Last Chance for Paris

by Sylvia McNicoll

  Some noise or smell alerts the elk, and he lifts his legs and lopes off. The wolves scramble after. Paris yips and yaps; his body trembles. Now he sees the wolves, but he doesn’t react any differently than one dog would acknowledging another.

  Dad certainly doesn’t notice any resemblance or for sure he would have mentioned it.

  Once the animals leave, he starts the truck moving forward again. Does the elk make it away, do the wolves go hungry? It’s another story without an ending.

  When we arrive back at the cabin, the sunlight is failing. The mountains and lake turn an inky purple in the distance, but the water close to the shore is still that same Mediterranean blue. I decide there’s something I have to try right away before all the light disappears. I look around for paper and finally, in desperation, I rip off May and June from the girlie calendar in the kitchen—it’s July already—and stick the pages on my easel. Then I bring the whole thing closer to the lake.

  First I paint over the girl in the bathing suit, Miss May. The page is glossy and the paint slides across; at least it doesn’t soak right through as it might with plain paper. Then I squeeze out some blue on a palette, add a bit of white, and stir it up with my brush. I dab my brush across the paper and frown. I fill the paper with different blues. The color’s not quite right. I flick some white on to get the effect of the sunlight speckled over the lake. I shake my head. I add yellow flecks. Better, but the color’s not quite there yet. I whip off that page, toss it to the side, and paint over Miss June. This time I paint yellow eyes, and surround them with white hearts and black and brown markings.

  Paris, clearly. I step away and the yellow eyes stare back at me, powerful and intense as lasers. He’s just a big puppy dog, really, but that stare is as fierce as a wolf’s.

  CHAPTER 5

  THAT NIGHT, I try to fall asleep in the blackest darkness I’ve ever seen. Over my brother’s breathing, I hear Paris pacing at the foot of our stairs, toenails click-clicking against the wooden floor, back and forth. He whimpers and I can’t believe he doesn’t wake my brother. Or is Martin just pretending to sleep? With our new curtain wall and in the velvety blackness of the night, I can’t see Martin’s face. I miss that suddenly. Maybe I should just wake him. Keeping the dog was his idea after all; why should I get up to look after Paris? When I finally have to go to the bathroom anyway, I head down the stairs.

  Paris leaps to the door, howling, and I follow and slide the glass door open. No need: there is no door there anymore, only swirling masses of mist. Paris continues to cry, yet walks into it. His howl draws out longer now. First it starts off low, and then it reaches for the moon and then it drifts down again.

  “Mom,” he seems to cry. “Come back for me.”

  “It’s okay, Paris. I’m here for you,” I tell him but he makes me feel sad and lonely too, and he’s way too far ahead to hear me anyway. I swim through the mist to join him, my arms waving it away, pushing it back. “Paris, Paris!”

  “Zanna, Zanna? Is that you?” Someone calls back in a voice that caresses me with its soothing tones. It’s her. My mom is somewhere out there. Suddenly I know I have to part all of the mist to find not just the dog, but Mom as well. Where is she? How far away? I walk and walk, feeling cold and confused. “Mom, Mom. I need you!”

  The mist spins away and suddenly the sunlight blinds. When my eyes adjust, I see Mom sitting at a round table with Zane, beneath a patio umbrella. Both of them have their backs to me. What are they doing, talking together? They seem to be in their own world, happy without me, conspiring even. I’m so mad. I run to them and grab Mom by the shoulder, spinning her around. She has no face. “What’s happening?” I scream, but no sound comes from my mouth. I grab Zane. “Help me!” I have to force him to turn too, and when he does, he’s the same. His face is blank.

  I gasp and sit up in bed. Just a nightmare. I can’t catch my breath.

  “Breathe, Zanna, breathe!” Martin has drawn back the curtain and talks to me. But I still hear snoring—Paris, slumped beside him on the bed. “Was it a bad one?”

  “It was awful. Mom had no face. How did you know I was dreaming? Did I wake you?”

  “Yeah. I mean no—the dog needed to go out. He’s also pretty lonely. I think he misses somebody. Do you want to switch beds?”

  “That’s ridiculous. I’m too old to believe your bed has special immunity from nightmares.”

  “Too bad, because it does.” Martin grins at me.

