He’d round the corner every day at 5:00p.m. That, we could count on. Dressed in a dark business suit, he carried a brown leather briefcase engraved with his initials: A.I.M. He was a burly Irishman with auburn hair and thick hands. From way down the street, we could recognize his large Fordham class ring and when he waved to us, it was more like an Air Force salute.

    On Fridays, he brought us lifesavers. He thought my favorite flavor was orange. It wasn’t. But I never told him because I wanted for him to think he had it right. The ritual was more important than the prize.

    An F.B.I. agent early in his career, my father opted for a safer, more predictable life. Intrigued by his F.B.I. past, there seemed something incomprehensible about this kind, chivalrous man holding a gun. Occasionally, we would prod him, “C’mon, Dad, tell us some F.B.I. top secrets.”

    He died 7 years ago. Never told us a single one.

    A once gregarious man, I used to wonder, at times, what happened to him. What caused his steps to become heavier, his eyes to lose their blue, his affect to become so somber? What was it that seemed to chip away at him?

    I would discover years later that he hated his job working for the government. Admirable, yet sad. Every day he took the train to Boston, marched into the office building, said “hello” to his secretary and went straight to his office.

    After all, the benefit package was great…