Short for Chameleon Read online

  DEDICATION

  For Augustus (I and II), Edwina, and Baby Roo.

  Because they’ve—so far at least—resisted the urge

  to hire a replacement

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  CHAPTER 1

  This is how I got mixed up with Albertina Legge.

  The funeral had just ended and Dad was standing outside St. Cuthbert’s Church doing his bereaved-but-stoic-son routine. (A firm handshake, a smiley frown, but no tears. Tears are extra.)

  I was beside him doing my bereaved-but-stoic-grandson thing, which consisted of me staring sadly at my shoes and fantasizing about Kirsten Falkenham in that T-shirt with the see-through back.

  I think it was Perry Roy’s funeral but—weird, considering how this would totally change my life—I’m not sure. Could have been Bob Doggett’s. In my defense, we do a lot of funerals and these old guys are hard enough to tell apart at the best of times, let alone when they’re in a box.

  We heard, “Excuse me, excuse me, if you don’t mind, excuse me,” and an old lady in a wheelchair made her way through the smokers towards us.

  She put her hand on her heart. “Lovely eulogy,” she said to Dad. “You truly captured the essence of the man.”

  Dad smiled. A real smile. He takes pride in his work. The lady smiled back.

  That was Albertina. She’d be dead soon, but you’d never have known it. If anything, she seemed a tad too alive—fuchsia lips, hair like Marge Simpson’s only in a tasteful shade of tangerine, not to mention a good fifteen inches of wrinkly cleavage that made me think of the mighty Amazon snaking its way down the relief map I made in Mr. Jackman’s geography class.

  Dad said, “He was a special man. One of a kind.”

  “One of a kind?” Albertina raised her orange eyebrows. “Strange. I could have sworn you gave the exact same eulogy last week, just before you sent Don Friesen to the boneyard.”

  For a second, Dad looked like he’d been tasered, but he pulled himself together pretty fast.

  “They were both good men,” he managed to squeak out through his nostrils.

  “Yeah. Cloning is getting better all the time.” Albertina had a cackle over that. The smokers turned to see what was so funny.

  Dad pretended he was in on the joke too—just a couple friends sharing another wonderful memory of the dead guy—and whispered, “May I ask who you are?”

  “Sure. Just let me get my badge out here . . .” She started rooting through her purse.

  “Beg your pardon? You want to get out of here?” Dad was smiling like a politician who’d just been caught with a crack pipe. “Let me help you.” He grabbed the handles of her wheelchair and pushed her down the disabled ramp at a speed just short of qualifying time for the NASCAR circuit. I did my best to keep up.

  “There are two things you should know about me before you plan your next move,” she said as we crossed the parking lot. “One: I’m a trained hog-caller. Perhaps you’ve heard of me. Albertina Legge—two e’s, two g’s. Got a wall full of trophies. Your son here—if he is your son and I’m sure as hell not convinced of that yet—might like to see them some day. Until then, I’m just warning you, I have a very loud voice if I need to use it.”

  “You won’t,” Dad mewled. (Sadly, that was the only word for it.) “You won’t.”

  “No. I don’t think I will, especially once you know the second thing about me.” She batted her false eyelashes, then dropped her voice an octave or two. “I’m armed.”

  She reached into her cleavage like she was pulling out a gun. That’s when I got scared. Who knew what she was packing in there?

  Dad did one of those ho-ho-ho-middle-aged-dad laughs, but I could tell he was scared too. “No need for that. Why don’t we just get you into the shade where it’s not so hot?”

  “I don’t find it hot, myself.” Albertina patted the frills on her blouse back into place. “But my guess is you do. You’re sweating like a high-wire walker in a typhoon.”

  Dad wheeled her under a big tree at the edge of the parking lot. He wanted her out of earshot of the eight other people who’d managed to pry themselves off their leatherette recliners to go to Perry’s funeral. (Or was it Bob’s?)

  She stretched her legs out on her footrest. She was wearing bright-pink stilettos, which struck me as an odd choice of shoes for someone in a wheelchair, or at a funeral for that matter.

  “Okay. Enough of the charade, boys. What’s your racket?”

  “It’s not a racket. Honest.” Dad and I both nodded like we were riding over a bumpy road in a go-cart.

  “Please. Don’t let my pert little figure fool you. I wasn’t born yesterday. I know a scam when I see one. You cozying up to lonely old geezers just before they kick the bucket, then hightailing it with their money? That the deal? Maybe even helping them on their way a bit?”

  “No.” Dad somehow found his grown-up voice again. “No. It’s nothing like that. That’s not why we’re here. I’ll show you.” He reached into the breast pocket of his suit.

  “Hands in the air, fella!” Albertina clearly wasn’t fooling about those hog-calling trophies. Dad threw his hands up. A guy helping his wife into a big boat of a Chevrolet waved back.

  “I warned you, buster. I’m armed.”

  “I was just getting my wallet.” Dad was mewling again. “That’s all. I just wanted to show you my business card.”

  She looked at Dad. She thought about it for a second. “Okay. But I’ve got my sights trained on your son, here—if he is your son. Try anything funny and he’s the first to go.”

