Last Updated on 6 months by Joel Samuel McQueen
(New and improved 2025)
Part1
Mrs. Beauty’s rickety wooden house sat high and isolated on the side of the magic mountain like a fragile egg about to fall. As a boy, I often dreamt that the four thin pillars that held up the frame would one day snap, hurling the house and its contents—a sink full of dirty pots, pans, plates, spoons, knives, forks, soggy mattresses, a wooden table and chairs, a used chamber pot, a capricious refrigerator and sulking stove, a small malcontent black and white tv with a missing volume knob, a solemn leather bound bible and a flock of composition notebooks that flapped like frightened pigeons—down to the valley below.
In her young days, Mrs. Beauty was considered a Caribbean barbie doll. A ten, someone once called her. From her half-white mother Mrs. Beauty had inherited her shocking head of reddish curls that flowed like a waterfall down to the middle of her back, a set of high cheekbones, big luminous eyes and a prominent yet feminine jawline and chin. And from her father, who was rumored to be a pure African, she had gotten her tall slender build, her large hands and a big nose that quite frankly spoiled her face.
Because in those days white was right, Mrs. Beauty managed to gain success as a teen model, appearing in advertisement in the island’s major newspaper for brand new cars, washing machines, stoves, freezers and banks accounts that were sold to the native islanders that aspired to achieve more out of life.
Somewhere in her twenties, mostly like at the time when her looks began to fade, Beauty would marry a half-caste like herself, a man named Big Red, who drank, gambled and would beat Mrs. Beauty throughout their long and tumultuous marriage. For her part, Mrs. Beauty willingly endured the countless cut ass, buss head along with trips to the madhouse as it meant so much to her to have children that were fair in complexion like her. In time, the couple had five children-three girls and two boys- all of whom followed in Mrs. Beauty’s footsteps, believing that their good looks and high color were sufficient to get them through life.
Part2
Whenever Mrs. Beauty was upset the whole village suffered. At all hours of the day and night she would burst out in amad maternal scream that fractured the peace on the hill. Along with her violent screams, Mrs. Beauty had the unwholesome talent for cussing bad word that caused my Christian mother to block her children’s ears whenever Mrs. Beauty erupted. Our house, being directly below hers, got the worst of it. And in fact it is safe to say that much more than my wayward friends at school it was listening to Mrs. Beauty that I learned to cuss with conviction such phrases as — “Mother cunt, caca hole and kissmeass.”
At the climax of her rage, Mrs. Beauty would on occasion fling her family’s white cast iron chamber pot through her window to the village below. One night while our family quietly slept, our poor household was rudely awoken by a thunderous sound on the galvanized roof.
“Boodoombambam,”was the sound.
At first, we assumed that a big stone had dislodged from the mountain side—as it did from time to time—and hand landed on the roof. The next morning when my father awoke early to investigate, he found Mrs. Beauty’s chamber pot floating in one of the water barrels in the back yard used for cooking and bathing. And to make matters worst, the impact of the chamber pot had left a hole in our roof that eventually caused a leak in the boys’ bedroom.
Later that very morning, I accompanied my father up the hill. In the spirt of Chrisitan brotherliness and sisterliness, my father thought twice about taking his cutlass, bringing the chamber pot instead.
“Mrs. Beauty, Mrs. Beauty, Mrs. Beauty,” cried my father, from the plots edge.
When no one answered, my father’s next call was interrupted by a pack of lazy mutts that finally raised the alarm with barrage of compulsory barking which obliged the sleeping Beauty to appear from her bedroom window. Considering the history of our conflict between our two families, it was safe to say that this encounter would more than likely not end well.
“Morning neighbor,” said my father in good faith and with the best of intentions.
“Why yuh by meh land Fransis, you don’t fraid,” cried Mrs. Beauty.
“Woman, I don’t come here to argue. I want to tell yuh about the damage on me roof,” said my father.
“ How yuh know is me that cause it,” asked Mrs. Beauty?
“ Who else posy is this,” said my father, holding up the chamber pot in one hand.
All this clear piece of evidence, Mrs. Beauty was forced to take a step back in silence but quickly returned with her on charges against my father.
