Last Chance for Paris

by Sylvia McNicoll

  It always looks rough, like the trees need a good trim or brush; maybe the mountains need straightening, polishing, or sanding, or the fields a good sweep.

  Green, gray, brown, scraggly, not like the clean, straight, polished angles of the skyscrapers in the city. Still, the sun is a burst of yellow light in a sky wide and blue, like some great big unblinking eye. Toronto would be hazy with smog. In the passage- ways between them, the buildings block out the sunlight and sometimes the wind kicks up in gusts, and mini tornados, trapped between the cement towers.

  “By the way, Joyce told me she ordered some tofu for you. Should be in next time you go for groceries,” Tyler tells me.

  “Wow, that’s nice of her. Do you think I could ask her to get some avocados for me too?”

  “I don’t know. They may be a little harder to transport. You miss your mother, do you?”

  He remembered what I’d said about her the other day. “No, I don’t miss her. She just turned me into an addict. Green snot in everything, or else I feel incomplete.”

  Tyler chuckles. “You’ll be dipping your corn chips in guacamole again in September. While you’re in Last Chance, you’re just going to have to tough it out.”

  “What about you, Tyler?” I ask gently.

  “I don’t like avocados.”

  “Strawberries, I mean. When do you get to see your mom?” I toss it off like it’s no big deal.

  He grips the steering wheel a little tighter. “Never. She’s dead.”

  I stare at his profile for a minute, debating whether I should ask him how it happened and when, but it’s not an easy, breezy conversation. My mother sent me away, which means she’s never around for me. I make her dead in my mind and try on how that feels, but I can’t imagine it. So we drive in silence.

  After a while, Paris slumps down and puts his head on my lap to sleep, like a baby. A hairy one with yellow eyes.

  The trees flash by. We turn off at a log sign that reads Rocky Mountain Wolf Haven. Bump, bump, over a dirt road. Paris sits up.

  “The retreat usually keeps about ten wolves at a time.” Tyler starts talking again. “We may not even see any unless it’s feeding day.”

  “What do you mean, feeding day? How often do they get fed?”

  “Once a week—Friday, I think—so we should be okay, ’cause they’ll come right to the window then.”

  I put my arm around Paris and rub his head. Food once a week—Paris would starve. “Doesn’t it bother them to be watched like that?”

  “It’s one-way glass and there’s a microphone so we can hear them. They don’t know any humans are there. Hey, don’t look like that. They have fun. Not like real wolves who have to hunt. They eat and play and sun themselves.”

  “Paris loves to run.”

  “Fifteen acres, he’d have plenty of space and playmates too.”

  I squint at Tyler. He’s sure trying to sell me on this place.

  When we roll into the parking lot, it sounds like a dogfight is going on. Yips, yaps, and yelps. The hairy baby jumps up, ears at attention.

  “We can take him for a walk first, if you like, but we better leave him outside the observation building.”

  “That yapping, is that the wolves?” I ask. Tyler nods.

  “I really want to see them. Let’s leave Paris in the truck for now.” We both roll our windows down a few inches and get out, me pushing Paris back to slam the door in his face. Paris squeezes his muzzle through the window opening.

  “He can’t force that open, can he?” I ask Tyler.

  “No. Besides, this won’t take all that long. If it does, we’ll come back for him.”

  Inside the building, we walk quickly through a display area of wolf paraphernalia—skulls, pelts, jaws, books—to the large, glassed-in room: the observation area. I gasp when I see a wolf strolling right in front of us. White and big, he doesn’t look happy like Paris. His tail is tucked between his back legs like he’s been scolded. Sneaky, sneaky, he looks all around as he approaches some kind of bloody carcass.

  Suddenly an even larger black wolf tears out after him and nips him. He stands by the gore, baring his teeth in an ugly, rumbling growl.

  “That’s Konan, the alpha male.”

  I jump, not expecting to hear anyone else besides Tyler in the room.

  A man in a khaki uniform introduces himself. “I’m Peter Kerrigan, the retreat manager. That white wolf is Chinook. He’s beta, so he’s supposed to wait till Konan lets him eat.”

  “Not very good at sharing,” I say.

