Last Chance for Paris

by Sylvia McNicoll

  On either side of the center aisle of desks stand a couple of large tanks, one holding a few rock bass and the other, a couple of lizards. That’s the glass Martin tapped on last time, and got in trouble for it.

  I spot the sign. Ten-minute limit on the Internet.

  “Hurry up, Paris. I’ve got e-mail to write.” I pull him away from a corner mid-sniff and quickly sit down at the computer, hoping to max out the time and maybe sneak in some more. Paris paces at the end of his rope, though, and the click-click of his nails sounds loud against the quiet of the room. Beep, beep, beep, beep! Luckily, the super-slow dial-up sounds even louder. An eternity later, I navigate to a mailer and download my mail. I scroll down, scanning the list: four notes from Mom, subject headers: Love You, Paris News, Exciting News, and Answer Quickly. I don’t click on them. No notes from my Zane. I type in his e-mail address. Then I start my message.

  Zane! I love you, I love you, I miss you. You won’t believe it, but the Internet connection here is sooo bad. The mailer here must be rejecting the notes you’re sending me and there’s a Mountie-type coming toward me.

  I type as fast as I can but the younger ranger seems to be heading my way with some kind of purpose.

  He’s one of those dark, good-looking types who thinks that he can boss everyone around, I can tell. I’m sure glad Zane’s not like that. Maybe because he’s not handsome in a regular kind of way. I close my eyes and see his face. He has a narrow nose and pale eyes, the same light-gray as a computer screen. His dark hair is chunked with red sections, and it hangs over one eye. He never tells me what to do. He doesn’t talk a lot, and he’s so laid back that he annoys Mom, which is kind of what I like about him.

  This Park guy’s staring at me with eyes that are an unnatural blue. Has he got glacier silt for brains or something? I try to ignore him. What’s his problem, anyway? “Excuse me, Miss,” he says.

  “Hey, listen, can you cut me some slack? It took so long to get this connection. And there’s no one waiting for the computer.” I keep typing. I write Zane all about finding a puppy under the house. How strange he looks, how big and floppy he is. I can smell the ranger now. He’s like a pine forest growing beside me.

  “You can keep working on the Internet, but you can’t bring a wild animal in here.”

  I look up again. Mr. Good Looks points to Paris at my feet, quietly chewing at my laces. “They’re my shoes he’s destroying. He’s not bothering anyone else,” I answer. “You’ve got a black Lab at the front there.”

  “A retired rescue dog, sure. He belongs to my dad and he’s saved fourteen people.”

  “Paris is young. Give him a chance. He’s already caught a grasshopper.”

  The guy laughs at me, a deep, rumbling noise.

  I miss your laugh, Zane, I type.

  “You can’t bring a wolf in here,” the ranger dude says.

  I blink at him. “What wolf? We found this guy under the house. He’s very friendly. He wouldn’t hurt anyone. Designer footwear and grasshoppers, maybe. Paris is really just a puppy.”

  “He’s got to have some wolf in him. Look at his eyes, and the way his tail droops. Besides, he’s huge. Check out those paws.”

  “Excuse me, but I don’t have time to examine the dog right now. I only have ten minutes on the Internet. And I’m expecting a very important message!” I go back to typing. I hate a know-it-all, I type.

  This Mountie guy says Paris is a wolf. What would a wolf cub be doing under our house? Sure, he’s oversized for a pup and has weird eyes. They do look wild. Did he chase something underneath the house? Why did his mom just give up on him then?

  The Park guy coughs. “Listen, my father’s going to come over here in a second.”

  I type like lightning now.

  Why don’t you write me a snail-mail letter, if your e-mails keep bouncing? My address is RR 32, Last Chance Pass, Alberta. Gotta go, Zane. My ten minutes are really up. Love, Zanna.

  I press Send and wait a couple of moments to download again in case I just missed him or his address doesn’t work anymore. Nothing. What is wrong with this stupid computer? I stand up.

  “Did you get your important message?” the Park guy asks.

  “No. I can’t believe I’m stuck in such a nowhere-land that my e-mails don’t even get to me.”

