Disclaimer: I am not one of the lucky copyright holders of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory in its many forms. I don't own anything at all. But I do hope you find this just for fun, not for profit, perhaps elucidating, gentle parody, entertaining.

Thank you readers and reviewers, the song quoted is 'Number One', by Chaz Jankel. dionne dance, Willy and Wilbur, certainly a conundrum, there are no neutrals for them. But here's a nice neutral, 'Nonfat Soy Half Caff', for which you will not find a button! Enjoy!

Terence talked for a good long time. He told Dr. Grant about the lost ticket; about Willy's visit to his shop to retrieve it, and listening to Willy's version of the first tour; about Charlie's wraith like appearance, when he made his appearance—crumpled, soaking money clutched in his hand, and about Charlie's passing, with flying colors, an ad hoc interview he didn't even know he was taking. Terence told him what he knew of Charlie's private tour, and the visit the next day, to Willy's office, and finally, what was going on now—Willy's retreat, and how it was all, seemingly, coming apart.

Dr. Grant had laughed in places, shaken his head in others, and wrung his hands in still others. But when Terence finished he only said, "Tell me about meeting Charlie again, and the day in the office." Closing his eyes, Dr. Grant listened, unmoving, as Terence re-told that part of the story. When he finished, Dr. Grant continued to sit, eyes still closed, lost in thought for such a long time, Terence wondered if perhaps Dr. Grant hadn't fallen asleep. "That Elevator of his took you to France?" the doctor finally murmured.

"And back," confirmed Terence.

"It's a miracle," came the measured reply, in a whisper.

"It is impressive, and fast, too…"

Dr. Grant sat up, coming alive, his voice decisive. "I don't mean the Elevator. The Elevator terrifies me. I mean that Willy's coming back. That must terrify him."

Terence made his face a blank, because he didn't agree that anything terrified Willy, but Dr. Grant, as usual, laughed at Terence's unspoken response. "I say, I know you don't agree, but I'm right, you know, all the same. You weren't there. You don't know how bad it was." Dr. Grant's hooded eyes both conveyed and hid the pain of his remembering, but his growing animation kept him going. "It was bad, very bad, all this time, but this story of yours, hearing this story, it is ending now, isn't it? Have you ever noticed that? That you don't understand a thing, until it ends?"

"Until what ends?"

"The stroke! Willy's stroke!" Dr. Grant waved his hands in the air, and jumped up from his chair. He was feeling giddy, giddy with happiness, and moving was a must, he couldn't sit still. A mistake he'd thought would never be erased, was erasing, and the strain of the guilt he'd felt all these years was loosening. He turned to Terence, sitting impassively in his chair, and chortled with glee, "Did I tell you Cyn had a stroke? I know I did! So did Willy! No, no, not like Cyn's; Willy decided on his stroke. He did it deliberately. Do you see?" Dr. Grant's face was alight with happy, mock dismay. "No, I see you don't see, you think I've lost my mind, but I haven't, and neither did Cyn. She only stopped visiting both sides of her brain for a time, and stayed on one side—that's all. She had no choice, but Willy did, and that's what he's done. Willy decided to have a stroke with the world—when his employees betrayed him, and I failed him."

Dr. Grant bowed his head, but continued, his voice with a dreamy quality, as he stopped pacing, and slowly turned to face Terence squarely. "What happened was such a rupture, from what he thought was right, Willy retreated to his world, and left ours—for years! I say, till now! The shock of the betrayal must have taken nearly all his energy—losing everything like that, all at once." Dr. Grant's fingers clenched and unclenched, the fault of leftover worry, creeping out of his body, as he stared straight ahead, his face ashen. "Willy did it to survive. Nietzsche said, 'What doesn't destroy you, will make you stronger.' I think it's been touch and go for Willy, especially at first, whether that betrayal would make him stronger, or destroy him. I say, nip and tuck." Dr. Grant's eyes refocused. "Willy was lucky to find the Oompa-Loompas. Yes. I dare say, they tipped the balance for him. They made the dream possible again; more than possible—they gave it all back; except, I say, trusting us, of course. With them, Willy could make everything even better." Dr. Grant nodded at Terence. "They don't carry this culture's baggage. Willy must adore them. We need to thank them."