  “But also it contains one really large teddy bear who needs company. And he’ll keep your nightmares away for sure.”

  The thing is, when I have a nightmare, it circles in my head the whole night. If I don’t try something, I know I’ll be visiting the zombies, Mom and Zane, again and again and again. I sigh. “Yeah, let’s switch.” We stand up and shuffle around each other.

  “Skootch over, Paris.” I nudge the furry, dozing animal, and he gives me a sleepy lick. “Yuck. Don’t get too used to this. You should be sleeping outside,” I warn him. But as I lie back down, he curls himself close to me, his head a heavy lump across my chest. Eyes closed and breathing peacefully, he makes me feel safe and warm. After a minute, I fall asleep too.

  Way too early next morning, sunlight brightens the room, so it’s impossible to sleep in, even if I didn’t have to worry about Tyler coming. Paris licks my face as though it’s a dog lollipop. “Stop that, Paris. Go visit Martin.” But of course, Martin’s up already. I smell the most tantalizing aroma and hear sizzling that makes my mouth water, despite the fact that I’m a vegetarian. Is there anything that smells or sounds better than bacon cooking?

  Since today is the first day I’m volunteering, I go through my suitcase looking for my most sophisticated casuals. Yesterday Tyler saw me after seven days of living in a truck. Today he’ll see me refreshed and dressed in big, city fashion. He’ll be sorry he ever gave me a hard time. I rub at my gritty eyes. On second thought, maybe I won’t be that refreshed. I stuff my underwear and other clothes into drawers. Aw, and here it is, city-slick chick gear: short-short black denims with large pockets and a vest to match, also with a lot of pockets, plus an apple-red T-shirt. I pull out a floppy black Australian bush hat and carry my entire outfit downstairs to the bathroom to put myself together in some kind of appealing way.

  “Hurry up, eggs are ready!” Dad pounds on the bathroom door almost the moment I step into the tub. I shower enough to feel soggy, towel off quickly, and throw on my clothes. With a little gel in my palms, I scrunch up my hair into casual curls. This time Martin pounds on the door. “Hurry up. Toast just popped.”

  No time for big eye makeup. I leave the mirror for the kitchen, climb up on a stool, and eat. The eggs taste great. Dad’s a way better cook than Mom. One perfectly crisp bacon strip curls temptingly on a plate in the center of the counter. I want it so badly. But it used to be part of some cute little pig, I remind myself. Dad ladles some brown beans next to my eggs and passes me a slab of toasted French bread.

  “Mmm.” Dad snags the bacon. “Have to hand it to you, Zanna. So much willpower. I think I could give up any other kind of meat except bacon.”

  My lip twitches as I watch him chew. He’s done me a favor, really he has. Pigs deserve to live too. The beans taste sweet and sour at the same time, the bread thick and crunchy with a liquid layer of warm butter. Mom and I usually have a bowl of muesli with yogurt in the morning. I love these eggs but have to wonder what Mom’s having in Paris. Croissants and café au lait?

  “Well, I’m off. Zanna, pick up your pajamas from the bathroom floor. Martin, clear the plates and put them into the dishwasher. I want to get to the top of the mountain today. Scout around before my students get here.”

  “Hey, I’d like to come too,” Martin says. “You always say it’s not safe to travel alone in the wilderness.” “I won’t be.” Dad’s mouth does a quick scrunch but he continues. “You promised you’d volunteer. You need those hours for school too. Besides, you said you missed your sister, so enjo
y her while she’s here. Zanna, help your brother with the dishes.”

  Missed me? So it wasn’t only me. We’ve seen each other twice in the past four years, once last September. When I got chicken pox at twelve in Toronto—the only kid in the class and right before grad—Martin got chicken pox in Yellowknife, the only kid in his class. Mom told me about it after. Might have been nice to have chicken pox together, or to celebrate our birthday in the same place at least.

  “You can do the frying pan,” Martin calls, “since I put all the plates in the dishwasher.”

  “Dishwasher,” I repeat to myself, happy at this hitherto-undiscovered bit of civilization in the cabin. I scoop my sleep duds from the bathroom and fling them up to my room. It takes a few tries and, just as my pajama bottoms land, I hear honking. From the bathroom window, I can see the green Park truck on the dirt road out back. So much for cleaning that pan.

