The Nix(95)

He stops fussing with the percolator then, and looks at her and smiles his tight smile. Puts his hands in his pockets.

“Faye,” he says.

“That’s just—I don’t know what that is. Doing a good job. It’s not bragging.”

“Doing a good job. Right. Does everybody get this scholarship?”

“No, of course not.”

“So you’re special then. You’re singled out.”

“I had to work hard, get good grades.”

“You had to be better than everyone else.”

“Yes, I did.”

“That’s pride, Faye. Nobody is better than anyone else. Nobody is special.”

“It’s not pride, it’s…reality. I got the best grades, I scored the highest marks. Me. It’s an objective fact.”

“Do you remember the story I told you about the house spirit? The nisse?”

“Yes.”

“And the little girl who ate the nisse’s meal?”

“I remember.”

“She wasn’t punished because she stole his food, Faye. She was punished because she thought she deserved it.”

“You don’t think I deserve to go to college?”

He chuckles and looks at the ceiling and shakes his head. “You know, most fathers have it easy. They teach their daughters to value hard work and a day’s wage. Chase off the wrong boys and buy an encyclopedia set. But you? You complain if a book is a poor translation.”

“What’s your point?”

“Everyone already thinks you’re a big shot. You don’t have to go to Chicago to prove it.”

“That’s not why I want to go.”

“Trust me, Faye. It’s a bad idea, leaving home. You should stay where you belong.”

“You did it. You left Norway and moved here.”

“So I know what I’m talking about.”

“Do you think it was a mistake? Do you wish you’d stayed back there?”

“You don’t understand anything.”

“I earned this.”

“What do you suppose is going to happen, Faye? Do you really believe that because you work hard the world is going to be kind to you? You think the world owes you something? Because the world isn’t going to give you a damn thing.” He turns around to attend to his coffee. “It doesn’t matter how many straight-A report cards you have, or where you go to college. The world is cruel.”

Faye is still angry about this as she drives to the pharmacy. Angry at her father’s cynicism. Angry that what always earned her the most praise—being a good student—is now the thing that makes her a target. She feels double-crossed by this, betrayed by some implicit promise made to her long ago.

And she thinks maybe it’s providence that she’ll be seeing Mrs. Schwingle tonight. Because if there’s anyone in this entire town who would not accuse Faye of being pretentious, it is Mrs. Schwingle, who brags about her world travels and worships whatever new thing the elegant ladies of the East Coast are doing. Certainly Mrs. Schwingle, of all people, could sympathize.

Faye arrives at the pharmacy and walks up to the counter, where she finds Harold Schwingle standing with a clipboard counting aspirin jars.

“Hi, Dr. Schwingle,” she says.

He considers her sternly and coldly for what seems like an oddly long moment. He is tall and wide, his hair cut high and tight with military precision.

“I’m here to pick up my package,” Faye says.

“Yes, I suppose you are.” He leaves and remains somewhere in the back room for what seems like far too long. Over the tinny speakers a brass band plays a waltz. The automated air freshener releases a small poosh and a few seconds later there’s the cloying, perfumey odor of synthesized lilacs. There is nobody else in the pharmacy. The overhead lights flicker and buzz. On the counter, buttons for Richard Nixon’s presidential campaign stare woodenly back at her.

When Dr. Schwingle returns he’s carrying a dark brown paper bag, stapled shut. He drops it—and not particularly gently—on his side of the counter, too far away for Faye to comfortably reach it.

“Is this for you?” he says.

“Yes, sir.”

“Will you swear to that, Faye? You’re not buying this for someone else, are you?”

“Oh, no sir, it’s for me.”

“You can tell me if it’s for someone else. Be honest.”

“Cross my heart, Dr. Schwingle. This is mine.”

And he breathes in a dramatic way that reads as exasperation, maybe disappointment.

“You’re a good girl, Faye. What happened?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Faye,” he says, “I know what this is. And I think you should reconsider.”

“Reconsider?”

“Yes. I’m going to sell this to you because it’s my duty. But it’s also my duty, my moral duty, to tell you I think it’s a mistake.”

“That’s very nice of you but—”

“A big mistake.”

She was not prepared for the intensity of this conversation. “I’m sorry,” she says, though she doesn’t know what she’s apologizing for.

“I always thought you were so responsible,” he says. “Does Henry know?”