  A gray wolf, and a couple more that could be Paris’s parents, huddle in the forest a few meters off. Looks like they’re chomping on other parts of the dead beast. Gross.

  “This is Zanna,” Tyler gestures toward me. “Her family found a wolf cub under their cabin. He looks to be about five or six months old. Do you think it’s too late for him to join your pack?”

  “He doesn’t stand a chance otherwise.” Peter scratches his chin; he’s one of those guys who grows black stubble seconds after he shaves. Or maybe he’s a werewolf. “A wolf that hangs around people too much is a wolf the rangers will have to shoot later.”

  Is Paris really a wolf, I wonder? And if he is, hasn’t he already hung around people too much?

  The black wolf suddenly breaks into a run in front of us—long stride, legs out straight like wings, free. For a moment I can see how this might be perfect for Paris. Then I look down at the bloodied carcass.

  “That’s a deer. They quite enjoyed it,” Peter tells us. Chinook approaches it again and quickly carries a leg back into the forest.

  I shake my head and sit on the bench by the window, mesmerized. What is the difference between a dog and a wolf, really? I see a small gray one bend down on his front legs and wag his tail. I watch the large black one walk toward him and sniff him indulgently. The white one bends down too, and then breaks into a run.

  Without reason or warning, the gray one howls, low at first, and then he raises his muzzle as the howl grows higher and louder. I can feel it in my bones.

  “C’mon, Tyler, we better go check on Paris.” I stand up and walk back through the skulls and pelts, forgetting to say anything to Peter.

  “Call me if you have any questions,” I hear him tell Tyler.

  I push through the door and breathe in deep gulps of air.

  “I can tell you didn’t like it, but honestly, Zanna, I don’t think you’re thinking it through right. You can’t look at things like a city person. Paris isn’t some shih tzu lapdog.”

  “Yeah, but to have to fight for a big raw leg of a deer for his once-a-week meal? I don’t know. It just seems too wild for him.” At the car, I open the door and Paris hops down, rushing to the high green wooden fence separating the reserve from the rest of the parkland. Paris sniffs along it and then lifts his leg to mark his territory.

  More yips and yaps make Paris lift up his ears, and there it is again, that howl—long, low, and mournful—from the other side of the fence.

  My heart stops beating for a moment when Paris lifts up his head and returns the howl, just as low, just as bone-rattling.

  “C’mon, boy. Let’s get our work done. You can have your walk on the Sky Mountain Trail,” Tyler says and climbs back into the truck.

  “Sky Mountain?” I repeat.

  He nods. “Our trail maintenance for today.”

  I scramble out of the truck after Paris. “Hope you don’t mind, I still need to borrow your boots till I can buy better shoes.”

  “Better order them at the hardware store if you want a particular size,” Tyler suggests as he starts the drive.

  Paris keeps looking back at the green fence. He jumps in the back and continues to watch the Rocky Mountain Wolf Haven disappear in the back window.

  “It’s like he knows someone there, eh?” Tyler suggests.

  “I don’t care.” But I do, for some strange reason. It suddenly feels important to get Paris away from his roots. Like if I don’t, he’ll
definitely turn into a wolf if he isn’t one already. “Paris, come back here.” Paris obeys and plants his long legs against the dash.

  The drive to the trail only takes about fifteen minutes and I’m happy to start on another long, mindless hike, garbage pick in hand, dog scrambling ahead. The scenery feels the same as yesterday— patches of brush and wildflower a spongy pine- needle path through some taller forested area, and some gaps where sky and mountain take my breath away. The path winds higher, my breathing becomes heavier, and I wipe sweat from my brow.

  Then it stops at the edge of a cliff. I inhale deeply and release my breath. Up ahead, two white mountains spike into the clouds. Down below, dizzyingly far, there’s a river and more brush. My breath catches; I back away before I can be sick. Heights are not my thing.

  Tyler doesn’t seem to notice and continues to play tour guide. “That’s Ribbon River. Leads off from the Ribbon Falls. Which come from the glacier lake.”

  “Ribbon Glacier?” I ask.

  He grins. “None other.”

  “That must be where Dad and his crew are working.” Paris runs into my legs hard, as if begging for a chance to see too.