  “Time to go, Martin.” I rush to put my sneakers on fast and that’s when I realize what Paris ate for breakfast.

  “Oh my gawd! My Paluzzis!” I pick up my drooly, wet, open-faced sneakers. “What am I going to wear now?”

  “Don’t you have any other shoes?” Martin asks.

  I sniff, thinking sad thoughts about my New York footwear. Why didn’t the stupid animal find Dad’s work boots flavorful? “I’ll go upstairs and get my flip-flops.” When I get back down, Martin and Paris are standing there waiting.

  “What are we going to do about the dog?” Martin asks.

  “First thing we’re going to do is post a notice on the bulletin board at Food Village. Somebody must be missing this animal!” I flip-flop to the door in disgust.

  “No, Zanna. I mean now. He’s not allowed in the Park Office.”

  “He can stay outside. I’ll put his dishes out there.” I double back to the kitchen and carry the bowls from there to the balcony. If he’s a wolf, that’s where he’d normally spend all his time—outside, I mean, not on the balcony.

  Tyler honks his horn again.

  “So you stay around the cabin and behave yourself,” I tell Paris, who, head tilted, watches my lips move. “Don’t look at me like that. In the city we’d have to tie you up.”

  Martin runs for the truck, and Paris makes a break down the stairs after him.

  “Paris! Paris, come back here!”

  “Leave the dog,” Tyler calls. “Once we drive off, he’ll get the picture.”

  Martin climbs in and sits next to Tyler. I pull on the Australian bush hat and head for the truck too.

  “What are you wearing?” Tyler asks me, with less admiration than I’d hoped. “What does it look like? Honestly.” I glance down at myself, wondering what could be wrong. “Shorts, nothing too fancy. All right, the vest is just an accessory, but I can take it off if it gets too hot. Besides, don’t we have to change into a Park uniform?”

  “We don’t give out uniforms to volunteers.”

  “Fine. You don’t like shorts in the office. What do you want me to wear? I don’t think I even brought a dress.”

  “Long pants and sleeves would be better, but I’m talking shoes here. You can’t wear those!” He points to my bare feet. “Look! Your ankle is already bleeding.”

  “That’s a strawberry and you know it,” I tell him.

  “What?” He squints and then breaks into a grin. “So it is. Still, you can’t hike in beachwear.”

  “Who said anything about hiking?”

  “My volunteers are doing trail work today.”

  “Volunteers? Are there more of us?” I ask. Maybe there’s someone else our age in this burg.

  “No. You are my volunteers.”

  I squint unbelievingly at him. “Whatever! The dog ate my sneakers. It’s either these or my platforms.”

  “Never mind. I’ve got steel-toed boots in the back. You’ll have to wear those.” He leans back and throws me some dusty, yellow, mid-calf work shoes. “Now where are you going?”

  I take the ugly footgear. “Back to change into jeans: long pants and long sleeves, like you said.” Boots with shorts look ridiculous, after all. I walk back toward the cabin, Paris at my heels. Besides changing, I slip on two pairs of socks to make the boots fit. I take some extra time to put on mascara and eyeliner. It makes me feel better about my lumber jack feet. Fifteen minutes later, I climb up next to Martin in the truck, pushing Paris down and out. “Go home!” I slam the door quickly.

  “About time.” Tyler’s blue eyes lock on to mine for a second. His lips tuck into a smile. He’s going to say something about the eye makeup, I know he is. I dare him to, inside my head. “That’s much better,” he finally says and faces the road. The truck pulls away, spraying dirt over Paris. I check the side mirror.

  “Paris is following.”

  “He’ll give that up in a minute,” Tyler says.

  After five minutes, he’s still loping near the back of the car, tongue lolling from his goofy grin.

  “Wow, that dog sure can run,” Martin says.

  I groan. Paris will never give up. I watch him in the side mirror. This dog ate my Paluzzis. I hate him. Who cares if he kills himself on the road? But in my head I hear him howling in my dreams again and can’t stand it. I lean over and punch Mountain Boy’s arm. “Pull over and let the dog in.”

  The truck stops dead in the center of the dirt road. Tyler rubs his arm as he turns to eyeball me again. He sighs. “All right, I guess if we’re working on the trails, it’s okay if the wolf tags along.”