Terence agreed, the Oompa-Loompas were indispensable, but Dr. Grant didn't give him the opportunity to express it, and Terence had yet to meet an Oompa-Loompa.

The giddiness was back in Dr. Grant's voice suddenly, his right index finger pointed to the heavens, as he shook his hand gently back and forth. "And I see something else! Did I warn you about letting people shine it on? Make you think they were stronger than they were? And using all their energy reserves to do it? Don't deny it"—Terence wasn't—"you know I did. I think that's why I hardly saw Willy—it cost him too much in energy, to seem as if he were fine." The reality washed over him, and Dr. Grant looked at Terence incredulously. "All these years… Willy did forgive me," he whispered, and he stood motionless by the mantlepiece, overcome by that truth.

Terence could only nod, because he was certain Willy had forgiven Dr. Grant, but this analogy Dr. Grant was making felt like itching powder. It didn't sit right—too farfetched. Sure, these were events Terence hadn't been a party to, and Dr. Grant might be right, but Terence wondered. The Willy Wonka he'd known back when, would handle adversity by thumbing his nose at it, and succeed anyway, and as near as Terence could tell, that's exactly what Willy Wonka had done. Terence didn't doubt there was pain involved, but Willy had a high tolerance for that, and if he spent his time in his Factory, and not elsewhere, it was because that was exactly where he wanted to be.

Dr. Grant went on with his speculations. "Willy must feel stronger now. Strong enough to come back. But why does he want to?"

That's easy, thought Terence, thinking at the same time that a few forays do not a 'return' make—Willy needs something he can't get in his Factory. But Terence held his peace, listening politely. Someone this far off the mark was like a sleep-walker you shouldn't wake up. While Dr. Grant's choice of analogy was understandable, to Terence, it illustrated more a lack of understanding about what made Willy tick than it did an accurate reflection of Willy's motivations.

"Cyn said the hardest thing about coming back was leaving the lovely world where she was. Our world is so judgmental in comparison. She said it was a relief to escape it. She told me later, she made the effort, because this is where Willy and I were. So why is Willy doing this now? I say, at this point, I think he's perfectly happy where he is."

Amen to that, thought Terence. Charlie and I will be lucky to get him out of that Factory again.

Dr. Grant turned speculative eyes to Terence. "The last time you were on the scene, Willy's life took a big change. Now you're back—the fly in the ointment—an auspicious sign for another big change, perhaps?"

Terence held up his hands, palms outward and flat. "Don't look at me," he demurred.

"Why not? I've heard from Willy more in the last four months than I have in the last four years. A ring from him on the Sunday after the Saturday you stopped by—I report to Doris, you know—Willy and I may not talk much, but Doris and I go way back—and I report anytime anyone shows an interest in that lot. And, I might add, what an interrogation that call was! The longest phone call I've ever had from the man!" exclaimed Dr. Grant, with another of his winks, "and then another ring on Saturday, after last Friday, when you contemplated skipping town."

"Don't remind me of that, please."

"Why not?" Dr. Grant started laughing. "You're being back in town now reminded Willy of how nice it was when you were in town then—out and about, you know. I say, just like old times! Fly in the ointment alright. Yup, I'm sure of it. I said you got the ball rolling then, and now you're back! I'll say it again—what better sign to get the ball rolling again!" Dr. Grant tapped his chin with his finger, and resumed his pacing back and forth along the fireplace. "Come to think of it, it was after you showed up that Willy started playing chef at Martha's. He told her it was practice! It was practice!" Dr. Grant stopped his pacing, his face deadly serious. "Not cooking; I'm not talking about practicing cooking. What else has Willy done lately?"

"He had the tour."

"Yes, right, he had the tour. How could I forget that fiasco? Why would Willy do that?"

Terence was happy he knew, and could pass along the information. "To find an apprentice, Willy said."

"Hm," muttered Dr. Grant, lapsing into silence for a moment, his brows knit together, his chin on his chest. "Why would he want that?"

Terence watched Dr. Grant begin slowly pacing again, more deliberate this time, and the minutes ticked by, until realization blanked Dr. Grant's features, and then lit them up. "Jeepers, creepers!" he breathed in amazement. "I say, what happens when an apprentice finishes his apprenticeship?"

