by King, Leo
Soon Sam was no longer in her kitchen but her grandfather’s, standing on a wooden stool. The sounds of sizzling bacon and the smells of sausage gravy assailed her senses. She was no longer an adult, but eight-year-old Samantha, in a little rosy day dress, her blond hair tied back neatly by a red ribbon. And all around her, the house staff, including the cook and housemaids, were screaming up a fuss, young Samantha having burnt her finger on the hot coil of an old toaster.
“Miss Samantha,” cried out Tania Patterson, a pretty black girl dressed in a traditional maid’s outfit. “Miss Samantha, are you okay?” In a blur, Tania was at Samantha’s side, grabbing at the young girl’s hand to look at the wound.
Samantha held out her finger, looking at the deep red mark with a mixture of fascination and horror. Tears were already forming in the girl’s eyes, but she hadn’t start crying—yet.
Miss Cooper, the cook, a heavyset white woman with a sizable hairy mole on her chin, bounded over and swatted Tania away from Samantha, saying, “Back off, girl! You don’t grab at Miss Samantha’s hand when she done burned herself. You go get some aloe right now, before I box your ears!”
The young servant girl nodded and slinked away, whimpering.
Nearby, stirring a pot full of grits, Violet Patterson shook her head. Her gray eyes, focused forward, looked expressionlessly over the stove as she cut a pat of butter off the stick and plopped it into the hot mixture.
“Tania’s so stupid,” Violet said as she reached to stir the sausage gravy. “It’s just a burnt finger.”
“Hush, you,” Miss Cooper snapped at Violet. She then tousled Samantha’s hair, as the young girl started to sob. “Now, it’ll be all right, Samantha. Tania’s gonna get you some aloe to put on that.”
Samantha, who by now was registering what had just happened to her, shook her head, trying hard not to grow hysterical. The pain was increasing with every second, and already she felt a hot throbbing in her finger. As the stinging started to overwhelm her, she suddenly felt a calm and gentle presence behind her, a strong but firm hand on her shoulder.
“Sam,” said Vincent. He was dressed for comfort in a dark red velvet robe with the initial V embroidered on it in gold. He smiled warmly down at the tear-streaked face of the girl in front of him before kneeling down and taking her hand from Miss Cooper.
“That’ll be all, Miss Cooper,” Vincent said in a sterner voice. Miss Cooper nodded and retreated to the stove, flipping over the bacon and cracking a few more eggs on the skillet. He then looked Samantha’s finger over as if appraising a gem of the finest quality.
After a few moments, Vincent looked into Samantha’s eyes. He reached up and, using the sleeve of his robe, wiped her tears away. As he did this, he asked, in a gentle tone, “How did this happen, Sam?”
By now, Samantha’s finger throbbed in pain, and the girl wanted to scream. But having her grandfather there filled Samantha with a sense of calm and safety. She mustered up the best smile she could and responded with, “I wanted to make you toast, but I burned my finger on the toaster.”
“Toast, you say?” Vincent asked, leaning up to see the plate of half-cooked toast lying on the counter where Samantha had dropped it after burning herself.
He smiled softly and said, “I’m sure this will be the best toast I’ve ever had.”
“Violet”—Vincent turned to the Patterson girl, who cocked an ear in his direction—“put some honey on that toast and make sure it’s served to me.”
“Of course, sir,” replied Violet, who returned to her work at the stove, eyes focused forward.
Vincent, turning back to Samantha, was about to say something when Tania hurried up and, holding out a bottle, announced that she had retrieved the aloe.
Samantha saw her grandfather’s brow furrow, and as he stood, he said, “She doesn’t need aloe. I have just the thing. Back to work, Tania.”
As Vincent led Samantha out of the kitchen, holding her uninjured hand, Tania looked to shrink half a foot and scuttled over to the stove to help her sister finish cooking. Samantha was sure that she heard Violet call her sister stupid again, and that made her giggle.
Everyone in the Castille household knew that Tania was all heart, but she had very little in the brains department, while Violet was almost robotic, but was very keen in intellect. Being six years older than Samantha, the Patterson sisters had worked for the Castille family since childhood, and they were as much a fixture in the household as any of the other servants.
