The Godfather Suit

Patrick Barrett was flaked out on the sofa one evening, flicking through the television channels, when his mobile phone rang. His sister’s name Katie, flashed on the small screen. Patrick turned down the TV volume and picked up the phone.

‘Hey up, kid.’ He said.

They made small-talk, Katie asking how work was going, Patrick enquiring how his niece and nephew were doing. 

‘Actually, Pat,’ Katie said. ‘that’s why I’m ringing. Its Aria’s christening on Sunday. Can you make it?’

‘Yes, of course.’ Patrick insisted.

‘Wonderful.’ Katie said. ‘In that case, would you be godfather?’

Patrick shook his head, wishing he’d never picked up the phone. If he’d have ignored the call, maybe she would have text him instead. He could have chosen his words, collected his thoughts, and politely declined. He just didn’t deal well in social situations and so the thought of standing up in church, in front of the priest and gathered congregation filled him with dread. He was nervous and awkward, even with his closest friends and family. He just never knew what to say. He wondered how everyone else managed it. Chit-chat was a skill that, somehow, he had never acquired.  

He would rather not be attending the christening at all, never mind, be godfather, such a key part of the proceedings. 

‘Will you do it?’ Katie asked.

It was the last thing he wanted to do, but what could he say? How would it go down if he replied, actually Katie, I’d rather not?

Cursing his own awkwardness, his sister, and family gatherings in general, he found himself replying.

‘Katie, I’d be honoured.’

Adding that he couldn’t wait, he hung up, tossing the phone down on the sofa next to him in frustration. 

Later that evening, he dug his suit out of the wardrobe. He only had the one suit, his emergency suit. It came in handy for funerals, weddings and job interviews. Whereas his sister would no doubt be going shopping for the perfect christening outfit, Patrick would be fine in his good, old, faithful suit. He slipped it from the hanger and tried it on. The jacket felt rather tight. He checked his reflection in the mirror. It felt tight, but looked even worse. It looked as though he’d tried a child’s school blazer on. Had he grown? Had he put weight on? He tugged and yanked the jacket off his arms, chunnering to himself. 

There was nothing else for it. He would have to buy a new suit. He would have to be dressed up for the christening. He would have to keep up with his sister, and her well-to-do friends. He got along with Katie well enough, but they were like chalk and cheese. Where he enjoyed nothing more than a home-made cup of tea, his sister could be found sitting in a swanky, city-centre coffee shop sipping an expensive latte. 

A few nights later, after work, Patrick went to the Trafford centre. The large shopping mall was busy with early evening shoppers, laden with shopping bags. Patrick headed straight for the suit shop. He wasn’t here to browse, to wander the malls, from shop to shop. He was here because he had to be. He would buy the suit and get out of there. 

The shop was lined with rows of suits. Quite unsure where to start, he found himself flicking through the racks of suits, looking for something suitable, in his size, and within his budget. After wandering aimlessly among the racks, he eventually settled on a navy blue suit. He grabbed the suit and crossed to the changing rooms. He changed into the suit, adjusting the cuffs. It felt okay, but how did it look? He stepped back out onto the shop floor, and paused in front of the full-length mirror. 

Not bad, he thought, studying his reflection. He turned left and right, put his hands in his pockets, took them out again. It was definitely a better fit than his manky old suit. It would do the job. He would wear the suit for the christening, for his stint as godfather, and then stick it in the wardrobe until it was needed again. 

Just as he’d made up his mind, a man approached him. He was somewhere in his fifties, with a thin moustache and wore smart dark pinstripe suit. Maybe, Patrick thought, you got a discount on the suits if you worked here. You could hardly turn up for work in a suit store wearing your tracksuit bottoms. He nodded at Patrick, in approval at his selection.

‘Va bene, it’s a good fit.’ His accent was husky Italian.

‘Yeah, I like it. I’ll take it.’ Patrick agreed.

The man nodded and gestured towards the till. Patrick changed back into his jeans, and went to pay for his suit. The young man at the till looked so uncomfortable in his suit. He was hardly an advert for the store. Patrick hope he came across more comfortable in his new suit than this young lad. The Italian guy had agreed with his selection, so it must have been okay. 

As the lad rang the sale through the till, Patrick looked over his shoulder for the Italian feller. There was no sign of him. He was either on his break or over on the far side of the shop, helping another customer. 

Back home, Patrick hung his suit up in the wardrobe. That was one job done. He now had something to wear for the event. Step one was complete. He trudged downstairs and flopped in front of the television. On screen, a mindless quiz show had celebrities he’d never heard of, answering blatantly obvious questions completely incorrectly. He shook his head and tried to forget about the impending christening. He forced himself to focus on the social media influencer on TV, who had just answered that Mozart was the composer of Verdi’s Requiem.

On the Saturday night, the night before the christening, Patrick had a couple of cans of lager, and watched the rugby game on TV. The christening was getting far too close. He couldn’t ignore it any longer.

He found the panic overwhelm him. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t stand up there in front of his family and his sister’s pretentious friends. He could almost hear the priest asking for the godparents to come forward to the altar. This godfather thing was just too much. He would have felt uncomfortable enough attending the christening with all those people, let alone, have them looking on while he performed the godparent’s role in the church ceremony. 

