The Quintland Sisters
Page 15
“If there is anything I could do, I would do it,” I said earnestly. I meant it.
“Of course, of course,” Dr. Dafoe murmured and slipped his pipe in his mouth. “Let’s hope Nurse Leroux remembers something. Anything. Anything at all.” With his pipe tucked in the corner of his mouth, it was hard to tell if he was smiling or wincing. “And it might be nice if she had to come back for a bit, wouldn’t it? If she was called back to testify? Perhaps, when she was finished in court, she could rearrange some of her tour dates and come visit us for a few days. I’m sure the girls would like that.”
January 12, 1937
Miss Emma Trimpany
Dafoe Hospital and Nursery
Callander, ON
Dear Em,
I’m sorry to hear about your mother. Can’t Dr. Dafoe give you a bit of time off? I bet there’s no time for sketching with all that to and fro.
Fred and I had a wonderful week—has he told you much about it? He has so many connections through the newspaper syndicates, we were swept from one party to the next. We saw some live music, we danced our shoes off, and had some extraordinary suppers. What a production it is, dining out in New York. I’m not sure most New Yorkers are aware of just how hard a time people are having in other places. Mind you, there are long lines of people out of work here, too, lining up for hot meals at the churches and sleeping under the bridge not far from my hotel. It gives you pause.
How are my beautiful girls? Has Marie put on any more weight? I hope so.
I had a letter from Dr. Dafoe, who remains unimpressed with my decision to go on this speaking tour. He thinks I might need to testify in this ridiculous corn syrup case after all. I’ve already made a statement to the lawyers that I have no recollection whatsoever of what blooming syrup we may or may not have used, and I simply can’t take the time away from my tour to go to some stuffy courtroom in Toronto.
I miss you. Write and tell me that you are sketching again. Better yet, send me a drawing of the girls.
My very best,
Ivy
January 13, 1937
I decided to do something today, something to help the babies. If I’d felt, in my heart, that what I was doing was wrong, my hands would have trembled and my pencil lines would have betrayed me, I’m sure of it. But they didn’t. I was steady. I’m not sure this is honest, but I also think there is something even more important than honesty at stake, and that is doing what is right for our girls. I told Dr. Dafoe I would help if I could, and I have. I will bring this to him tomorrow and it will be for him to decide what to do.
It was Mrs. Fangel who made me think of it. I’m grateful to her, even if I can never tell her what I’ve done. I can’t tell anyone what I’ve done, not even Ivy.
January 20, 1937
THE THING I wanted most was to talk to Ivy, just the two of us, even if that meant ducking out of the courthouse for a cup of tea. How naïve to think such a thing would even be possible. The court was an absolute zoo, inside and out, and I never got within twenty feet of Ivy, let alone close enough to have a private word. After court was adjourned, Mr. McCarthy’s assistant whisked me to the train station, and I hoped I might see her there or, better yet, perhaps we’d be taking the train back to Callander together so she could have a visit with the girls. Ridiculous. According to McCarthy’s man, St. Lawrence Starch put her up in a hotel in downtown Toronto and she’ll be on the first train back to New York tomorrow. Does she truly realize what I did? Is she okay with it? Back when the babies were born, I drew my little sketches for myself and myself alone. They were never intended to be anything more than mementos of those extraordinary days.
Mr. D. L. McCarthy, defense attorney for the St. Lawrence Starch Company, is surely the only person who could have enjoyed himself today. He strutted around the courtroom like a peacock, badgering Ivy with questions and pestering her for irrelevant details, all of which delighted the mob crammed into the public gallery. Ivy sat so tall and poised, meeting his eye and ignoring the whistles and catcalls from the gawking crowd, everyone frantic to get her attention. I was so proud of her I could have burst.
“Miss Leroux, can you please remind the court, in brief, about the state of the health of the five Dionne babies when you arrived at their place of birth?”
For Pete’s sake. There wasn’t a person in the province of Ontario who didn’t know how dire things were those first few harrowing days.
“They were born two months premature and were extremely frail,” Ivy said evenly. “They had tiny arms and legs, no thicker than my thumb, and relatively large heads and abdomens. Several were having trouble breathing. Expectations for their survival were very low.”