  “I get e-mails from the other posts all the time. It works fine. Now, can you take the wolf outside?” the guy asks.

  “Fine, sure. And my invisible dragon. Paris, come on, we’re not wanted.” I head out the door, dragging Paris behind me with the yellow rope. Outside, I sit on the bench in front, waiting for Martin and Dad. Paris curls around my sneakers. He’s so big I’m reminded of that stupid old joke about a guy’s really fat wife. When she sat around the house, she really sat around the house. Paris’s body completely surrounds me.

  Across the street, the headless mountains still smoke and the old lady with the walker comes out of the dilapidated house and stares at us. Paris stares back.

  “Are you the new people Skylon moved into one of their houses?” The ranger dude suddenly sits down beside me.

  “Shouldn’t you be in there timing your customers?”

  “Taking my break. I’m Tyler Benson, by the way.” He stretches out a hand toward me and Paris jumps up, yapping and wagging.

  “Shh, Paris.” I hesitate, staring at his hand. This guy has been nothing but rules and regulations, but his hand looks friendly, open and reaching as it is. “I’m Zanna, Zanna Segal-Day.” He holds my hand tightly and his grip is warm and strong.

  “So did you move into one of the Skylon cabins?”

  “We’re in one of the log huts by the lake, but my dad doesn’t work for Skylon. He’s a glaciologist on an independent study. You know, documenting glacier retreat?”

  “Independent, eh? Betcha he’ll find a way to conclude that a ski resort won’t harm natural resources in Last Chance.”

  I stare Tyler down and then I sniff. “A ski resort here? We can only hope.” I shake my head. “Not Dad’s thing, though. Melting glaciers, you know, greenhouse gases causing global warming and all that? That’s what Dad’s into.”

  Paris sits up with his head and paws on the bench between Tyler and me. “You sure are a friendly guy. Been around people too much for sure.” Tyler gives me a look, icy and somehow riveting at the same time. “Bet the surveyors fed him.”

  “What? They fed a puppy and just left him?”

  “Well, what exactly can you do with a wolf? Are you staying up here forever?” Tyler asks.

  “Oh gosh, no. I’m joining my mother in Paris in September.”

  “Well, see. You’ll leave him behind too. And this guy’s already had too much human contact. He probably can’t go back in the wild. But he belongs in a reserve at least.”

  “You belong in a reserve.” I glare at him. “You’re not a wolf, are you, boy?” I scratch roughly behind Paris’s ears and under his chin, and he lets out this yowl that makes me pause.

  “Did you check out our ‘Animals in Their Natural Habitat’ display? There’s a wolf in there that could be your dog’s twin.”

  I look down at Paris and he looks back at me with his sharp yellow eyes. ’Course, the eyes in the display wolf were glassy, beady eyes.

  “Why don’t you check on the Internet? There’ll be plenty more facts on wolves there.”

  I look back into glacier eyes. “Maybe you forgot. You banned us from all contact with the outside world.”

  The skin around Tyler’s mouth buckles as he smiles. It doesn’t look like he takes me seriously. “Your important e-mail—by any chance, was it from a boyfriend? Let me guess, from the city?” The way he says “city” implies some kind of fault, as though it’s the city that makes a person not return e-mail.

  “Why, does Parks Canada need to know this for some reason?” This Tyler guy is annoying. I can’t stare him down. His eyes are that same blue I’ll have to try to mix with my paints if I’m ever going to paint the lake. The co
lor unnerves me and I have to look away.

  “It just gives you an excuse to be snotty. I mean, if your boyfriend’s just dumped you.”

  “Zane hasn’t dumped me!” I see Dad and Martin coming toward us.

  “So you don’t have an excuse,” Tyler says.

  “Zanna, Zanna! Guess what?” Martin calls. “The guy at the hardware store says we can volunteer with Parks Canada this summer. We just have to talk to—”

  “Me or my dad,” Tyler interrupts, grinning the way Paris did after scoffing the stew.

  CHAPTER 4

  “JUST THINK about it, Zanna. You can’t sit in the cabin all day by yourself,” Dad says as Martin heads into the Park Information Office with Tyler. Paris tugs at the rope, wanting to follow them. “I have to collect my ice samples. Do my research.”

