The House of the Wolf

14

Derby Line was sunk deep in the grey gloom of winter. Christmas had passed, and New Year's Eve; nothing remained but snow-bound, cloud-dulled dreariness. As Chantal drove through the streets of her hometown her thoughts were shrouded in a corresponding gloom.

She had driven to the town of Newport that morning, in hope that getting out of the house would lighten her mood. But the storefronts looked forlorn now that they were stripped of their festive decorations, and the lake was bleak and cold under the grey sky. It was hard to picture it blue and scattered with white sails, the sun high and hot, the trees green. Recalling last summer was like looking back on an irrecoverable golden age. Nana had still been alive then, Chantal still living at home; she had been in love with Russell Gordon, and looking forward to college... She had heard of people's lives "falling apart", and always imagined it to be a poetic exaggeration. Now she knew otherwise. Her own existence had utterly fragmented: it had no shape or centre to it any more.

She pulled into the Vandusen driveway, past the discarded Christmas tree that lay sprawled at its foot, looking pathetic with its few bits of clinging tinsel. By the twenty-sixth of December most of the neighbourhood trees had been thrown out; her aunt and uncle had kept theirs up until New Year's Eve, following Nana's tradition, but now it had joined the rest. She switched off the ignition and sat a moment gazing at the old homestead. Repainted creamy-white, with new blue shutters, it was brightly lit and the driveway was full of her cousins' cars. She squeezed Minnie in next to Liz's second-hand Toyota and behind Amanda's blue Honda. Inside the house there were more disconcerting alterations. It felt strange to look into the kitchen and see, not the old red wallpaper and wooden countertops, but stark white walls and grey granite. Even the pictures on the walls were gone: framed photos of Uncle Phil and his family had taken the place of her grandparents' murky oil landscapes. Objectively the changes in décor could only be seen as an improvement, but her heart still ached at the loss of the familiar things she had known since childhood.

As she entered the front hall and kicked her boots off the twins' wheaten terrier puppy barked at her furiously from his basket. Chantal liked dogs – her grandparents had owned a variety of Labrador retrievers over the years – and dogs usually liked her. But Terry the terrier had clearly decided that Chantal was an enemy, and greeted all her attempts at friendship with hostility. It was a little thing, but one of many that made her feel distanced from her former home. She eased past the dog and hung her coat up in the hall closet. Jesse and Norman were in the kitchen baking with their mother – brownies, by the warm chocolatey smell – and her uncle and her visiting cousins were lounging by the fire in the living room. Amanda was on the couch, knitting a snowflake-patterned sweater; Liz sat next to her, thin and pinch-faced as Amanda was plump and jolly – she'd been dieting again. Tammy lolled on the hearth reading a magazine.

"Hey, Chantal! Did you see this flyer from the library?" Amanda asked as Chantal entered, setting down her knitting needles and holding out a piece of green-tinted paper. "They're having some kind of free concert there, all French Canadian music. Thought you might be interested, since you've traveled there now and everything." Chantal took the flyer, but averted her gaze from it. "How was your trip? You haven't said much about it," Amanda pursued. "How are things up in America's attic?"

"Great. In fact I now think of America as Canada's basement."

Tammy looked up, grinning. "Uh-oh, she's turned Canuck! Look out everyone, we've got a spy in our midst! She probably works for the Royal Mounted Police now."

"Royal Canadian Mounted Police," Chantal corrected.

"Yup, she's gone native!" Tammy laughed. "I always pictured Canada as kind of like an enormous Alaska. Am I right?"