“Tell me . . .” Mr. McCarthy paused for effect, nestling his chin toward his chest. “Is corn syrup generally considered an important component in such cases?”
Ivy, I could tell, was trying not to roll her eyes. “I do not believe so, no.”
Mr. McCarthy then took his line of questions along a wide and meandering path: where did Ivy train as a nurse? When did she arrive at the farmhouse that fateful day? How did corn syrup come to be used? How had it been given? How much was used?
Ivy explained that Dr. Dafoe had provided a specific formula of water, cow’s milk, and corn syrup, to be given by dropper because no breast milk was to be had. When she explained that a mere ounce or two of corn syrup had been used, the crowd in the courtroom started hooting with laughter again, so that the judge had to bang his gavel. I can well imagine what everyone was thinking: what a tremendous waste of time, money, and newsprint for two lousy ounces of syrup.
The lawyer then asked Ivy whether she had recorded the brand of corn syrup in her nursing notes. This time Ivy gave him a withering look. She was thinking the same thing I was: that we, summoning every ounce of energy to keep the girls alive through the night, would never have dreamed of jotting down the brand of corn syrup in the nursery records.
“Let the record note that Miss Leroux says she did not make note of the brand of corn syrup in her nursing report,” Mr. McCarthy chirruped. “Now, Miss Leroux, you signed an affidavit December 20, 1936, stating that you had no recollection what brand of corn syrup was used on the day that the mixture was prepared and given to the Dionne quintuplets. Is that the case today? You have no recollection of what brand of corn syrup was used?”
Ivy held his eye. “The brand of corn syrup was Bee Hive.”
“Bee Hive brand corn syrup, produced by the St. Lawrence Starch Company of Port Credit, Ontario?”
Ivy glanced down, and I didn’t hear her response.
“Can you please repeat your answer more forcefully, Miss Leroux? Do you believe the corn syrup used in the formula fed to the Dionne quintuplets to be Bee Hive brand corn syrup, produced by the St. Lawrence Starch Company of Port Credit, Ontario?”
“Yes.”
A loud rumble erupted around the courtroom as if set loose from a cage. The judge again called for order.
Mr. McCarthy now sounded positively jubilant. “Miss Leroux, can you explain why your testimony today contradicts your earlier affidavit of December twentieth? What has jogged your memory?”
Ivy’s voice was soft but firm. “I’ve recently been shown evidence that Bee Hive brand was the brand used.”
“Evidence?” Mr. McCarthy raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. “Can you be more specific?”
Ivy was trying not to look at me, I was sure of it. “Another nurse—actually, a nursing assistant—who was helping to care for the quintuplets: she did several sketches of the babies in the first week after their birth. One of the drawings includes the tin of corn syrup.”
“A drawing of a tin of corn syrup?” he repeated, and the courtroom roared with laughter.
“A pencil sketch of me, giving one of the babies the formula from an eyedropper, but a tin of corn syrup and a bottle of milk are also pictured in the drawing.”
Mr. Payne, the attorney for Canada Starch Company, had been chewing angrily on his
lower lip, his mustache twitching. Now he sprang up from his seat, the words spraying from his mouth. “Objection! Your Honor, this is hearsay evidence. No such drawing has previously been produced or cited in the course of these proceedings.”
The judge glowered in the direction of the defense. “Mr. McCarthy, can you produce these drawings?”
“Your Honor, I can.”
I sank as low as I could in my seat while Mr. McCarthy approached the bench and, with a flourish, deposited the page I’d torn from my scribble book. The judge pushed his glasses up his nose and gazed at it for a long minute before growling: “Mr. McCarthy, proceed.”
“Thank you, Your Honor. Miss Leroux, were you aware that these sketches were being done at the time you were feeding the babies this formula? Do you have any recollection of those sketches at the time?”
Ivy’s voice was subdued. “Yes, I do.”
“And the artist, your assistant, who was responsible for these sketches, what is her name?”
“Her name is Emma Trimpany.”
“And is Miss Trimpany in the courtroom today? Can you identify her?”
