The Quintland Sisters

by Shelley Wood

  Whatever she and Dr. Dafoe discussed the day of the premiere left her very upset, and the doctor didn’t join us at the theater after all. I asked Ivy if he feels she is nabbing some of the spotlight from him, because he has certainly enjoyed many American speaking engagements himself over the past two years. When I said that, she flashed her snaggle-toothed smile and threw an arm around my shoulders, saying, “You don’t miss a beat, Emma Trimpany.”

  The thing is, I simply don’t think she would have accepted this offer if it had come a few months ago, before Dr. Blatz arrived with all his rules and measurements, before things got so ridiculous with the Dionnes. M. Dionne is now threatening to sue Dr. Dafoe for speaking English to the girls. We’re fed up with all the talk of lawsuits. The corn syrup lawsuit is dragging on and on—there’s a good chance Dr. Dafoe is going to be called in to testify. I can’t understand why this all matters so much.

  Ivy won’t discuss it, but I think she is also upset about what happened with Nurse Nicolette. We’ve never heard another word from her, although even if she’d written there’s a chance her letter might have gone astray. Father has told me that the nursery continues to get bulging bags of mail every week, all of it handled by Dr. Dafoe. He has said he is getting a secretary in the New Year to keep up on the volume.

  “Did you write to her?” I asked Ivy. She was in her room packing up some last things. I could scarcely watch.

  She looked upset at my question. “I have asked Dr. Dafoe for her address and he flatly refused to provide it, saying he needs to protect her privacy. I asked Fred if he would help me track it down, but he, too, says that if she wants to get in touch she will.”

  She paused and let the dress she was folding fall rumpled into her suitcase. “But what happened, Em?” She shook her head. “Something happened. Something happened here, I think, and Dr. Dafoe has decided it’s no one’s business.”

  Then she turned to me and pulled my hands from my lap, holding both of them in hers, looking me straight in the eye. She looked sad and worried.

  “You’ll be careful, won’t you? You keep your eyes open. Keep the girls safe, but keep yourself safe too. Can you do that for me?”

  I nodded and stood, giving her a hug. Then, because I thought I might start crying, I left and came back here to scribble down all my silly self-pity. I keep expecting to hear her knock and poke her head around the door to say, “Forget it, I’ve changed my mind, I don’t want to see the world. My world is here, with the girls and with you.”

  But of course she won’t be knocking.

  December 10, 1936 (Montreal Gazette/Canadian Press)

  * * *

  $150,000 SUIT OVER SYRUP FED QUINTS

  Callander Grocer Testifies as to Brand Purchased by Oliva Dionne

  TORONTO, Ontario—James McDonald, manager of a Callander grocery store, said in assize court today that Oliva Dionne bought a ten-pound tin of Crown Brand corn syrup from him “two or three days” before the Dionne quintuplets were born.

  The brand named is a product of the Canada Starch Company, which is suing the St. Lawrence Starch Company for $150,000, claiming that the defendants falsely advertised their brand of corn syrup was the first to be fed to the Quints.

  Canada Starch contends that its Crown Brand has this honour.

  Also acting as witness for the plaintiffs, was Miss Alma Dionne, the quintuplets’ aunt, who said she was at the Dionne home May 30, 1934, following the birth of the quintuplets. She had helped Nurse Leroux prepare the food in the evening and had assisted in feeding the children and that Crown Brand syrup was used.

  Before the suit ends, Dr. Allan Roy Dafoe, physician to the famous sisters, will likely appear as witness, having been subpoenaed to testify for the defence.

  Sidelights on the birth of the Dionnes was given the court when Marie-Jeanne Lebel told how she was called as a midwife by Oliva Dionne to his home about 2am on that eventful day. She stayed until 8:30 at night on the Monday following the babes’ birth and testified that they only got warm water that day. Mrs. Lebel told the court that when she visited the babies on the Wednesday following their birth on the dining room table was a big tin of Crown Brand syrup.

  Used with permission.

  December 21, 1936

  Miss Emma Trimpany

  Dafoe Hospital and Nursery

  Callander, ON

  Dear Em,

  Just because I haven’t written doesn’t mean I’m not thinking of you and the girls and the nursery a dozen times a day. How are you all doing? Who else has joined the staff? More importantly, what is the latest on Maman and Papa Dionne? I can tell you, the Americans absolutely adore every bit of news they can get on the quintuplets and Dr. Dafoe, but they are very hard on the parents. The press characterizes them as ignorant peasants, which makes me smile when I think of M. Dionne in his shirt and tie and his fancy hats, selling his signature for 25 cents from his colossal souvenir stand.