  “Thank you.” I fling open the door and Paris jumps in happily.

  “Wolf?” Martin repeats, smiling and wide-eyed. Paris leaps into my lap now, claws digging at the tops of my jeans, head up, eyes keen and trained on Tyler.

  “Oh, come on. You didn’t notice that your dog looks a bit…let’s say, scruffy?” Tyler asks Martin.

  “No. Cool, wow. My own wolf.”

  “But that’s the problem. You’re not supposed to own a wolf. He belongs out in the wild.”

  I make a face and look around. “What? Does it get any wilder?”

  Tyler shrugs his eyebrows, and there’s that smirk again. Mr. Good Looks knows it all.

  I pull my hat down so he can’t see my eyes. “Don’t worry. We’re going to find his owner somehow. Just as soon as we get into town.”

  Tyler spins up dirt again as we take off. A few minutes later he parks the truck in a small lot near a sign that reads Grizzly Bear Trail. Ours is the only vehicle and, like everything in Last Chance, the spot feels lonely and deserted. There are some rocks, some straggly shoots of grass, and a few scruffy pine trees. In the distance, the mountains look blue until they touch the clouds, where they are frosted with snow. Like a fairyland.

  “We’re here,” Tyler says. There’s a large map on a bulletin board right beside the trail sign, and a small box, into which he stuffs a stack of fliers.

  “Oh man, there are bears here,” Martin announces, like it’s an exciting ride on a roller coaster.

  I’m not as excited. Instead I read the notice about what to do if you encounter one. You’re not supposed to look it directly in the eyes, and you’re supposed to talk quietly so as not to scare it. If you’re in a group, you should stay together to look more imposing.

  Well, that’s kind of contradictory. One moment you’re not supposed to intimidate the bear, the next you’re supposed to look threatening.

  Back away slowly. You can’t outrun a bear. Don’t climb a tree unless you can get higher than thirty-three feet. Keep your dogs away from bears. Unless they’re well trained, they lead the bear back to you.

  “Tyler, what about Paris? He’s not well trained.”

  I point to the sign.

  He pats a can sticking out of his pocket. “We won’t need it. But just in case, I brought spray.”

  Martin perks up. “Bear repellent? Shouldn’t we put some on now?”

  “No.” He chuckles. “It’s like mace. You spray it at the bear, not on yourself. But you better hope you can get it r
ight in its eyes from close up.”

  “Gotcha. Should we find a stick so that we can scare the bear away instead?” He’s looking around in the bush already, happy with that idea. “In case we meet one, I mean.”

  “Never mind. I have just the thing for both of you,” Tyler answers and hands us each a long metal pick. “Your mission is to clean up garbage on this trail.” He also hands us each a large green plastic bag.

  “Yes, yes—this is exactly what I want to do with my summer,” I tell the taller fir trees surrounding us.

  “Well, if you don’t want to pick up garbage, I’ll let you have my job,” Tyler says.

  “Okay. Anything’s better than picking up garbage.”

  He passes me a shovel and a zip lock bag.

  “Congratulations, you now get to pick up scat samples.”

  “Scat samples?”

  “He means you scoop poop,” Martin tells me.

  “Ew—why would anyone want to do that?” I hand him back his tools and take the garbage pick again.

  “We label the samples with where we found them, and the researchers use the DNA to study the wildlife. In this case, bears. We’ll be able to tell how your father’s ski development will affect the animals.”

  “Oh, please. My father’s ski development.”

  “Dad works for the government and the university,” Martin jumps in. “He’s documenting the retreat of Ribbon Glacier and studying the effects of pollutants on the ice.” Oh man, Tyler’s got him on a roll now. “Did you know that the layers of a glacier are like the rings of a tree? Dad says they provide a history of the environment.”

  I cough now to let Martin know he’s running on.

  He takes the hint.

  “In any case, I don’t understand why you think he’s linked to a ski development.”

  “Because you live in one of those nice little chalets that belong to Skylon.”

  I take over now. “Let’s get something straight. I think tourism is great. Probably pays for your job.” I stab a pop can with my pick, then shake it loose into my green bag. “But my dad, as sickening as I think this trait may be, is pure. He’s here for research and that’s it.”