The entire courtroom turned as if on a single pivot to follow her pointing finger, hundreds of staring eyes fixed on me like a spotlight. It took every ounce of strength I could summon to look straight forward, unblinking, and give my assent when Mr. McCarthy asked me to confirm that these were indeed my drawings. I forced myself not to glance at Ivy, not for more than an instant. Instead I looked directly at the judge in his long robes at the front of the court. He gazed right back at me, inscrutable, using a thick forefinger to slide his glasses back down his nose. Such a long and terrible look.
Worse still was the look I got from M. Dionne. He was near the front of the courtroom on the other side of the aisle and turned slowly in his seat, fixing me with a glare the likes of which I’ve never experienced in my life. I felt in that instant as if Oliva Dionne, with all of the compressed tension and malice I’d seen him mete out on others, saw me today for the first time, truly saw me. That’s despite the fact that I was in and out of his home dozens of times that first summer, that I’d fallen asleep at his kitchen table, that I’ve held his daughters in my arms countless times, indeed, more times than they’ve ever been held by him. And that’s the problem, I suppose. But whatever veil I’ve been wearing that has allowed me to pass unnoticed these last two years—I lost that with M. Dionne today. When he turned and fixed me in his gaze, it was as if his eyes were stripping away my skin, my skull, and reading everything I’d ever written, or said, or even thought about him in the deepest corners of my mind. It makes me shudder now to think of it. His cold, dark stare followed by a slow, pensive blink.
What gave me strength was the look I got from Ivy, her beautiful big brown eyes. She didn’t nod, or smile, or wink, or anything like that, but I felt in that moment: she knows what I did, and she’s okay with it.
Mr. McCarthy had already turned back to Ivy. “Miss Leroux, can you confirm that you saw Miss Trimpany sketching this exact sketch on the day that you mixed the formula containing the corn syrup for the Dionne quintuplets?”
“Yes, I can.”
“And your conclusion from the characterization of the corn syrup tin, the label and visible lettering, is that this is indeed Bee Hive brand? That it was seeing this drawing again, after a period of nearly thirty-two months, that has jogged your recollections sufficiently to enable you to claim beyond all reasonable doubt that it was Bee Hive brand that you used in the mixture fed to the quintuplets?”
Ivy nodded. “Yes.”
Mr. McCarthy looked to have swelled to twice his previous size.
“Thank you, Miss Leroux. No further questions.”
AS SOON AS court was adjourned Ivy was mobbed. Not only by the newspapermen who’d been furiously taking notes throughout the day but by dozens of other people, mostly women, who seemed to have turned up for the proceedings for the sole purpose of getting Ivy’s autograph. Photographers were huddled on the steps outside, flashbulbs at the ready, but Fred shepherded her through the crowd and into a waiting taxicab out front. I didn’t follow. I was terrified the press and the cameras would turn on me next, and I just couldn’t sashay through them, my blotchy head held high. I’m not like Ivy that way. Instead, Mr. McCarthy’s assistant helped me exit through a side door and took me straight to Union Station and put me on the train himself.
I’m exhausted. The throb and rattle of the carriage should be enough to put me to sleep, but whenever I close my eyes, the day plays itself like a film in my head. Dr. Dafoe has arranged for the Cartwrights to meet me at the station in Callander, even though I’m arriving in the middle of the night. I only want to get home.
January 21, 1937, 12:30 A.M.
LEWIS WAS WAITING for me on the platform when I stumbled off the train in Callander. There were very few people waiting at that hour, and at first I worried no one had come to meet me, until his height gave him away. He was dressed in a long wool coat and dark trousers, a fedora pulled low against the chill wind, his anxious face softening to see me. It struck me that I’ve never seen Lewis wearing anything other than his billowing dungarees and wide-brimmed hat.
In typical fashion, he asked me nothing about the day and how it had gone in the courtroom, although he must have known that Ivy was testifying today—the papers speak of little else. He simply said, “Y-you must be very tired,” and led me out to the truck, where he tucked a thick wool blanket over my legs and didn’t say another word until we pulled up at my old house.
“Here we are,” he murmured.
