* Author : Megan Arkenberg

* Narrator : Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali

* Host : Graeme Dunlop

* Audio Producer : Peter Wood

*

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First published in Niteblade Magazine #27 in March of 2014.

Godfather

by Megan Arkenberg

Today is your fourteenth birthday, and your godfather is coming to visit. You know because your mother is wearing a dress, a frilly lime-colored affair that certain magazine editors would refer to as a “confection,” and attempting to bake a pie. The tiny counter overflows with paper sacks of flower and plastic sacks of sugar and plates stacked high with slices of golden delicious, all interspersed with photocopies of a neighbor’s cookbook. Your mother is not much of a baker, but then again, your godfather is not much of a diner — in fact, you have never seen him eat.

His pale gray car pulls into your driveway an hour after you wake up. In your ignorance of motor vehicles, you want to call it sleek, and it is, compared to the rusting scarlet pickup your mother relies on for her infrequent trips to town for groceries and postage. But in fact, your godfather’s car is almost absurdly ornamented, glimmering with silver around the wheels and the bluish windows. When your godfather parks in front of your low porch, he waits a moment for the clouds of pink dust to settle before he steps out, lean and trim as a cat in his long black coat, wielding, rather than leaning on, a long ivory cane.

Your mother wipes her hands on a towel, then forgets to put it down before she goes to open the door. You don’t know why your godfather makes her so nervous. Despite his fine clothes and elegant car, despite the ivory cane and the pocket watch that you suspect to be made of platinum, your godfather never seems to notice, much less care, what people around him are wearing or doing. It’s not that he’s inconsiderate; on the rare occasions he’s taken you and your mother out for dinner, he gets held up for nearly fifteen minutes as he insists on holding the door for everyone, old and young, male and female, who enters the restaurant behind him. He doesn’t seem to realize there are differences between people.

Your mother, though, is flustered over how to greet him. A handshake would seem appropriate, but your godfather has never, to your knowledge, touched another human being besides yourself. So your mother smiles awkwardly and prettily, and your godfather folds his hands over the head of his cane and bows smoothly from the waist, and when he straightens his slender body, he is looking at you.

“Well, my dear, come along then.” His voice is always gentle, but at the same time, there is always an undercurrent of sarcasm. It is not apparent in “my dear,” but it bubbles up in his cheerful archaisms: “come along” being a frequent favorite.

Your mother smacks a sugary kiss on your cheek and seems to want to hand you something, a bag lunch perhaps, which would be ridiculous; while your godfather’s appetite is meager to the point of non-existence, he has never been in the least bit stingy about feeding you. The leather interior of his pale gray chariot has known the rich, greasy scents of innumerable drive-thrus and hot dog stands. But you can see that your mother is nervous, so you give her a wide grateful smile, as though she has handed you the moon.

Then your godfather’s hand is on your shoulder, steering you gently across the porch,