THE MURDER OF HORTENSE HARRIS

Let me set the record straight: I had nothing to do with the murder of Hortense Harris. It wasn’t me. I know some of you are going to find it difficult to believe that I, Peter, Parson Andrews bad pickney boy, was innocent of the crime, and that his brother, Samuel, aka Sammy the good one, was the true perpetrator. But, listen to the facts and you tell me who killed Hortense Harris.

It was Easter Monday, say around 1975, a public holiday, but for us it was Believer’s Day. As we did every Easter Monday, we journeyed from our town three miles up the road to the town of Grantham to Kilsyth Baptist Church. As Daddy parked the Austin Cambridge, excitement fell on me and Sammy like the Holy Ghost on the day of Pentecost.

Sammy ran ahead of me up the steps, ignoring Mama’s admonition not to run lest we fall. He couldn’t wait. Daddy had told him that he was actually going to be called upon to give an exhortation to the whole church. The anticipation was killing him. The really special thing about Believer’s Day, though, was that it was a celebration of food, and everything was prepared right there on the day behind the church. The thought of all of that food filled me with joy. As the breathless Sammy ran into the church, I turned left, and ran towards the death cry of the ram goat who had just given his life for the curry goat and mannish water that the saints would enjoy later.

I could hear the saints already, dancing on the wood floor of the church, shouting and praising:

Why worry when you can pray… don’t be like doubtful Thamas but lean upon his pramas.

The food preparation was already in full swing. Chickens were already killed, plucked, and cut up. The feet were being prepared to be put in the chicken foot soup. Sister Hortense Harris was in charge of the chicken foot soup. Disgusting! Yams were being peeled, white rice was being cooked. The smell of smoke was competing with the sweet smell of coconut oil, garlic and burning curry. Hallelujah! It was heaven on earth. Mammy Browning winked at me. “Come, Peter. Come eat little of my breakfast weh me carry from me yard.”

I ran to her and sat in her massive lap and gulped down the ackee and corned pork, with green bananas and fried dumplings. As I scraped the last bit of ackee off the enamel plate into my mouth, Daddy himself came through the background and beckoned me to come inside. The boy wonder, Sammy, was about to give his exhortation. As I walked into the church, I felt Mama’s big eyes on me like a spotlight. Like a moth to the flame, I went and sat between her and big-head Alesia. Sammy went up and thrilled the whole church with his knowledge of the scriptures and his oratory. Like the boy Jesus in the temple, the elders were stunned. Mama glad bag burst. Her pride flowed like the love of God and filled the whole church. I prayed that Sammy would fall as he was coming down from the pulpit, something to keep him humble, but alas, the Lord stayed his hand. I survived the rest of the speakers and testimonies and singing until it was lunchtime.

Sammy was the hero. People were singing his praises as if he was the one who slayed Goliath. “Old head pon young body”, “dis like parson, chip nuh fly far from block” “the little boy spirit-filled.”

Sammy stood soaking in the admiration in the passage just outside Daddy’s vestry. Not to be outdone, Hortense Harris came and presented Sammy with a steaming chicken noodle soup. He held the cup firmly giving the soup a chance to cool, standing with that pious look on his face.

The most beautiful girl in the world — Miriam Gordon, Maas Ned granddaughter — started to walk towards me, and she was smiling. I couldn’t believe my good luck! God was truly amazing! I knew Mama had already secured my fry chicken, white rice, curry goat and green banana lunch and had probably put it in Daddy’s study, but not even that treasure could distract me from the prospect of being near to Miriam. I pulled out my best smile and turned directly towards her. Miriam’s smile grew broader, and I started to feel nervous. I mean, what was I going to say?

She was almost directly before me. Then she just walked past me and said, “Hello, Sammy. You really sounded good today!”

My brother beamed and leaned against the church wall because he thought that it made him look cool.

I couldn’t stand to watch him grinning like a fool with the boardhead Miriam, so I decided to find Mama and my food. The shortest way to get to Daddy’s office was to walk right by Sammy and that chigga-foot Miriam, so I set off walking as fast as I could. I guess I must have been staring at Miriam and the traitor Sammy because I bounced hard against the rock that was Hortense Harris. Before I knew it, I was sprawled out on the ground, my head hitting against her massive toes as if her flip-flops were a rockstone pillow.

“But is what wrong with you, little boy?” said Hortense Harris as she yanked me to my feet.

“Why yuh don’t look where you are going. Is kill yuh ago kill me off?”

At that point, I wished that I was as articulate and fearless as my brother who would have asked her

how could a little fly like me kill a lady her size, because as my father said at her funeral, a few days later: Hortense Harris was a woman of great substance. Instead, I looked up and gave her my dumb little boy stare, which was a requirement of all of us children in my day.

Her gigantic hands closed over mine, and I became aware that Sammy and Miriam were having a good laugh at my expense. I made a mental note to rub cow-itch into the inside of Sammy’s shoes when the occasion arose.

“Here,” said Hortense Harris. “Take this cup of chicken foot soup. It will make you feel better.”

For those of you who don’t know, chicken foot is what we call the claws of the chicken, and there are a lot of people who actually eat its toes and all. Now, don’t get me wrong, I not judging anybody. I, after all, drink mannish water and eat everything in that particular delicacy, but that story is for another day. It’s just that in our house, chicken foot was akin to leprosy in the Bible. Mama hated it; Dad never eat it. Even when we killed a chicken, the chicken foot was given away to the poor.

“Boy, tek de soup and stop look up inna me face like you foolfool!” shouted Hortense Harris.