Terence hadn't considered. "He goes into business for himself," he mused, but instantly knew that was wrong. Willy would never let his secrets leave his Factory. "Jeepers, creepers, is right," he breathed, astonishment filling him. 'You don't mean…" As wrong as Dr. Grant could be, he might be right about...

"I do! Willy's not looking for an apprentice! I mean, that is to say, he is looking for an apprentice, but that's not the end of it, is it? I'd stake my wisdom teeth Willy's going to give whoever he finds his entire Factory!"

Terence was glad he was sitting down. No wonder this terrified Willy. Terence found the prospect terrifying, and it wasn't his factory.

Dr. Grant's face quickly morphed from amazed to contrite. "I'm sure Willy is making the effort for the Oompa-Loompas, he hasn't come back for us, well, certainly not for me, but I already know that, I'm sure the very sight of me horrifies the dear boy—God only knows what awful thing I'll say to him next! I say, I wouldn't blame Willy if he ran screaming at the sight of me… but I'm sure that doesn't apply to you, Terence—I'm sure your being here has made the effort that much easier."

"Better the Oompa-Loompas than me causing all the fracas," was Terence's unruffled reply. "I'm a trifle flighty, I don't mind admitting it, but if you're right, and Willy is contemplating an heir to his Factory" a low whistle escaped Terence's lips, "no wonder he's a little jumpy. It's his life's work."

"He can't afford making another misjudgment."

"He hasn't; Charlie's perfect."

"He has."

Terence sighed to himself, he still couldn't bring himself to argue with this sweetly misguided metaphorical sleep-walker, but Dr. Grant's emphatic tone underscored that he still hadn't learned not to claim certainty about things he didn't understand well.

"Didn't you say Charlie turned him down?" Dr. Grant asked. Terence's lack of response had managed to shake some of his confidence.

"It wasn't 'no' exactly; more like Charlie didn't know enough about it to say with certainty." Terence heard himself, and froze in his mental tracks, the only giveaway a small gasp. Charlie was a very intuitive boy. Maybe, when Willy asked that question, Charlie had an inkling; an inkling of what was behind the question, and that terrified him. The two had each considered the other, not saying a word, but communicating all the same, for the longest time, right afterward, Terence remembered. Maybe they were agreeing to live with the idea; to see if it became less terrifying, after spending some time getting used to it.

Dr. Grant broke into Terence's reverie. "If only Charlie wanted to do it."

The comment was elucidating, because hearing it, Terence knew better. Charlie had worried at the beginning of the previous week, but since last Friday, he'd become serene, even as everyone else had increasingly dithered. Charlie must have decided then that it was okay with him. And Willy? He probably had too—all those exotics, that wonderful smell, a celebration—but he was making sure, buying a little more time, finishing the list, sending Square Candies to keep an on eye on the impatient. Though not so necessary for Charlie, the gesture was helpful for the Buckets, and me, thought Terence. Hm. Maybe things weren't coming apart; maybe they were on simmer. "I think Willy is still mulling it over."

"But you said you think Willy thinks Charlie is perfect. Tsk." Dr. Grant returned to his chair, and sank imperiously into it. "I say," he sniffed, "this roundabout approach to a straightforward problem—worst case of cold feet I've ever seen." Dr. Grant sniffed again. "Willy's; not Charlie's."

Something about Dr. Grant's look, or tone, or words, or posture, or maybe thinking of 'cold feet' in that warm Factory, struck Terence as funny, and he started to laugh. Low at first, but gathering steam, and Dr. Grant joined him.

"Cold feet," Terence averred, still laughing. He liked the explanation.

"Cold feet," echoed Dr. Grant, relieved beyond measure he'd met someone else who understood Willy, and whose reactions to his comments allowed him to understand Willy enough to explain what Willy was doing, with an explanation that might be remotely close to right. It was something that hadn't happened for years—not since he'd lost Cyn.