He leaned forward on the sofa, in almost a foetal position, rubbing his face with his hands. He let out a low groan. Why did it have to be him? His sister had lots of close friends. She could have picked any one of them to be godfather. She will no doubt have meant it as an honour, and he was honoured, but at the same time he really didn’t want to do it. He wondered if she knew him that well at all? Did she think Patrick would be thrilled to do it? The opposite was true. He was horrified at the very thought of it, and it had been playing on his mind ever since. 

When he opened his eyes, he was stunned to find he was not alone. Standing in the living room in front of him, was the Italian guy from the suit shop. The man fixed Patrick with a cold stare.

‘Am I hallucinating?’ Patrick asked. ‘Have I lost my mind? I’m seeing things now. Stress can be a funny thing.’

He suddenly sensed that when he had seen the man in the shop, that had also been a hallucination. Hadn’t the guy vanished moments after he’d seen him? The stress of the impending christening was clearly affecting him in more ways than he was aware of. Patrick’s thoughts were interrupted when the apparition spoke.

‘Why don’t you tell your Don what the problem is?’ 

Patrick shrugged. He gave up, throwing his hands up in resignation. Why not? He might as well tell this figment of his imagination what was on his mind. He was the only person on hand, willing to listen.

‘It’s the christening tomorrow. I’m one of the godparents, but, I don’t think I can do it.’

The Don paced up and down the living room rug for a moment.

‘In my world, being godfather is a sacred thing. Il Padrino.’

He placed a hand on Patrick’s shoulder, looking him hard in the eye. 

‘You can do this. I have faith in you.’

Patrick laughed at the imaginary figure.

‘I’m getting a pep talk from a product of my imagination. None of this makes any sense.’ Patrick said.

‘Madonna, since when has anything in life made any sense?’ 

Patrick went to speak again, but the image was gone, and he was alone once more. He sighed and flopped back on the sofa. This christening was obviously playing on his mind even more than he’d thought. He was now seeing things. He had no idea what to make of anything anymore, but, he hoped, this imaginary figure was right when he’d said that he could do it. It might have been a figment of his imagination, but at least somebody had faith that he could do this.

The following morning as he showered and shaved, in preparation of the big day, he tried not to think about the events that would follow, that the priest would be calling the godparents to step forward, and that would include him. He dressed in his new suit and told himself that his new clothes would help bolster his self-confidence. He looked himself up and down in the full-length mirror. He straightened his tie and tried to summon up a confidence he did not feel.

The apparition appeared beside him. He studied Patrick’s look, nodding.

‘Do you know what advice they give visitors to Rome to help them stay safe?’ The Don asked.

‘Keep your belongings and valuables out of sight?’

The Don waved a hand, dismissing the suggestion.

‘You need to walk down the streets of Roma as though you belong there. You don’t push anyone around, but you do not step aside for anybody. Even if you do not feel it on the inside, you have to walk like you’re the most confident person in the world, like Rocky Marciano on the way to the ring.’

‘I’ll try.’ Patrick agreed.

‘Bravo ragazzo, good boy, you’ll be fine.’

Patrick met his sister and the rest of the congregation at the entrance to the church. Saint Joseph the Worker, Patrick couldn’t help wondering at the unusual name. Were the other saints a bit miffed at the implication Saint Joseph was the real grafter? He was greeted warmly by Katie and the others that knew him. His mother fussed over how smart he looked in his new suit. Patrick smiled as warmly as he could, and told himself that things would be okay, and that the day would soon be over. As they filed into the hallowed hush of the church and into the pews, the priest asked for the parents and godparents to sit at the front. When Patrick felt himself start to panic, he heard the Don, saying stai calmo, keep calm. Patrick nodded, grateful for the encouragement. He gave his sister a smile and tried to move with confidence and swagger. 

The christening ceremony went by in something of a blur, the priest anointed Patrick’s niece, asked the godparents if they would be there for the child. Patrick managed to respond correctly, in the right places. When he glanced out at the congregation, he saw the Don at the end of the front row, beaming proudly at him. 

Once the ceremony was complete, they drifted back down the aisle. Patrick was so glad that was all over. As they reached the doors, and stepped outside, Patrick saw the figure of the Don heading away around the corner of the church. He was tempted to call out, thanking him, but his family would think he had lost his mind. He smiled to himself. That was that, done.  He couldn’t wait to loosen his tie and get a beer down him. Katie had booked a function room above an Italian restaurant a couple of miles away. Patrick jumped in his car and followed the other cars up the road. 

The function room above the restaurant, had the Italian feel of the restaurant downstairs. There were candles in wine bottles, check table cloths and framed black and white photos on the wall. Patrick headed to the bar that ran along the back of the room. He really needed a drink. A pint of Italian birra would be just the ticket. As the barman pulled his pint of lager, Patrick noticed the photograph behind the bar. The photo was of a family wedding, with what looked like the father of the bride, dancing with his daughter. Patrick recognised the man in the photo. It was him, the Don. 

‘Excuse me,’ Patrick said. ‘who is the guy in the photo, the one dancing with the bride?’

He pointed. The barman placed the pint on the bar and turned to look.

‘That is Don Carlo. He opened this restaurant back in the 1960s. He is buried not too far from here in the cemetery of Saint Joseph the Worker.’

By Chris Platt