  Mind you, if I were born and raised in New York, I might think the same thing. This city is simply extraordinary—you will have to visit one day. The buildings are so tall you’d think they might blow over in a strong wind if they weren’t made of stone and steel. And all of the restaurants and theaters and dance clubs, the crush of people and cars on the streets, it’s hard to describe how busy and noisy it all is. It puts the Callander-Corbeil traffic in perspective, I can tell you. And the ladies’ fashions here would amaze you. Every day I’m seeing more women in trousers, often cut so wide that each leg could be a full-length skirt in and of itself. But wouldn’t that be so much more comfortable than skirts and stockings, particularly this time of year? What would Fred think of me in trousers, I wonder. He is coming down to visit after Christmas. Perhaps I’ll splurge on a pair and surprise him.

  Suffice it to say, this experience has been everything I imagined it would be and more. I am enjoying the preparations for the radio show, and everyone has been wonderfully kind and enthusiastic, saying they expect the ratings for the show will be off the charts. Frankly it’s hard for me to understand why anyone would be interested in tuning in for a half hour to hear how many diapers we changed each day, or how we managed bath time for five, but our listeners, I’m told, will be hanging on every word.

  I miss them so much. Do write and tell me how they are doing. Funny. Now I’m the one wanting desperately to know about diapers and baths.

  All my love,

  Ivy

  1937

  January 6, 1937

  Ivy’s voice on the radio this afternoon: her program comes on when the girls are having their outdoor nap. The weather was clear today and not too cold, so they were bundled in quilts and mufflers, the winter sun desperately trying to seek them out through the bleached canvas tops of their prams. If it weren’t for my girls, I would wish for colder weather and bleak days, something more suited to my gloomy spirits.

  Is it better or worse to hear Ivy’s voice? It is hard to think of the voice as Ivy’s, because for it to be Ivy it means she is, in fact, miles and miles away, in New York City. Yet the voice is hers, absolutely, in every way. Low and rolling, which is how I know she is smiling as she speaks. If the girls had woken today and heard her, they’d have been dumbfounded with joy, twisting this way and that, I’m sure: “Nurse Lewoo? Nurse Lewoo?” They missed her dreadfully those first few weeks, tantrums, tears, and looking up sharply whenever a door opened and a white uniform stepped into the room. The sight of their little faces falling over and over again. It tore my heart in pieces, every time.

  The announcer calls her Nurse Yvonne Leroux, Nurse to the Famous Dionne Quintuplets. A mouthful. Today he asked her about the health-giving qualities of fresh-air naps, and that prompted me to pop my head out on the porch and make sure the girls were still sleeping. He asked her about cod-liver oil and pabulum, and when to introduce carrots and peas. “And do the Quints all play together? Or do they tend to keep each to herself? What are their favorite toys?”

  Ivy had all the answers on the t
ip of her tongue. So do I. If we didn’t, we could consult the record books, shelves of them, every little detail observed and noted for posterity. But we know them, we know them so well.

  January 8, 1937

  MOTHER HAS BROKEN her ankle on the ice. They kept her at St. Joe’s in North Bay for a few days, but she’s now been sent home. Dr. Dafoe was clearly vexed by the news, as if somehow I could be at fault, but agreed with a deep sigh to let me cut back my shifts so I can spend more time helping at home.

  Strange to be back in my old room—all done up fresh for paying guests in the summer months—but lovely to have some time with little Edith. She is a chubby, busy bundle these days, all tiny front teeth and smiles, lumbering around the house on sturdy legs.

  Dr. Dafoe has arranged for the Cartwrights to pick me up at Mother and Father’s and take me out to the nursery before the 8:00 A.M. breakfast, then bring me home straight after the late-day meal. A local girl comes in during the day to help Mother and look after Edith while Father is at the post office, but I’m typically back home to help with supper, bathing, and bed. I’m exhausted, but at least it’s kept my mind off missing Ivy.

  Most days it’s Lewis Cartwright who ferries me to and fro. He is marginally more at ease with me now that we’re seeing each other twice a day, his words faltering only if I catch him off guard with a nosy question. When I insisted that he stop calling me Miss Trimpany, he shyly asked that I call him Lewis, which I am doing, although I notice he has yet to call me by my given name. He is a homely man, Lewis, with large, protruding ears and a long, pointy nose that looks as if it was somehow stretched to fit the proportions of his narrow face. But it’s a kindly face, I think.

  He surprised me tonight by asking after Ivy.

  “Is she enjoying her travels down South?”