“No, Sister Harris, I don’t eat chicken foot. No thank you,” I said, making up my face, unable to conceal my disgust.

“What! But what a way yuh bright! Shet up yuh mouth and drink up the soup. You is a pickney. You drink what me give you to drink. Out of order and facety!” she said pushing the poisoned chalice toward me.

“Why yuh can’t be a good obedient boy like yuh brother Sammy? See him there drinking the chicken foot soup,” she said.

I looked across at Sammy and to my delight I saw my brother take a sip of the soup. Clearly, he didn’t know that it was the dreaded chicken foot soup, and it was my duty to tell him.

I ran over to him and packteeth Miriam and said, “Sammy! Sammy! A chicken foot soup yuh a drink!”

Immediately his countenance fell. Sammy stared at the cup in his hand as if it were a snake.

Noticing his change of attitude, Hortense Harris decided to bound and compel him to drink it.

“Look, Sammy. Don’t follow yuh troublesome little brother. Drink up the nice-nice chicken foot soup. It’s very good for you!” bellowed Hortense Harris, turning the full hundred of her attention upon Sammy, who was now plastered against the church wall like chewing gum.

Miriam took a few steps backward, not wanting to get caught in the crossfire between David and Goliath. I, however, moved closer for a ring-side seat.

Sammy shook his head no and flung the cup to the ground. A chicken foot flew out of the cup, sailed in the air as though it were still attached to an invisible chicken and then perched just above the massive toes on Hortense Harris’s left foot. She did a little jig in annoyance and with a flash of her foot her left flip-flop and the ill-fated chicken foot flew and hit Sammy in the chest and forehead.

I was laughing so hard that my belly hurt.

“But yuh renk and facety! Yuh t’ink because Parson mek you talk in church that you a big man now? Is poor people collection buy the chicken foot dem, and you a go dis dash it weh? No sah, no book nuh read so! No sankey nuh sing so! You not going to move from hereso until you drink the soup!”

And with that she shoved the cup of soup that she had so recently offered to me and held it under Sammy’s nose like a manchette.

Then, just when the showdown was getting good, Mama appeared in the middle of the four of us like Jesus on the road to Emmaus.

“What’s going on, Sister Harris? I hope these boys not giving you any trouble?” asked Mama in her lethal ‘don’t make have to kill yuh wid lick right here’ voice.

“No, Nurse. I was just giving them a little of the chicken foot soup,” said a suddenly subdued Hortense Harris.

Mama opened her big eyes wide, her nostrils flaring. “Oh no, Sister Harris. My children don’t eat chicken foot! Never you offer my children food. I already have their food in the office. Come, boys.”

And with that Mama wheeled off with us following her, leaving Hortense Harris with her mouth open and the cup of chicken foot soup in her hand.

***

After church was over, after Mama and Daddy had already gone down to the car, Sammy and I were still in the church when we spotted Hortense Harris coming our way with a velocity that would make Shelly-ann Fraser-pryce envious. Before we could run, she grabbed Sammy by his arm.

“Ah, boy, you see how you mek Nurse disrespect me before everybody in a de churchyard!

But watch me and yuh. I going to mek yuh eat chicken foot if is the last thing I do,” said the angry Hortense Harris.

“Let me go! I don’t care if you kin pupalick and drop dead. Yuh can’t get me to eat no stinking chicken foot!” said Sammy.

The shock of his words caused Hortense Harris to loosen her grip and Sammy wiggled away, and we both ran down the hillside and away from her.

Later that night, just before we said our prayers, while discussing the day’s escapades, Sammy said “I can’t stand that Hortense Harris! I am going to seriously pray that she drops dead!”

Our howls of laughter must have awakened Daddy because he came into the room and told us to stop our “chatten” and go to bed.

***

The next Saturday, Sammy, Daddy and I were on the verandah. Daddy was peeling sugar cane for Mama, and we were helping ourselves to it when Maas Ned rode up on his donkey.

“Parson. Morning, Sammy. Morning, Peter,” said Maas Ned in his singsong voice that Sammy and I used to imitate behind his back.

“Howdy, Maas Ned. What happen now to make yuh stall in the market this early on a Saturday morning?” asked Daddy as Maas Ned dismounted.

“Bad news, Parson. Sister

Harris come a market early this morning and was just walking fi get some scallion to put in har soup that she sell a Saturday time, when she dis grab har chest, keel over and drop dead!” said Maas Ned.

“She dead?” asked Daddy, incredulously.

“Yes, Parson. Dead as knit! Nurse was right there and she send me come fi tell you say she gone a hospital morgue with the police dem who gone with the body.”

I looked at Sammy who looked like a contrite convicted murderer.

“Is me kill her!” muttered Sammy to me.

I dragged him underneath the house so that I could reason with him.

“Sammy, stop yu stupidness! How yu fi kill that dey big astairing woman? Yu weren’t even near her when she died,” I said trying to imitate Mama’s no-nonsense tone.

“Yes, I tell you I pray a bad prayer for her,” cried a distraught Sammy.

“Cho man, why yuh a tek dat on?”

“I prayed that she would drop dead, and not even a week pass and she drop dead. I am a murderer,” said Sammy.

“Well, if you pray for something and God answer your prayers, you should be joyful and praise the Lord, instead of a cry,” I tried to reason with him.

“Stop it, you ole wicked!” he said.

“You see me dying trial. You just murder this woman, and you a call me wicked!” I said in disgust.

And with that I ran away and left him to contemplate his sins.