  Dad really was sweating now, which surprised me. He gets his armpits Botoxed so that usually isn’t a problem.

  He eased out his wallet as if it were a bomb that could explode at any second and held it open for her. “See? That’s us.”

  I don’t know why he insisted on carrying around that cheesy Sears family portrait. It was taken sometime in the middle of the Paleogoofball era when it was still okay to appear in public sporting a kiddy-mohawk, a fluorescent-yellow beater, and technicolour delusions about just how cool you are.

  “Cute,” Albertina said. “So you’re related. Doesn’t mean you’re not criminals.”

  “We aren’t.” Dad handed her his card. “We’re a legitimate business. Our Chamber of Commerce certification number is at the bottom.”

  Her glasses were hanging around her nec
k. She put them on the end of her nose and her eyeballs ballooned to fill the lenses.

  “Almost Family Surrogate Agency,” she read. “What the hell is this?”

  Dad got his groove back. “We provide substitute relatives for all manner of engagements: weddings, funerals, corporate functions, or simple companionship. Our employees’ discretion and warm personal demeanour make them—”

  “What? Tell me you’re kidding.” Albertina’s glasses landed on her chest with a splop. “Rent-a-relative?”

  “Well, we prefer to—”

  “Is that what this is? Some pathetic schmuck pays you to be pretend to be family?”

  “None of our clients are in any way—”

  “I’m right. Oh, lord leaping. Now I’ve heard everything. And here I took you for scam artists.” She barked, or maybe that was just the way she laughed. “This ain’t a scam, it’s just some hare-brained scheme.”

  Dad straightened his tie. “I’ll have you know we provide a valuable service—”

  “Fake families? Right. So who’s the genius running this business empire?” Albertina held up her glasses and squinted at the name on the card. “William Redden? That you?”

  Dad nodded and looked away, chin in the air. She’d insulted him and his company.

  “Good golly.” Albertina banged the arm of her wheelchair. “Not the William Redden? Will Redden? From Up to No Good?”

  Dad and I both rotated towards her in slo-mo. I know his heart was pounding as hard as mine was. I could hear it.

  “It is!” She gave another big laugh. Dad’s face went a colour normally only seen on hairless mole rats. “I knew I’d seen you before.”

  Weird that after all these years, it would be Albertina Legge who recognized him.

  CHAPTER 2

  For anyone born in this century, some explanation may be required.

  Up to No Good was a sitcom, wildly, if briefly, popular fifteen years ago. You know the type. Four lovable misfits start a window-cleaning business solely to get a better look at the hot blonde working on the top floor of the MegaBank office tower. Hijinks ensue.

  Lame, I know, but no one cared. The producers figured people would watch anything starring the guys from Nu Luv. (Some explanation is no doubt required here too. Boy band. One pouty. One smiley. One squinty. Their big, by which I mean only, hit: “U R . . . My Heart.”)

  The producers were right. People did watch—but instead of falling for Kody, Kelton, or Diego, everyone went nuts for the obese, bucktoothed sidekick they’d lovingly nicknamed “The Bloater.” You can still find fanny packs at yard sales printed with his hilarious catchphrase, “That’s maniacal!”

  Up to No Good ran for a couple of seasons before Nu Luv split up. (They got in a big fight about money or hairstyles or something.) Bloat wasn’t sorry to see it go. There are only so many fat jokes one man can stand, plus the producers were already planning a spinoff series for him. He went out and got his stomach stapled, his teeth straightened, and the lump on his nose Brad-Pitted right out of existence.

  The show, Who You Calling Bloat?, was supposed to be a big hit, but someone’s aim was a little off. Turned out audiences liked Bloat better fat. Sure, he was good-looking now, but good-looking the way guys who model stain-resistant workwear in the weekly Walmart flyer are good-looking. Totally forgettable.

  Bloat’s show tanked. His marriage to one of his co-stars tanked. He got a few commercials for a high-fibre burrito and a man-girdle, but after a while, they tanked too.

  His wife ditched him and their kid, and got big in Australia. (No, she wasn’t the hot blonde. She was the scrawny short-order cook the Nu Luv boys kept trying to set Bloat up with. Opposites attract and all that.) Bloat hit the road. He stopped driving just before he ran out of money, found a cheap place to live, and turned into the guy I fondly refer to as Dad.

  It’s not much of a family, if you can even call it a family. There’s just the two of us, plus Mum, who almost never forgets to send me birthday cards from Down Under—but that’s life. Things were tough for a while. Royalties from the show had dried up, and we were living on the only acting job Dad could get—as a pirate with a parrot Velcroed to his shoulder, taking sloppy drunks on Ye Olde Brewery tours. I think he found it pretty depressing. (I kept discovering piles of Nutty Buddy wrappers in the saddest places. Behind the toilet. In the Weetabix box. Stuffed in a flashlight where the batteries are supposed to go.)

