers holding it gingerly by the outer edges. Finally, he reached out and took it from me and then offered me his hand. His skin felt cool and dry.
    “I am Maximillian Toussaint. Please call me Max.” He smiled and bowed his head low, revealing the shiny black dome fringed all the way around with delicate cottony filaments. From behind, I imagined his head looked like a dark mountain peak half shrouded in clouds. “Racine” —he held up the card—“is my wife. However, she is very busy today. She cannot see visitors.”
    “My name is Seychelle Sullivan.”
    “I am pleased to meet you. Would you like some coffee or a cold drink?”
    “No, thank you. I’m fine.” I smiled and looked around the small room. On the wall behind him there were primitive paintings of country and city scenes, but each one was crowded with brightly costumed people and animals. There was something about the perspective in the paintings that made them seem very otherworldly. I noticed, too, that some of the people in the paintings wore strange costumes, and masks with horns, and they carried whips. In other paintings, wild animals, from zebras to giraffes and tigers and parrots, all frolicked in big, leafy jungle scenes. Against the wall behind Max’s chair was a sideboard covered with a strange assortment of colorful scarves or