The Quintland Sisters(47)

“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.