  Then, five years ago, right before our Internet was going to get cut off, he got an email from Ms. Aiko Nara from The Asia-Pacific Up to No Good Fan Club in Sapporo, Japan. She realized he was “very much in demand” and apologized for contacting him directly. Her many attempts to reach his agent had gone unanswered (no doubt because his agent didn’t remember who he was). Ms. Nara went on to say how deeply honoured her fan club would be to host Mr. Bloat on a two-week promotional tour of Japan whenever his schedule allowed.

  Dad didn’t want to seem too desperate, so he counted backwards from one hundred before responding. Whaddya know? He just happened to be available immediately. Ms. Nara was delighted.

  He parked me at a neighbour’s and took off. I don’t remember ever seeing him so happy. Up to No Good had been huge in Japan. He just needed to get a few things straightened out, then he’d bring me to live in Sapporo too. This was going to be the start of The Bloater’s big comeback.

  Spoiler alert: it wasn’t. Fans over there didn’t like skinny Bloat any better than fans over here did, and Dad couldn’t eat enough tempura in two weeks to make them change their minds.

  The good news is Aiko Nara turned out to be pretty nice. After she finally figured out who Dad was—she kept asking him when Mr. Bloat was arriving—they became good friends. He told her all his problems. She’s the one who suggested he start a relative-rental business. They’re common in Japan, she said, and he was just unmemorable enough now to pull one off here.

  So, long story short, we didn’t get to move to Japan, but we did get to keep our Internet connection. Dad’s been running Almost Family ever since.

  We make an okay living. Dad has regular acting work again—that’s how he spins it for his parents on the off chance they phone from whatever elder cruise they’re on at the moment—and I’ve got a part-time job that doesn’t require wearing a hairnet or a hot-dog costume. Pews are hard on my bony butt, but on the plus side, anything that happens in a church—weddings, funerals, exorcisms, for all I know—includes sandwiches with the crusts cut off. I’d say Almost Family lets us meet lots of great people too, but then I’d be lying. Frankly, there’s usually a reason their relatives don’t friend these guys on Facebook.

  All in all, though, not a bad gig. The only thing we have to be careful about is making sure no one recognizes us as rentals. That would kill our business.

  Which is why we gulped when Albertina Legge dropped the Up to No Good line in St. Cuthbert’s parking lot. We thought we were done for.

  “So how much you charge for your so-called services?” she said, after milking our agony for a while.

  I could see Dad bristle at that, but he ain’t proud. The power bill was due in three days.

  “Thirty-five dollars an hour for me, fifty for the two of us. We also have a roster of other associates, including those suitable for aunts, uncles, daughters, cousins—”

  “How much just for the kid?”

  “Cam?”

  “That’s his name? What’s it short for? Chameleon?” She thought she was pretty clever.

  “Cameron. He doesn’t do solo jobs.”

  She shrugged like some old-time mobster. “What do you think I’m going to do to him? He’s a foot taller than me, and like I said, don’t let my snazzy little figure fool you. I’m an elderly lady.”

  “Sorry. He’s not for rent.”

  “Is he for sale then?”

  Dad glared at her.

  “I’m joking. You were funnier when you were fat.” Albertina clearly knew how to pick people’s scabs. “Fine. You
don’t want my business, then so long, boys. It’s been swell. Haven’t laughed this hard since the Up to No Good finale.”

  Albertina flicked the business card over her shoulder then wheeled her way back across the parking lot to a lime-green subcompact. I figured that was the last we’d see of her, and frankly, that was A-OK by me.

  CHAPTER 3

  This is how I got mixed up with Raylene Let’s-Say-Butler.

  It was a Monday, which is usually our pulled-pork poutine night, but Dad had a high-school reunion to go to. (Not his own, of course. Some lady’s. She wanted to show up with a hotter husband than the one she was actually married to. Apparently, there was a former cheerleader who needed to be put in her place.)

  My buddy Suraj had gotten off early from his job at the deli and dropped by with dinner. He’s allowed to take anything home that’s stale, mouldy, or has been sneezed on more than the regulation six times. Our buffet that evening consisted of some crushed spanakopita, week-old dim sum, questionable pad Thai, and the puckered end of a mortadella sausage. My mouth was delirious.

  Dad appeared in the doorway to his bedroom wearing a grey fitted jacket, jeans, and a stick-on ’stache.

  “So?” he said.

  Before I had a chance to collect my thoughts, Suraj said, “Porn-star-wannabe.”

  Dad nodded and went back to try again.

  Everyone has a special talent, and that’s Suraj’s. He can take one look and sum up the impression a person makes in a pithy three-to-five words. It sometimes hurts, but it’s always valuable.

  After several variations on hair and wardrobe—“Too-scientolgist,” “Bodies-in-the-basement,” and my favourite, “Red-elf-on-the-Rice-Krispies-box” Dad settled on a brown leather jacket, horn-rimmed glasses, and the porn-star jeans for the hint of sexy his client seemed to be after.

  Suraj’s response: “J. Crewed it right out of the park, Wolfman.” (Suraj is the only person to call Dad Wolfman. It’s a long story—glue-on chest hair, barbecue lighter, trip to the emergency room—not worth going into here.)

  Dad grabbed his cheat sheet of important names and aimed a finger-gun at me. “Bed before dawn.”