The Quintland Sisters(45)

When I got to the doctor’s office, he was frowning over a large ledger, but closed it quickly as I entered. He offered me a brief smile, little more than a crease in his moon-shaped face.

He patted the ledger on his desk.

“You’ve no doubt been following the newspapers. They are having a field day over this corn syrup lawsuit.”

I nodded.

“Of course, it was, without a doubt, Bee Hive brand corn syrup, the brand produced by the St. Lawrence Starch Company, that we used in the first feedings, and I am quite prepared to testify on that point. It occurs to me, however, that no one has likely asked you. In fact”—he paused and looked uncharacteristically sheepish—“I’ve quite forgotten whether you were there at the farmhouse at that time, before the breast milk arrived, or not.”

I cleared my throat. “Yes,” I said. “I was there that whole week.”

Dr. Dafoe was watching me closely, then said: “You may not be aware that Nurse Leroux has submitted a signed affidavit saying she cannot remember which brand she used. And yet I know unequivocally that it was Bee Hive brand.”

He paused, his beady eyes unblinking. “If she does happen to recall, even the smallest details, she will almost certainly be called upon to return from her American tour to appear before the court.”

I was looking at Dr. Dafoe’s mustache, which was wider and longer than it had been when the girls were born. Whiter too. Many men were growing their mustaches differently now, I noticed. No one wanted to look like that madman in Germany. Then I registered what he was saying. Ivy might come home.

“I’m afraid I don’t remember either,” I said. “I would have spoken up sooner if I had, but it’s all a blur now.”

Dr. Dafoe pursed his lips and tucked his chin, but he was watching me steadily. When he spoke, it was in a low voice, slow and careful.

“I expect you, like me—like all of us here at the nursery—have concerns about the quintuplets’ futures. They are likely to lead very special lives. I do see it as a key part of my duties as guardian to help safeguard their futures.”

He reached across his desk for his pipe. “St. Lawrence Starch Company has, for some time, been a major benefactor of the quintuplets, in return for advertising rights, of course. Canada Starch Company, on the other hand, has been sour grapes, although I gather they’ve signed a deal with M. Dionne involving his other children.” He patted his pockets, looking for matches. “I hope, for the sake of our girls here, that this case gets thrown out once and for all.”

“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 na?ve 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.