The Quintland Sisters(83)
After Dr. Dafoe departed, Mr. Munro summoned me to the office and spoke with me solemnly about my savings account and how the payments from the advertisers will be handled. He looks a bit like a sheepdog, Mr. Munro does. His bushy white eyebrows all but engulf his deep-set eyes, and he wears his thick, white mustache long and parted so that it droops low over his mouth. His whole face seems to bristle when he talks.
He took pains to explain to me that as long as one has a certain amount of money set aside, it will continue to grow, even if one doesn’t add more. I wasn’t particularly interested in my own savings. What I wanted to know is, Do the quintuplets have enough? We’ve all been hearing for years now that our girls can never go back to living like other children, they’ll always need ways to protect their safety and their privacy. How much will that cost? And for how long? That’s what I wanted to ask Mr. Munro.
January 22, 1938
MISS CALLAHAN IS back from her vacation, and I can’t help but watch the way she and George carry on in front of the rest of us, plain as day. How did I miss this before? Right under my very nose. Sometimes when he doesn’t know I’m watching them together, George lets down his guard and looks more like a slavering dog. As if Miss Callahan is the Easter ham, resting on the counter just out of reach. She is encouraging it, I realize. It’s both fascinating and discouraging. Are all men like this, if they sense a willing woman? Would Lewis be like this? Was Fred? I’m sure I never saw Fred looking at Ivy this way, but perhaps I didn’t know what I was looking for. George continues to be as jaunty and charming with me as ever, and it gives me the shivers. Not in a good way.
February 1, 1939
NURSE CORRIVEAU CAME and knocked at my door just now, bringing the notebook she’s been using to “document” her interactions with the Dionnes. During the day she wears her wavy brown hair pinned low on the back of her head, her nursing cap on top, but tonight she had it loose, as if she’d just brushed it out. Strands suspended by static were drifting upward, making her look even more frazzled then she clearly already was. She’s a private woman, Nurse Corriveau. I know very little about her and her life before she came to the nursery, and her flat expression and deep-set eyes typically give very little away. When she speaks it’s in a high, quavering tone, and one gets the sense that she herself doesn’t like the sound of it, because she doesn’t mince words. The only time you see the ghost of a smile on her lips is when the girls do something silly. Miss Callahan is their current favorite in the nursery, but they clearly love Nurse Corriveau, too, although with more reserve.
I steered her into my tiny room and offered her the chair. She sat down reluctantly, as if she wasn’t sure she’d be staying. She had her notebook on her lap and was patting it as you would a cat while the fingers of her other hand stroked distractedly at her mustache.
“I want to show you this,” she blurted out, tapping the notebook. “I want another pair of eyes, if you will. In fact—” Her gaze darted around my room for several seconds before she continued. “In fact, I know you, too, keep a notebook. I wondered if you would consider copying a few things down, so we have a duplicate.”
I could feel my eyebrows pop upward. I’ve started keeping my journal tucked in the crack between my bureau and the wall. I can’t bear the thought of anyone reading this. But copy from her journal to mine?
She rushed on.
“I had another nasty set-to with Mme. Dionne today. I simply walked out on her while she was speaking, saying despicable things about me, about Miss Callahan, about Dr. Dafoe. I walked into the charting area and immediately started to set it down in my notebook.”
Nurse Corriveau was watching my face, and I could see her lip trembling and saw that her eyes, while dry, were ringed in red.
“A minute later, or two minutes, the door flew open and it was M. Dionne. He stood over my desk and thrust out his hand, demanding I hand over my book.” She blinked and shuddered. “Naturally, I refused, and I thought he, too, would start shouting at me. But he didn’t. Instead he lowered his voice so that I could scarcely hear him, and started saying horrible things.”
I frowned, but I could feel my heartbeat quicken as if it was me alone in the charting room, M. Dionne standing over me, snarling.
“What sorts of things?” I said slowly.
Miss Corriveau shook her head and opened her journal, leafing through it. It had a plain brown cover and coarse, thin pages, like the notebooks used by schoolchildren, which had the effect of making her thin voice, when she spoke, seem even less substantial.
“I’ve written it down, Nurse Trimpany. I’ve written it all down here.” Her eyes looked at mine, flickering from side to side as if reluctant to settle on my birthmark.
“Would you please read it over and perhaps consider copying some of it into your own records? Many of these incidents have taken place when you were not in attendance, when you were working on your commissions or discussing them with Mr. Sinclair.”
I blushed then. I hope in that dim light that she couldn’t see it. I couldn’t say whether I was blushing because of George or because I’d been discovered, that Miss Corriveau knew—and clearly accepted—that I’d successfully evaded the Dionnes by retreating to my canvases.
“Of course,” I murmured. I saw her gaze casting around my room again. “My notebook is down in my drawer in the charting area,” I lied. I felt bad, but also sheepish retrieving my journal from its hiding place in front of Miss Corriveau.