The Quintland Sisters(85)
I retreated to my bedroom in the hopes of having a private hour to muddle along with a self-portrait. I’m trying to use two mirrors now, my image bouncing from one to the other so that I’m not looking directly into my own eyes but watching myself in profile, my good side. I prefer this to staring at myself directly, wondering who exactly I see.
I was engaged enough with the effort that I didn’t notice M. Dionne at my door until he spoke. “The artist at work,” he muttered softly and took a step into the room so he was right behind me, his heavy eyes in the mirror watching me. Maybe it was the effect of the glass, but he looked much larger than he is. Taller and straighter. I didn’t turn around, but I could see his face perfectly in our reflection. He was giving me the strangest look, part fury and part something else. It rattled me, which must have shown in my face, because he gave a tight smile, or sneer, something between the two. I wanted to stand, but I had the sense that he was so close behind me and I was twisting so awkwardly to see him that I couldn’t move from my seat without somehow making contact with him. It was awful.
I realized his eyes had dropped to the drawing on my lap. Rough pencil strokes, hardly recognizable as a portrait. “You’ll be sure to include the corn syrup tins, won’t you?” he said, his eyebrows coming together above his cold eyes. “Or is it chocolate bars you are drawing today?”
I was angry then, because of course what I draw or paint most days are his beautiful daughters. His beautiful daughters as they are in that moment. Does he ever even think of them as they are? Just themselves. Then he reached past me—no, around me, over my shoulder, and took the sketchbook from my lap. I dropped my pencil. The anger I’d felt earlier fled.
Then there was a noise—the creak I’d assumed I should have heard earlier—and the door swung wide. Had it been closed? Ajar? Had M. Dionne opened it, then closed it behind him? I shivered.
“Ah, M. Dionne, there you are.”
It was George, polite and businesslike. “I saw you come indoors. The report from Mr. Wilson’s office is here, if you still wish to review it?”
M. Dionne turned sideways and fixed George with a look not much different from the one he’d used to pin me. But he gave a curt nod, slid my sketchbook onto my bureau, turned on his heel, and walked out the door.
I watched George as he stood aside to permit M. Dionne to pass. I expected he might meet my gaze, or nod, or do something to show me he, too, knew his timing wasn’t a coincidence. But he kept his eyes trained on M. Dionne and followed him out the door, never looking back.
February 25, 1939
WE ARE TO teach the girls to sing “God Save the King” for a special radio broadcast that will be aired in Canada and the U.S. next month. Dr. Dafoe is very excited by the plan, telling everyone it is bound to increase public pressure on Their Majesties to come and visit the Dionne quintuplets in Callander.
“They couldn’t possibly stay away,” he told us, a wide smile on his face.
George says the doctor has another goal in mind: he’s hoping it will prove to Hollywood that the girls can indeed sing in English and cement lucrative plans to feature them in a new motion picture.
“What do the Dionnes think about them singing in English?” I asked George. He grimaced and put a finger to his lips.
Clearly the Dionnes have not been told.
February 25, 1939
Miss Emma Trimpany Dafoe Hospital and Nursery Callander, ON
Dear Emma, We’ve had a patch of ugly weather, but the forecast has cleared up and, according to the weatherman, we can expect clear skies, mild temperatures, and low wind for the next several days. We’ve received the green light to test my landing gear on the FDB!
I’m so excited I can scarcely sleep. By the time you get this, the flight will be over and I’ll be writing to tell you how it went. This is what I’ve been working on for a year now, Emma. I feel like I’m already soaring!
Yours sincerely, Lewis
11 Rue Saint Ida
Montreal, Quebec
March 1, 1939
Things have settled into something closer to normal between George and me. I think he’s realized I know what’s afoot and has ceased to pour on the charm the way he used to. For my part, I’ve decided I’d rather have George as a friend than not at all. I don’t go out of my way to seek his company, nor have I become particularly close with Miss Callahan, although we get along fine. If I’m honest with myself, it is hard not to like her; she is witty and warm and undeniably pretty. She doesn’t let the Dionnes get her down, no matter what Mme. Dionne might mutter about her. She is a good fit for George, I suppose. I wish them well, if they are indeed intent on a future together. I have no idea.
Dr. Dafoe has been coming in almost daily, meeting with men from the government, Judge Valin, as well as M. Dionne and his lawyer. George says M. Dionne has successfully persuaded the Ontario government to audit the financials for the Quintuplet Trust Fund. It is falling to George to organize all the documents he’s been compiling for Dr. Dafoe. He’s taken to working late in the night, sometimes sleeping on the couch in Dr. Dafoe’s office rather than driving back to his rooms in North Bay. Does Dr. Dafoe know? I can’t imagine he does.
Tonight after speaking with George, I went back to my room and took another stab at my self-portrait, using the facing mirrors. Whatever perspective or effect I was hoping to get from this, it’s lost. I kept picturing M. Dionne appearing out of nowhere, his cold reproach reflected in the glass.