As Vincent led her into his study, Samantha’s thoughts of Violet and Tania were replaced with the throbbing hot pain of her burn. She looked at the red mark and frowned, even as her grandfather led her to one end of the room, near a fireplace and large bookcase. Vincent led Samantha to his wingback chair in front of the empty fireplace, sat her down in it, and got up to search his bookcase.
“Here we go,” Vincent said as he came back with his doctor’s bag, kneeling again before Samantha. “I have just the thing for burns. Aloe will help the dryness, but it will do nothing for the pain.”
Rummaging through his bag, Vincent pulled out a small bottle with a bunch of medical writing on it. Samantha looked over the bottle curiously as her grandfather opened it up, took a cotton ball, dabbed some liquid on the cotton, and moved to swab it on Samantha’s burn.
When she pulled her hand back reflexively, Vincent paused and looked his granddaughter in the eyes. “I’d never hurt you, Sam. Trust me.”
That was enough for Samantha, who nodded her head and offered her wounded finger to her grandfather. A few dabs of the cotton, and the pain vanished. Samantha was amazed.
“That’s like magic, Grandpa,” Samantha said, awe in her voice.
Her exclamation made Vincent chuckle as he capped the bottle. “Magic? Perhaps. Maybe there is magic in things such as Lidocaine, or maybe the magic is in your mind.”
Samantha scrunched her nose at that comment. “Magic in my mind?”
Applying a bandage, Vincent nodded. “You’d be surprised what kind of powers are locked away within that mind of yours, Sam.”
As Vincent stood to put away his bag, Samantha looked over her now-bandaged finger. Her grandfather continued, “We humans do not utilize our complete mental potential. If we could unlock the full power of our minds, imagine what we could do.”
This concept seemed as alien to Samantha as some of the words her grandfather was using. Standing up, the young girl followed her grandfather, asking, “What do you mean, Grandpa? What can we do?”
Vincent offered his granddaughter a smile as he swept across the room to an oak desk while continuing his lecture. “All manner of things, Sam. You could remove the limitations of your body, transcend your conscious self into pure thought, or even… ”
Sitting down behind his desk, Vincent patted his knee. “… or even live forever.”
Samantha walked over to her grandfather, taking in what he said. Most of it didn’t make any sense; however, the last part got her attention. “Live forever? You mean never die?”
With a deep chuckle, Vincent pulled Samantha onto his knee. “Yes, that’s exactly it. Keep that old baron from digging your grave.” He tilted her face toward his. “What would you do, Sam, if you never had to live with the fear of death?”
Samantha thought really hard about it, sucking on her bottom lip as she furrowed her brow. Finally, the girl answered, “I’d become a doctor like you, Grandpa, and cure all the diseases of the world!”
Proud of herself, Samantha folded her arms and nodded her head emphatically. This made Vincent laugh out loud. It was a warm laugh; however, given his age, it had a growling element to it. To Samantha, it always sounded like how that cartoon dog she liked on television laughed.
“I see, you’d be a doctor like your gramps, eh,” Vincent said as he nuzzled the girl’s hair affectionately. “Not wanting to follow in your daddy’s footsteps?”
Again, Samantha scrunched her nose and shook her head. “Daddy’s job keeps him up
all hours. Besides, Missus Patterson says it’s real dangerous, and he could get hurt someday.”
“Missus Patterson is right, I’m afraid,” said Vincent, a rueful tone to his voice. “Your daddy takes a great risk doing what he believes is right. But… ” His voice trailed off, and for a moment he looked genuinely sad. “… we all have to do what we believe is right, Samantha, regardless of the cost.”
Unable to understand what could make her grandfather so sad, Samantha just hugged him. To her delight, he hugged her back, and for a long moment the two just held each other. Samantha loved the way her grandfather smelled: he had a scent of fine tobacco and clean velvet. She liked those smells.
Soon, Vincent detached himself from Samantha and took her injured hand into his, looking over the bandage, softly asking the girl if it still hurt.
Shaking her head, Samantha said, “No, not at all. Thanks, Grandpa. I don’t like it when it hurts.”