  I yank the rope, roll my eyes, and fold my arms across my chest, the rope still tucked tightly in my fist. Paris yips his disappointment. I say nothing.

  “Listen, your mother told me you need forty hours of volunteer work if you want to graduate back in the city. This is something you can do right here, right now, in Last Chance.”

  The Park Office door squeaks as Martin pushes it open, waving some forms. “We’re all set. We just have to fill these out and Dad has to sign them.”

  “Or if you really don’t want to volunteer, you could come up the mountain with me. Help me drill through ice, check the temperatures, and take measurements. We could have some quality bonding time.” Dad winks.

  I scrunch up my mouth. They’re ganging up on me, pressuring me. Will I never be able to do what I want again? “Do you expect us to hike to the office? It’s miles away.”

  “Tyler drives a truck and says he can pick us up,” Martin pipes in. “Just think, you can use the Park Office computers every day.”

  My eyes open wide. A lift from Tyler. I can’t help smiling: at least he’ll be inconvenienced too. And Martin’s right: I can picture myself in a forest ranger’s outfit sitting at a desk, downloading e-mail, and messaging all day long. What ever happens in a small outpost anyway? Maybe I can even make a few long-distance calls when no one’s looking. “Fine, Martin. Give me that form. And take the dog.” I pass him the rope. “Dad and I are spending some serious together-time grocery shopping.”

  Paris strains at his makeshift leash again, hacking as he chokes himself. He just wants to go far and fast, a good match for Martin, who runs everywhere just for the fun of it. They both start loping down the cracked sidewalk. A boy and his…wolf?

  I shake my head: nah, can’t be.

  Dad and I head next door to Food Village. I pick a cart from the front and push it directly to the back, past the toys, books, toothpaste, medicine, shampoo, and detergent, scouting for the deli section or maybe the international counter. Can’t find either.

  I double back to the front, through the clothing aisle. Dad’s in there looking at a Last Chance moose hat, opening and closing the snout that forms the front of the cap. In front of him is a display of kids’ pajamas, ladies’ sweat suits, and unisex rubber rain boots: Last Chance fashion. No art supplies anywhere, and certainly no canvases.

  “Excuse me, Miss?” I ask the only cashier standing at a register. A tall, earthy type covered in splotchy freckles, she looks up from a Country Life magazine. It looks like she belongs in the magazine.

  “Where do you keep the pesto and the fresh pasta?”

  The cashier smiles and swings her thick, orange braid back. “Gord at the back there, he’s the only pesto we keep hanging around. Spaghetti’s in aisle four.”

  I smile at her little joke because, well, I need her on my side right now if I want anything civilized to eat. “Do you stock any tofu, or soy products?”

  She smiles bigger and shakes her head.

  “Hummus?”

  “Canned chickpeas in aisle four, right across from the spaghetti. You can mash ’em with garlic and a little Skippy peanut butter, and away you go.”

  “Dog food?” I wince, wondering what kind of raw state that might come in.

  “Aisle four.”

  “Thank you! What do vegetarians do around here?”

  “Pine needles are great right now. Taste like oranges.” She chuckles, but this time I can’t even force a smile. She shrugs her shoulders. “Fresh vegetables are in that last aisle. We’re kind of low. The truck will come in tomorrow. But we have plenty of frozen corn, peas, and that fancy stir-fry stuff in the freezer section right next to them at the back.”

  I cruise aisle three too, just in case: pickles, vinegars, flour, cake and muffin mixes, bread, and kitchen utensils.

  In aisle four, I pick up a few cans of chickpeas, and brown and black beans—only one brand to choose from. Honestly, there are more kinds of dog food. Dad joins me. “What do we get, Dad? Lamb and rice, chicken and liver, beef and kidney? Canned food, dry food, meaty round burgers?” I make a face.

  “This one here.” He grabs a large bag with a puppy on it. Only that puppy is a lap-size, golden brown, floppy spaniel.

  I wonder if it will be enough for a dog like Paris. It’s not like he’s going to enjoy my table scraps.

