When I was a little girl, I
thought my daddy was the handsomest,
most amazing man in the world. He’d pick me up from my after-school
program at St. Brigid’s still wearing his dark suit with gold braid,
his stiff cap with its shiny brim and matching gold braid, and his
black shoes buffed to such a shine that I could see my face in them
when I looked down.
“Your daddy must be really
special,” breathed my friend Deanna the
first time she saw Daddy. “He wears such fancy clothes. Does he wear
them all day, every day?”
I told her that he did.
“What does he do?”
“He helps some very important
people,” I said, and I named several
celebrities who lived in the Upper East Side high-rise where he worked
as a doorman. I didn’t say that he was a doorman, though, because I
didn’t understand how a job title that sounded so mundane could apply
to my dignified, well-dressed daddy.