Dr. Grant laughed from relief, and they laughed together until there were no laughs left. Then they sank deep in their chairs, and sat quietly facing each other, until the energy flowed back, and they started laughing again. If Charlie were there, he'd have joined in; if Willy were there, he'd have told them to cut it out, with crossed arms, and a petulant pout; but Willy wasn't there, so they laughed and laughed, to their hearts' content, over Willy's cold feet.

"I'm sorry to see you leave. Are you sure you have to go?" Dr. Grant stood by the door as Terence collected his coat.

"'Fraid so, mustn't be late for the vigil, and I've already taken up most of your day." Despite what he said, Terence was sorry to leave, too.

Dr. Grant cocked his head. "Vigil?"

"Charlie and I sit on the bench across from the Factory after Charlie gets out of school, and wonder if Willy is going to make an appearance; or take that blasted sticker off the gate. I mustn't be late today, because I was late on Friday…"

Dr. Grant chuckled, "…don't remind yourself…"

Terence smiled, too, "…and Charlie will be sporting some new clothes today, that I want to admire. Nora, Mrs. Bucket, said she was taking him shopping over the weekend, what with Noah's advance on his salary, and all." Mentioning those names made Terence pause for a moment in his task of putting his other arm through the other sleeve of his coat, but he soon finished shrugging it on. "If you don't mind my asking, I've noticed that your wife's name and your daughter's name, make your name… 'Cyn' 'Claire'… Sinclair—I'm guessing that's by design?"

Dr. Grant moved to the door to open it, smiling and feeling known by someone for the first time in a long time. That was the trouble with outliving your friends, or seeing them move away, or descend into ill-health: there was no one to tell your stories to who remembered, and new people you tried to include, gave you looks that did nothing but let you know they thought you, yourself, were well on your way to your own dementia; particularly when the stories concerned Willy Wonka. Dr. Grant had given up telling them years ago. It was a treat to talk to someone who believed him, and it was icing on the cake that Terence was sharp enough, as well, to notice things for himself. "The women on Cyn's side of the family do that if they can—it's a funny little family tradition. There's nothing hard and fast about it, it's not make or break, but they consider it a powerful indication they've got the right man if their names are similar." Dr. Grant beamed. "Martha's fiancé's name is Martin. Martin McClellan—a distant relation to the General. Cyn used to joke we almost didn't qualify, but we got around it with Claire's name, and our first syllables being the same. Whew for me," Dr. Grant said, as he wiped his brow with exaggerated relief.

"Interesting…" murmured Terence, "but I suppose every time that happens it isn't intended…"

"What are you mumbling, there Terence! Speak up boy!"

"Sorry. I was just thinking out loud to myself—that sort of thing is just a coincidence, sometimes…"

"…Sometimes, I say, I suppose it is, but not this time."

"Right." Terence shook off his thoughtfulness the way he had shaken on his coat.

Dr. Grant was standing by the door, the knob in his hand, ready to open it. "I'm sorry you couldn't meet Cyn..."

"I feel like I have…"

"…She was a much bigger influence than I was."

Terence looked at the fedora on the table, and the walking stick by the door. "Oh, I don't know… Don't sell yourself short. I think you had your influence, too." Terence picked up the walking stick. "Willy has one just like this: gold top, black body. He took it with him to Chartres."

"You mean that trip to France? In the Elevator? I told you, that Elevator makes me frightfully nervous," Dr. Grant couldn't help saying. "But Willy loves it. He couldn't resist showing it to me; brought it over here—gave me a demonstration. It was one of the times I've seen him, and the only time I've seen the Factory, since he changed it. He took me to his office, it was the same, mostly, but The Chocolate Room! He took me to see that. Have you seen The Chocolate Room?"

Terence shook his head.

"I can't describe it."

"Don't worry; Charlie did. He said it was beautiful."

"When you see it, you'll know Willy's travelled a long way from us, and the way we do things."

Terence enjoyed the implied optimism in the way Dr. Grant expressed the thought, as if Terence's seeing The Chocolate Room was a foregone conclusion. In his mind, it wasn't.

Dr. Grant held up a warning finger. "Don't get in that Elevator, if it's in the Factory. It's not so bad outside, it travels almost predictably, but inside that Factory—it does whatever it wants. Willy has an advantage: he knows where the rooms are, with respect to one another. Although I can't say I'm fond of the thing, I do say, it is quite something; really, Willy should do more with it."