  “What do wolves eat?” I ask Dad, remembering the stuffed one in the display, teeth bared in an ugly snarl. He looked like he enjoyed rabbit sushi.

  “Wolves are carnivorous pack animals that can often gang up on quite large prey.”

  “Humans?”

  “No, never. Red Riding Hood is just a fairy tale, believe me. Mostly wolves eat field mice or beavers. Occasionally they may try their luck at a moose.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, no particular reason.” Can a wolf survive on puppy chow? I shake my head. Honestly, who cares? Someone will claim him any day now.

  I make a U-turn back to the veggie aisle for that fancy stir-fry stuff. Three bags ought to do it. I meet Dad at the cash. “You bought some pasta and milk last trip in, right?”

  Dad nods. He pays for the stuff and the cashier introduces herself, guessing that we are the people who moved into one of the Skylon cabins. Does everyone know what everyone else does in Last Chance?

  It’s a very tiny world. Turns out the cashier is Joyce Benson, somehow related to Tyler, I’m guessing. No wonder she laughs at my groceries. Making fun of city tastes runs in the family.

  Back at the car, Dad tells me to fill out the form before we head back home. “I can sign it right away. No need to make another trip if you’ve decided.” Dad sticks the box of groceries in the back, and I use the hood to write on.

  Last name first, first name last, easy enough.

  Address and phone number, harder. References—I don’t know anyone in this town. Skills—I mark down “computer.”

  Dad scrawls his signature at the bottom. I head back into the office.

  Tyler smirks as I hand him the volunteer sheet.

  “Okay, okay, I don’t know my address. I don’t have a telephone...”

  “Don’t worry about it.” He writes in “Skylon cabin.” Beside “References” he writes down his own name. “You’re in. Do you want to start right away?”

  “Oh, I would, really I would, but remember I brought my wolf?”

  “Right. Pick you up at eight tomorrow?” Tyler points his pen at me.

  “Eleven or twelve would work better for me.”

  He wags the pen. “Way too late. Have to be at the office by the afternoon. Eight or nothing.”

  I’m confused. It’s not that far to our cabin by car. Why does he need to start off so early? Then I wonder about time in general. Is Toronto ahead of Alberta or behind? Maybe that’s why there’s no e-mail from Zane. Early tomorrow morning would be almost afternoon back in the city. I would be sure to hear something from him by then. “Eight o’clock it is.”

  Tyler’s cool blue eyes hold mine for a moment, laughing at me. Lucky I have a boyfriend or that look would rattle me. I turn around and bump into Martin coming back to hand in his volunteer form too.

  We say our g
ood-byes and make our way back to the truck, where Paris is riding shotgun. “Move it,” I tell him, and find I have to use all my strength to push the puppy toward the back with Martin.

  I’m in a way better mood than when we first arrived here, and I switch on the radio and push the scan button. It picks up static, more static, the forest-fire-danger update for the park, some more static, and country music. I sing along. Hey, we live in the country now. When in Last Chance, you do as the desperate people do. I’ll show that Tyler guy that I’m not a city snot. Martin sings along too. My baby left me for a bodybuilder. She didn’t want to live with a pipe welder. We sound pretty awful, just like when we were kids and sang “Old Macdonald” together. Paris’s head pokes forward between the front seats and his paws push up on the console. He sneaks forward.

  Suddenly Dad brakes, and Paris stumbles and scrambles back onto my lap, ears pointing up like antennae, eyes sharp and trained. Ahead of us an elk strolls across the road, but it’s the creature at the side of the road that gets my attention.

  It looks like a large dog that’s been through hard times. He’s a dark-gray color with some black and brown. His long, thick tail curls unhappily between his hind legs. His eyes focus on the elk with the intensity of two yellow lasers.

  “Look over there!” Martin nudges me and points. In the bushes, there are a couple more mangy-looking dogs.

  “Wolves,” Dad calls, “out hunting.”

  Paris’s body feels hard and stiff as he stares at the elk. A growl rattles through his body. Is that your mom and dad? I want to ask. But he’s not looking at the wolves, just at the meal on hooves.