I thanked him then, and he turned to me as if he had something he wanted to say and couldn’t quite manage to make the words behave themselves. But the kindness in his eyes was enough to make my own brim with tears, which was mortifying. I simply don’t know what came over me. Partly I was wishing so badly to be with Ivy that very second, to be hashing over those horrible courtroom hours with her, late into the night. But partly I was glad to be right where I was, sitting there quietly with Lewis. It had been such a long and awful day—sad and frightening—all those strangers gaping at my birthmark, the frank rebuke in the eyes of the judge, and, worst of all, the icy look from M. Dionne, positively vibrating in contempt. Something shifted today, I could feel it. But sitting beside Lewis in that gentle silence, I was grateful to him, I truly was. He reached over and patted my arm before stepping down from the truck and coming around to open my door.
Father had waited up for me, but he didn’t ask me anything either, just showed me to my old room with little Edith. Bless her heart. She is sleeping as sound as a stone, oblivious to my scratching pen.
January 28, 1937
STILL NO WORD from Ivy. She has a woman in Toronto who manages all her mail for her these days. Even my letters go through this secretary now. Or I hope they go through.
February 1937: Daily Routine: Dionne Quintuplets (Age—2 years, 9 months)
Time Activity Secondary Activity Supervisor #
6:30 Toilet
Dressing Orange juice and cod-liver oil
(Play) XX
X
7:00 Washing
Dressing Toilet
(Play) XXX
8:00 Breakfast XX
8:30 Toilet (Play) X
8:45 Prayer (Play) XX
9:00 Dressing
Drink of water (Play) XXX
9:30 Outdoor free play Washing X(X)
10:00 Undressing
Toilet (Play) XX
10:30 Nourishment X
10:40 Music group XX
11:00 Constructive play Washing X
X
11:25 Story group XX
11:35 Relaxation XX
11:45 Dinner XXX
12:15 Toilet Dressing X
12:30 Outdoor sleep (alternate)
2:15 Toilet
Dressing Drink of water X
XXX
X
2:30 Outdoor free play X(X)
3:00 Undressing
Toilet (Play) XX
X
3:30 Nourishment (Play) X
4:00 Bath XX
4:15 Directed play X
5:15 Toilet X
5:20 Story group XX
5:40 Supper XX
6:00 Toilet Dressing XX
XX
6:10 Story group
Drink of water Prayer XX
X
XX
6:30 In bed (Night supervision) XXX
(X)
Blatz, W. E., N. Chant, M. W. Charles, et al. Collected Studies on the Dionne Quintuplets. University of Toronto Studies: Child Development Series. University of Toronto Press, October 1937 (adapted).
February 21, 1937
Miss Emma Trimpany
Dafoe Hospital and Nursery
Callander, ON
Dear Emma,
I’m sorry! You absolutely deserve to have heard from me sooner, but I came down with a very bad cold after my trip to Toronto last month and am only now on the mend.
I’ve thought about that day in the courtroom so much and what it must have been like for you—it was nerve-racking for me and I’m used to being the center of attention these days. I’m not sure we should ever speak of this again, and this is all I’ll say: I’m proud of you. Truly, the whole world has gone gaga and forgotten that at the center of all this are five perfectly normal girls who by some strange stroke of chance happen to have been born the same day, with the same features. Corn syrup? Baby Ruth? Lysol? All these masses of people flocking to see them? Or worse, the prospect of them moving back in with the dreary Dionnes? Keep them safe, Em. No one can do this better than you.
And now my news. I’m coming to Callander for the day, March 3. I can’t wait to see my baby girls, and of course I can’t wait to see you.
I love you and miss you,
Ivy
February 27, 1937
I am the one the girls turn to now. A stubbed toe, a puzzling toy, a masterpiece of finger painting that requires praise and admiration—it’s me they seek out. Nurse Noël is the game master who won’t take no for an answer; Miss Beaulieu is the instructor with the strict rules and plastic smile. Nurse Sylvie Dubois is the latest practical nurse they’ve brought in to help with all the record keeping and measurements—she has not yet earned the girls’ trust, let alone their affection, although she is cheery and pretty. Meanwhile Mme. Dionne has been scarce since the autumn, ever since Nurse Nicolette’s departure, and I haven’t seen M. Dionne since that awful moment in the courtroom. How ridiculous, but also wonderful, that I, who have always insisted I was not cut out for motherhood, have ended up as a de facto mother of five.