  I feel her absence like a wound that won’t knit. Her radio program has ended and she’s written only the once. Fred brought news of her from his trip to see her over the holidays. Some newspaper friends of his took them to see jazz music in Harlem, which is a part of New York City that is almost all Negroes. I’ve never seen a Negro in my life. Fred also told me that Alexander Dolls, which are made in Harlem, have released a Nurse Leroux doll and Ivy got to meet Madame Alexander herself. Maybe I need to order myself a Nurse Leroux doll.

  “I miss her so much,” I said softly.

  I was blinking back tears so turned to look out the window. After several weeks of clear skies, we had fresh snow today, inches of it lining the roofs and fence posts like icing on a cake. Even the trees looked surprised by the weight of it in their branches. The wheels of the truck made a shushing sound in the fresh snow, and the moon was painting the road and fields with a soft blue wash. Warmer lights streamed from the windows of the neighboring farms, smoke curling from their chimneys. Everything looked so calm and quiet, quite the opposite of summer’s honk and hubbub. How strange it must be for all these hardworking folks, tending their sleepy farms for all these years, now having to contend with a crush of cars, buses, and strangers making their way out to see the quintuplets.

  “These farmers must be glad in winter, when all the tourists leave these roads,” I said. Lewis cocked his head. “That they must,” he said. Then, after sorting out his words, he added: “There’s n-not a farm on this stretch that hasn’t taken to renting rooms in the summer, though, and that—that’s been a big help for families. So winter brings both good and bad.”

  We drove in silence for a minute or two, then Lewis cleared his throat and said:

  “You and Nurse Leroux, you are the only ones who’ve been with the babies since they were born, is that right? You—you are like mothers to them, I’m sure. It must be hard on them too.”

  I turned to look at him. Everyone knew Ivy had been with the quintuplets since the day they were born, but almost no one tended to remember that I’d been there too. That I’d been there from their first halting cries.

  “They miss her very much,” I said.

  “So much coming and going, it can’t be good for them,” he said gruffly as he pulled up outside of Mother and Father’s. “Don’t you up and leave them now.”

  I opened the door and stepped down. “I’m not going anywhere,” I said. “Unless of course you forget to fetch me tomorrow morning.”

  His lips twitched a fraction, then he tipped his hat, and said, “See you tomorrow, miss.”

  January 9, 1937

  Miss Emma Trimpany

  Dafoe Hospital and Nursery

  Callander, ON

  Dear Emma,

  Greetings from frigid New York. I hope you are staying warm and dry.

  I think your latest batch of sketches is very good. You are trying something different with the eyes, I see. The big beautiful eyes on those girls! They aren’t easily captured with charcoals. Are you using the watercolors at all? Send me some of those if you can. I think being able to nuance the colors more subtly might help you get the effect you are looking for.

  I’ve been following with interest the big corn syrup debacle up there. Would you believe it made the New York Times? That’s how much Americans love the Quints. One of my first portraits of the girls was purchased by the Bee Hive company, whichever one that is—I can’t keep them straight. I’m sure you’ve seen the ad: the girls gathered around a daisy in the garden. I’m very fond of that series. It did make me think of your earliest drawings of the babies—remember the sketchbook you showed me when I first met you at the nursery? I recall very clearly the pencil drawings you did of the babies in their first few days of life, how you captured their tiny alien forms, yet also somehow conveyed their preciousness, if that’s not too trite to say. Surely there was a series of sketches you did with the corn syrup tins and the eyedroppers? Did those drawings, perchance, include the detail on the syrup tins? I mostly remember that everything seemed wildly out of proportion, the babies were so very small and the droppers looked like turkey basters. You’ve come a long way since then, my dear. None of my business, of course, but I wondered if you’d thought to look back at those drawings. Perhaps they hold the clue!

  I look forward to seeing your latest,

  Maud Tousey Fangel

  145 East 72nd

  New York, NY

  January 11, 1937

  Dr. Dafoe asked me to come to his office this morning while the girls were having their midmorning snack, or “Nourishment” as Miss Beaulieu insists on calling it. I know the doctor is under a good deal of stress these days as the wretched corn syrup suit drags on, and the prospect of being summoned to appear before the court must be weighing on him. Even when he’s with the girls, his mind is elsewhere, despite them tugging at his white coat and dragging him this way and that, badgering him with questions in their mix of French, English, and Quintuplese, as Nurse Noël has started calling it, her several chins wobbling in disapproval. Today the doctor twice confused Yvonne and Cécile, which he hasn’t done in a long time. We’ve started dressing them in different colors: Annette in red, Marie in blue, Yvonne in pink, Cécile in green, and Émilie in a creamy white. Even Miss Beaulieu has no trouble telling them apart now, unless they are in the bath.

  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.”