  “Try and keep him back,” Tyler says and plucks a single blue poppy growing in a cluster a few meters away from the path. It’s bright and friendly-looking, like the poppies on the divider curtain in my room.

  He stares straight ahead for a moment, twirling it between his fingers. His lips part and move almost as if in prayer. A feeling hangs in the air around him, a sadness, bone-aching, like the wolf howling back at the center. Otherwise I’d rib him about picking a wildflower. It’s got to go against every ranger rule in the book.

  I grab Paris by the scruff and hold him tight.

  “Here you go, Mom,” Tyler finally says, and flings the flower off the cliff.

  I’m glad that for once, I kept my mouth shut.

  CHAPTER 9

  HAD HE really said that? I release Paris and he tears into the trees behind us. Tyler turns and we continue as if nothing happened. His mother is dead and he throws flowers off the cliff for her. Does that mean she fell off the cliff? We walk quickly for a while, and then Tyler slows down till I’m beside him.

  “I packed us a lunch,” Tyler tells me. “Let’s stop up there.” He points to a wooden deck overlooking the cliff.

  “I’m sorry about your mother,” I tell him as we settle on the bench.

  “Thanks, but it was over five years ago.” He takes out two large plastic containers. The first one he unsnaps has corn chips in it; the second is some kind of dip.

  “Oh my gawd. Is that what I think it is? Where did you get hummus in this burg?”

  He lifts his eyebrows and smiles. “I made it, Zanna.”

  “For me?” I dip a chip and bite in. “Mmm, it’s amazing.”

  His smile broadens and he blushes. “It’s not even hard. My mother’s recipe. She was Greek.”

  I chew as I stare at him. Five years ago, he would have been twelve, a couple of years younger than Martin and I are now. Still, Martin and I have lived without one parent and each other since we were ten. In the sorry contest, we may have won.

  “Have you ever been to Toronto?” I ask, because the silence has changed into that space from the edge of the cliff to the valley. If I don’t say something, he’s going to know I’m thinking about his mother’s death.

  “Yeah, for a couple of weeks once. My grandparents live there and Mom took me to the Ex.”

  Our hands bump into each other dipping the chips. It’s like a quick electric jolt up my arm, and I pull away. But the after-tingle is pleasant. I watch as his hand goes to dip again, see the faint blue veins beneath his tanned knuckles, the curve of his pointer finger as it meets his thumb. I’m staring really, and now his hand lifts the corn chip to his lips. They stretch into a smile. He knows I’m looking.

  I glance away, and at that moment Paris jumps up, planting his paws on the bench between us.

  I throw a chip away from me and he happily snaps it up. I clear my throat. “So I bet you liked the rides—at the CNE, I mean.”

  Tyler takes a swig of water from his canteen, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. “Nah, the ones at Canada’s Wonderland are way better. What I liked best were the yachts at Ontario Place. I promised my mother we’d have one of those when I grew up.”

  “Not much use for a boat in the mountains.” I look toward the white-and-blue peaks, sighing. “The mountains are beautiful though.” Tyler nudges my hand with his canteen and I take it from him. Again our hands touch, but I can’t pull away this time.

  “Beautiful,” he murmurs as he looks into my eyes.

  He smiles full-out now, and I feel myself leaning toward him. The air has a blue coolness to it like those mountains, but around my skin there’s a warmer golden hum. “Do you miss Toronto?” he asks.

  He’s really asking about Zane, I can tell by his tone. I answer carefully. “I miss the subway. And the stores, all the choices. Plus, I never thought I’d say this: I miss the crowds. It’s lonely out here.”

  He nods. We’re so close I can feel his warm breath on my face. “I didn’t want to come back from Toronto. My mother couldn’t leave my father.” It’s a quiet admission of something—I’m not even sure quite what—but he sounds so sad.

  I want to kiss him. He’s sad and I’m lonely, and everything would feel better if our lips could just touch. I close my eyes and push my face forward.

  But what about Zane? a tiny voice in the back of my head whispers. I back away for half a second and my eyes flutter open. Something knocks into my knees.

  I look down. It’s Paris, of course, and he has something small and furry in his jaws. I draw back.

  “What is that?”