To Samantha’s surprise, Vincent chuckled. “Nobody likes pain, Sam. But that doesn’t mean pain isn’t important.”
This elicited a confused look from the girl, who tilted her head to the side and asked, “Pain important? No way, Grandpa!”
“Yes, way,” Vincent mused, his tone momentarily matching his granddaughter’s, a feat that made the girl giggle. “Pain is your body giving important information to your brain. When you are in pain, your nerves are fully active, your brain is fully aware, and your entire being is fully focused.”
As Samantha looked up at her grandfather, confusion still on her face, Vincent said, “In fact, Sam, when you are in pain, you are at your most alive.”
Vincent ended that statement with a tight-lipped look, slowly staring down at his granddaughter. Leaning forward, he started to widen his eyes, and Samantha, who was nervous from the look for a moment, started to lean toward him and widen her eyes as well.
At the same time, both grandfather and granddaughter yelled, “Boo!” A few moments later, both were leaning back and laughing. It was a game that had been played many times, and Vincent was never successful in scaring his granddaughter.
“That’s my fearless Sam,” Vincent said triumphantly as he lifted the young girl off his lap and got up. “Nothing frightens you, does it, hon?”
“Nope,” replied Samantha, holding out her uninjured hand for her grandfather to hold. “Like you and Daddy say, I have nothing to fear but fear itself.”
“That’s right, Sam,” said Vincent, taking his granddaughter’s hand and leading her out of the study. “If you remember that, you’ll never be afraid. Besides, I’d never let anything happen to you. I want you to live a life without fear.”
Samantha felt her heart brim with happiness as she walked with her grandfather down the hallway. “I love you, Grandpa!”
“I love you, too, Sam,” Vincent replied tenderly, giving the child’s hand a squeeze. “Now, let’s go see if breakfast is ready. I can’t wait to try your magnificent toast.”
As the pair walked down the hallway, a bell rang.
The bell jarred Sam out of her memories, the sound coming not from the Castille mansion, but from the front door of her townhome. Looking around, Sam took a few moments to realize that she was an adult, in her own home, in the nineties. Reaching up to rub between her eyes, Sam sucked in her breath and muttered, “I didn’t used to have such vivid flashbacks. Ever since the murders started up again.” She sighed. “I swear, it’s like Grandfather’s spirit is haunting me in my dreams and when I’m awake.”
The front doorbell rang again, and Sam moved into action. She placed all the breakfast components on a large serving tray, covered them with plate toppers, and carried the tray to her study. Placing the tray on a stand, Sam looked over everything and, with panic, realized she had forgotten the coffee in the kitchen.
She was just about to head into the kitchen to retrieve it when the doorbell rang again. Sam was a bit annoyed at herself for acting like this was some kind of a date, and she took a moment to grab the red plastic shoe charm. Then she headed to the front of the house, stopping only to make sure that her father’s gun was still in its hiding place in the grandfather clock.
At the foyer, Sam took a moment to check herself in the mirror. While she wasn’t dressed up as a Southern lady should be, she doubted that Richie, a Yankee from Pennsylvania, would care too much. Before the bell could ring another time, she unlatched the door and opened it.
Standing there was Richie, dressed in jeans and a button-up short-sleeved shirt, holding two bags up for Sam to see, and smiling cheerfully. “Good morning,” he said in a morning person’s voice. “It’s early, so I brought breakfast. How are bagels and lox?”
Sam’s face fell.
Chapter 16
Breakfast at Samantha’s
Date: Friday, August 7, 1992
Time: 8:00 a.m.
Location: Sam Castille’s Townhome
Uptown New Orleans
For a long moment, Sam looked at Richie with a defeated expression. Here she was, having scrambled to be the perfect hostess for her first guest in years, and Richie had gone and gotten breakfast! For a brief moment, Sam considered retreating. She didn’t want to make any more mistakes.
No, Sam, she thought to herself. You’ve moved past that. Don’t beat yourself up!