“ Don’t make joke, you accusing me of damaging yuh roof. What about yuh kiss me ass goats that does raid everything out meh kiss me ass garden. And I never get as much as a blasted red cent,” cried Mrs. Beauty.
“Don’t make joke with meh woman, I is a man of God,” declared my father. Adding, “I need yuh to pay for meh roof.”
“Pay for what Francis. Take that for all the food yuh goat and them eat from meh garden,” cried Mrs. Beauty.
“Woman I warning you,” said father with growing anger.
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“Man of God meh backside,” cried Mrs. Beauty.
“I rebuke you, in the name of the Lord,” cried my father before turning to walk down the hill. And there I stood at the edge of Mrs. Beauty plot with her disused posy. Not to be outdone, Mrs. Beauty hurled one final insult downhill, “nigga boy, leave meh yard before I do for you” she cried before closing her window.
Part3
How Mrs. Beauty first came to live on the hill was question I sought an answer for a long time. According to one accountant, she had moved up the hill in effort to escape the mistreatment she was receiving at the hand of Big Red. Others explained that Mrs. Beauty and Little Big John lived together and birthed their children on the hill before things turned sour and Big Red left. What bothered me the most, however, was the unfriendliness and standoffishness of Beauty’s children whenever we crossed paths. One day I was liming by the bamboo patch with the fellas, and I came to understand the racial beliefs held by Mrs. Beauty and her children that explained their behavior.
“Boy you duh see how Beauty and she children this pass people straight and don’t even say morning to nobody,” said one of the fellas.
“Them to racial,” said another boy.
“What that mean,” I asked innocently.
“Beauty and she children feel she better than we because they have pretty color,” replied the darkest boy.
Up until then I had never heard of racial prejudice. After all my entire world was black. I began to take a mental inventory of all the black people I knew: My father and mother were black. (And even though my mother was fair skinned like Mrs. Beauty as far as I knew she loved me.) My teachers were black and so was the principal. The prime minster of the country was black and so was the policeman that lived down the hill. And while this gathering of evidence did suggest that my black world was significant and important, I slowly began to see—with the help of television– that this was truly not the case.
Growing up in the 1970’s it was rare to see a black face on American television. In fact three of my favorite show—Dallas, The Six million Dollar Man and Charlies Angels—were all centered around the lives and conflicts of white characters exclusively. Other than that rare guess appearance, Black people were mostly invisible; so much so that I got the feeling that black people didn’t exist in America. This feeling of not being acknowledged I experienced while watching American television in some way mirrored a similar feeling of utter indifference I felt whenever I encountered Mrs. Beauty and her children.
Part4
It was not long after the disaster with Mrs. Beauty’s posy landing on the roof of our house that Mrs. Petal, the village maco, had stopped my mother by the makeshift fence that separated our two houses to inquire about the incident.
“Morning neighbor. How things with you and yuh family” asked Mrs. Petal?
“Morning, morning neighbor,” replied my mother cautiously.
“Hear nah, what went on last night. I hear a set ah noise like a bomb go off a on top of all yuh house. All yuh ok?” asked Mrs. Petal.
“Things good, thank God,” replied my mother.
“Well hear nah neighbor, I hear it was a big stone she throw and hit the house self.”
“Something so,” said my mother cautiously.
‘That woman mad,” said Mrs. Petal “and is the man turn she so.”
According to Mrs. Petal, Red man was seeing another woman in town, which was the cause of her outburst.
“And here nah,” added Mrs. Petal,” the worst part is the woman Big Red leave she for is fat, black and ugly.
“Is that so,” said my mother.
“That was the knife in she chest,” said Mrs. Petal.
“Poor thing,” said my mother.
“Them men and them today eye too long,” added Mrs. Petal before walking away.
“So some say,” replied my mother.
Part5
Over time Mrs. Beauty’s madness only increased, with her attacks on our family becoming more and more brazen and even vindictive. Mrs. Beauty resorted to kidnapping goats from the small family herd used for milk and the occasional meat during the Christmas season. At first my father had placed the blame unto my older brother Peter, who had a habit of leaving the goats out in the fields throughout the night, resulting in the goats being killed by blood sucking bats or stolen by a ward goat thieves. But the evidence that Mrs. Beauty was in fact the culprit came in the dead of night as I laid on my bed attempting to sleep, hearing the maaas and baas of bleating goats in the hills above.
