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?”
“Of course,” she says. “I have a date with him tonight.”
“Do you?”
“Yes,” she says, as instructed. “We’re going out tonight.”
“Has he proposed to you?”
“What?”
“If he were a gentleman he would have proposed to you by now.”
And Faye feels defensive under his criticism. What comes out sounds hollow. “All in good time?”
“You really need to think about what you’re doing, Faye.”
“Okay. Thanks very much,” she says, and she leans over the counter and closes her fist around the brown paper bag with a loud, poignant crunch. She doesn’t know what’s happening here, but she wants it to be over. “Goodbye.”
She drives quickly to the Schwingle house, a grand thing that sits on a rocky bluff overlooking the Mississippi River, a rare point of elevation in the otherwise gentle rolling flatness of the prairie. Faye drives up through the trees to the house, which she finds unexpectedly dark. The lights are off and everything is silent. Faye panics. Did she get the date wrong? Were they meeting somewhere else first? She’s considering driving back home and calling Margaret when the front door opens and out she walks, Margaret Schwingle, in sweatpants and a baggy T-shirt, hair disheveled in a way Faye has never seen before, scooped to one side like she’s been sleeping on it.
“Do you have the package?” she asks.
“Yes.” Faye gives her the crinkly brown bag.
“Thanks.”
“Margaret? Is everything okay?”
“I’m sorry,” she says. “We can’t have dinner tonight.”
“Okay.”
“You have to go home now.”
“Are you sure you’re all right?”
Margaret is staring at her feet, not looking at Faye. “I’m really sorry. For everything.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Listen,” she says, and now she looks at Faye for the first time. She stands up straight and points her chin out, trying to look tough. “Nobody saw you come here tonight.”
“I know.”
“Remember that. You can’t prove you were here.”
Then Margaret nods to Faye and spins on her heel and leaves, locking the door behind her.