  The dog backs off the deck, shaking the creature in his mouth hard.

  “Drop it, c’mon.” I dash toward him, but he won’t let go of whatever’s in his mouth. He bows in front of me like it’s a game. I feel a little sick. Whatever it is looks almost like a newborn kitten, but it has longer ears. “Tyler, help me. Paris is eating…a bunny.”

  Tyler’s quicker than I am, grabbing Paris’s head.

  “Can you get him to let it loose?”

  “It’s too late.”

  “Leave it, leave it right now!” I grab Paris’s muzzle and pinch it at the joint of his jaws so I force it open. The baby rabbit drops to the ground, making no attempt to break away.

  “Zanna, he’s snapped its neck. I have to…” Tyler steps forward hard on top of the animal. Paris runs back from a bush with another animal in his mouth. I scream at him. It’s no use. Tyler’s stomping that one to death now.

  I head toward the shrub and see two tiny dark bodies lying underneath the greenery. When I move closer, I can’t see any sign that the bunnies are alive.

  Crying now, I step on each one of them too. Where is their mother?

  I taste hummus backing up on me. Sneakers are one thing, soft furry babies are another. I kick dirt over the tiny bodies and swallow hard. I hate this place. I hate that dog. He runs around me happily, a greedy blood lust in his eyes. Like a satisfied vampire. Or maybe like a happy wolf. He tries to dig where the babies are and I push him away. “Get lost!

  Go away! Bad dog! Bad…wolf.”

  “He didn’t do anything wrong. It’s just his way.” Tyler grabs Paris, dragging him from the burial site.

  “Sorry,” I whisper over the grave. I hear something ahead and see the mother rabbit springing away through the underbrush. “Where were you?”

  I yell after her, but she’s far away before I can even finish. “How could you just desert them like that?”

  I shake my head. There’s nothing more I can do for her babies either, so I head back onto the path. I can’t look at Paris or at Tyler.

  “Do you see?” Tyler asks. “Can you understand why the wolf retreat might be the best place for him?”

  I can’t answer. If I’d left Paris there this morning, those bunnies would
still be alive.

  Tyler packs up all of the lunch containers. Neither of us wants to eat anymore.

  I swallow again, and we walk in silence back to the truck.

  Paris jumps onto the front seat as usual. I push him back. I can’t stand being around him. Tyler waits a while before turning the key.

  In those few minutes, I decide. “You know what, Tyler? You’re absolutely right. Let’s turn around. It’s not like I’ll ever get Martin to agree anyway, and it’s obvious that Paris belongs in the wolf retreat.”

  CHAPTER 10

  TYLER’S QUIET as we drive. Quietly sure that he’s right. I only wish I could be. Still, what exactly does a city girl know about wild animals? All I know is that I can’t look at Paris. I hear and feel his hot panting across the back of my shoulder but I refuse to turn and see his tail wag for my approval. I don’t want to start liking him again. He needs to stay in my mind as that creature with a bunny trapped in his fangs. That wolf with the shining, bloodthirsty eyes. Otherwise I won’t be able to go through with it.

  As we turn down the road toward the center, Paris jumps to the front and watches the road. I look to the side. When the truck pulls into the parking lot, I find myself stuck to the seat. “Tyler, can you just take Paris by yourself?”

  Tyler scrunches his mouth up for a second. “Yes, if you’re sure.”

  I nod, and he wrenches the door open.

  Strangely, Paris doesn’t leap out after him. Instead, he steps up onto my lap and licks my face. The same tongue that lapped at a baby rabbit, I tell myself but still I find myself scratching behind his ears. “You go on now. You’re better off with your own kind.” I push Paris toward the driver’s side door.

  He looks at me one more time, yellow eyes staring straight into mine. “Are you really sure?” they ask and, seeing no reprieve in mine, they finally turn away. After a moment, Paris leaps down and walks with Tyler toward the door.

  They’re gone a long time and it’s warm, so I roll down the window. Dog sounds come again from behind the tall fence, yips and yaps. What really is the difference between a wolf and a dog? Then I hear it. One long howl, and I swear it’s Paris’s call. “It’s for the best,” I repeat, but my throat aches and I find it hard to swallow. Am I turning into Mom?