Sam noticed that Richie was starting to look uneasy, and realized that she needed to let her own anxiety go before she ruined both of their mornings. Taking a deep breath and recovering, Sam smiled, opened the door fully, and motioned for Richie to come inside. “Good morning to you, too, Richie. You won’t believe this, but I cooked breakfast for us.”
Richie’s anxiety relaxed from his face and was replaced with genuine surprise. “Oh, really?” His lips tightened as he looked down. “Sorry. I guess I’m not good at this Southern hospitality thing. I figured it would be polite to bring something.”
Instantly, Sam felt at ease, knowing that Richie was bumbling as badly as herself. Suddenly, her own worries didn’t seem so bad. Giving her new friend a smile, even leaning down to capture his gaze, Sam softly replied, “It’s okay, really. This just gives us more of a variety.”
Sam’s reply seemed to perk Richie up, and he nodded before following Sam into her study.
“Oh, by the way,” Richie said, producing a bundle of paper wrapped in plastic from underneath his arm. “I found your morning paper on the front walkway. Where should I put it?”
Sam motioned for Richie to put the newspaper on one of the chairs in the study, then placed the bags of bagels on the tray with the covered breakfast.
“I need to get the coffee from the kitchen. Wait right here a moment?”
Richie nodded and started to look around the study as Sam headed into the kitchen. Once there, she placed the coffee, cream, and sugar, along with two cups and saucers, onto a coffee tray.
As she readied the last necessary bits for breakfast, she heard Richie walking out in the front hallway. Sam smiled to herself, figuring he was like her and couldn’t help but look around.
When Sam emerged from the kitchen, however, she was surprised to see Richie staring into the glass case of her grandfather clock. Her eyes widened as Richie hummed to himself curiously and leaned down, looking near the bottom of the clock.
Sam cleared her throat, and Richie looked up, smiled, and gestured toward the clock. “Hey, I hope you don’t mind me asking, but do most Southerners keep revolvers in their grandfather clocks?”
Walking past Richie, Sam smirked and replied, “Only those with nosy Yankees snooping around.”
This got a chuckle from Richie as he followed Sam back into the study. “Well, I do apologize if I offended you. It’s just as a mystery writer, I kinda think to look in odd places, and—”
“Don’t worry about it,” Sam interrupted, her smirk turning into a soft smile. She poured Richie some coffee. “I am a single woman living alone in New Orleans. I’d be a fool not to have a gun with me. Do you want sugar and cream with your coffee?”
>
“Yes, please, two spoonfuls,” replied Richie, taking a seat.
Once the coffee was poured, he asked, “So was the revolver your father’s? That model is—”
“Richie Fastellos,” Sam said, turning to him with a mixture of amusement and annoyance on her face, “do you have a habit of asking such intrusive questions of those whose houses you visit?” She handed him the coffee.
As Richie took it, he cleared his throat and said, “Sorry. Like I said. Writer. Notice stuff.”
“Well, yes, it was my father’s,” replied Sam, sitting in a chair across from Richie. “And the rest is my business. I don’t like thinking about the past.”
As she uncovered the plates and started serving them both breakfast, Richie said, “And yet you are writing about your grandfather.”
That made Sam stop for a moment, before shaking her head and handing Richie a plate of eggs, bacon, and somewhat burnt toast. “Sorry about the toast,” she said automatically, before starting to serve herself. “That’s different. Like I said last night—”
“I know,” interrupted Richie. “I get that it’s therapeutic. Sorry. I won’t pry anymore.”
Sam nodded to Richie and rested her plate in her lap. She couldn’t even be upset at his interrupting her, seeing as how she had done it to him twice. As she picked up her fork, Sam thought that Richie was a nice guy, just a little obtuse and a little too nervous.
Still, he’s not bad-looking.
For a minute or so, both writers sat and ate breakfast in silence, not a word spoken between them. The feeling in the room, to Sam at least, was relaxed—like they were old chums, or family.
Finally, Richie cleared his throat and said, “Ya know, the toast ain’t so bad, Sam. I like the jelly you got here.”
“Preserves,” Sam replied with a chuckle. “Surely you Yankees have preserves up north?”
“We do,” Richie confessed. “And I’m not really a Yankee, so you can stop saying that.”