Like a tree a boy dreams of climbing, so I wished for the day that I might enter Mrs. Beauty’s dry and dusty compound to peek inside her house. My reasons for doing so was first to confirm or deny the tall tale that Mrs. Beauty was an obeah woman and even a lajahbless. The second reason was that of finding the missing goats.
As faith would have it, the opportunity presented itself one blazing hot Saturday morning in the form of two government workers from the child welfare agency that were comically working their way up the hill in slacks and dress shoes. The fellas and I were liming by the usual bamboo patch as the pair of profusely perspiring agents- a man and a woman-stopped and asked for directions.
“Good morning one and all, would any of you young fellas know the residence of a Mrs. Little,” asked the male agent.
“No sir, we don’t have a Mrs. Little up here,” replied one of the fellas.
“You sure have the right place,” asked a second fella innocently?
“This is upper Levanta Avenue,” asked the female agent, who appeared somewhat irritated by the previous question.
“ Yes Mrs. but…”
“So none of you fellas heard or know Mrs. Little, a tall fair skin woman with about five children…” interrupted the male agent once more.
“Ohho, yuh mean Beauty” we all said in chorus.
“If that is how you call she, then point us to the house and stop meddling in government business,” said the female agent in a hostile tone. Mindful of our Christian humility, the fellas and I beyed the agents demand by quickly pointing to Mrs. Beauty’s house on top the hill, all the while anticipating the bacchanal that was to come.
At this time, I could well describe the madness and chaos of the first meeting between the government agents and Mrs. Beauty. And how Mrs. Beauty threw, among other things, her posy filled with the malodorous contents from the night before at the two agents, who luckily ran down the hill to save themselves. Thereafter, reinforcement were called, in the form two policemen, who escorted the government agents back up the hill to Mrs. Beauty’s door. After several threats by the officers to break down the door, Mrs. Beauty finaly allowed the agents in, where it was determined that living conditions were such that it was best the children be taken into the government’s care. And so losing her children, Mrs. Beauty relapsed into further screams that landed her back in the mad house.
The End
Seizing this opportunity, I woke up early one morning and before my mother could miss me, I snuck up the hill pass the chicken coop and latrine to Mrs. Beauty’ house. I stood at invisible border that separated Beauty’s compound and the rest of the world. Crossing the threshold, I felt like an explorer entering a undiscovered landscape. Without fail, the mingy mutts tied under the house began a nasty racket that I quickly silenced with few big stones, one of which struck the matriarch in her sagging tits.
“Rooooooawoooooo,” she cried the mutt before returning to the depth of her makeshift lair.
I approached the house from the side where I noticed the space between the planks of the board were wide enough to see inside. My heart raced as I prepared to look. A lifetime of myths were about to be dissolved.
Here is what I saw:
A large barn like room with no walls separating the kitchen, living and sleeping area. In the center sat a high wooden nest of a bed and on it piles of unfolded towels, children school uniforms and underwear that reached as high as the door frame. The wooden floor was littered with the body parts of several plastic dolls—toros, arm, legs and heads. Additionally on the floor, a boy had positioned two opposing battalions of miniature green army men in a frozen war.
In another corner, a small television sat on a dollied bureau. And on either side of that television sat a large black Bible and a framed depiction of white Jesus.
At long last I awoke from the spell casted by the content of Beauty’s room and walked cautiously to the back of the house. To my surprise, our long lost goat stood tied to a post. The goat had gained weight, almost as if in preparation for a Christmas table. I found a long knife impaled into the wall next to the outdoor kitchen filled with dishes and flies at feast, which I used to free the animal. Unaware of its fortunate deliverance, the goat stood grazing on a patch of grass, leaving me no choice but to kick it in the ass. It then scampered down the hill towards home.
The view from Mrs. Beauty’s house was the best in the village. From its elevation, the galvanized roofs of the houses shimmered like marbles in a fish bowl. It occurred to me that we were one and that the distance between Mrs. Beauty’s house and the rest of the village was not that far at all.
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