Yeah, do more with it—like knock down satellites, in Near Polar Orbits, thought Terence fleetingly. Nah, really, Willy should do less with it, but he only said, "Too late; but I agree—sitting on the floor, or wedged in a corner is fine for me—Willy can suit himself."

"I'm sorry, I distract myself, and I'm keeping you. I don't mean to. You were on about the walking stick." Dr. Grant reached out and took the stick from Terence. "I gave the match of this to Cyn, when she started to learn to walk again. Then I gave it to Willy, when he left for the first time." He took a step back from Terence to put more distance between them. "There are myriad uses for a walking stick, balance and support being the two most people think of first, but my favorite is this: a walking stick," he twirled it in his hand expertly, "is the most genteel, un-concealed weapon you will ever carry," and with that Dr. Grant brandished the stick as a sword, a bat, a lance, and a protective staff, before he laughed, and put it down again. "Of course, it's more effective if those uses are a complete surprise to your assailant, and the drawback is, if you use it that way, I say, you ruin it. Hm."

Terence pointed to the hat.

"Ah, yes, there's that, too, isn't there?" Dr. Grant traced the top of the hat with his finger. "There was a little height competition going on, back when. Willy grew, but not as much as I think he'd have liked." Dr. Grant sized up Terence. "What are you, five foot eleven? I'd say so, you're about my height. Willy's about five foot eight. He thought a hat made him look taller, and a top hat taller than that, but he stopped caring years ago—now he just likes the hat. At five foot eight, he fits in better with the Oompa-Loompas."

"In the boots, he's my height," said Terence.

Dr. Grant shook his head. "He prefers being taller around outsiders—I don't mean you, I mean people he doesn't know, but those boots! I've seen them. It takes skill and daring to wear those… I say!"

Terence smiled. "I better be going."

Dr. Grant opened the door, and Terence started down the steps. When he got to the bottom, Dr. Grant called out to him. The relief of understanding was worth sharing.

"I think I know why Willy wanted us to get to know each other." As usual, Dr. Grant didn't wait for Terence to answer. "AVM! He's trying to prevent another stroke! You know, between him and me, like when he closed the Factory. I say, you're the capillary buffer Willy and I need to interpret for each other; the way Cyn did! And I say, you're very good. I never expected to feel this reconciled!"

Now I can get behind that analogy, thought Terence, maybe that's exactly it. Terence James: Capillary buffer between high pressure sources. There were worse things. He waved cheerily, and turned to hurry off to the Factory, aware that time was growing short if he wanted to get there before Charlie. But Dr. Grant had one more thing to say, that made Terence stop, and turn back.

"If those cold feet of Willy's don't warm up soon, call him! Tell him to stop being an idiot."

Terence retraced his steps, climbing half-way up the stairs. "Define soon," he said quietly, "and I would need the number."

Dr. Grant, standing in the chill air, had draped his coat over his thin shoulders, his eyes a-twinkle. "You don't need the number, you have the number, if you'd think about it—but you know what? As you say, you may not, I say, you're right, maybe you don't. I'll fix that. It ends with being a fly in the ointment, but it starts with knowing that particular line has its own discrete exchange. Fewer wrong numbers, you understand… wrong numbers are so bothersome."

"And the exchange?"

Dr. Grant shook his head. "Well it's an exchange. Like the exchange Willy agreed to with his father, when Willy lived with us. I say, we, well, as it turned out, I, lived up to that one thing Willy did agreed to in the bargain with Dr. Wonka. I sent Dr. Wonka a photo, and by 'a', I mean 'one', and that's all you need to know." Dr. Grant smiled when Terence nodded. "Maybe I shouldn't have told you. Don't use it if you don't have to. Was Willy really asleep when Charlie came in to your shop?"

What? Terence was thinking about the phone number, and it took a minute for him to pull his thoughts into the blue, where this question had apparently come out from. "No, Willy was pretending to sleep," Terence answered confidently, but then he paused, and considered, because after what he'd learned today, he half-wondered if Willy hadn't been asleep, for perhaps a minute or two. The implicit trust, if that were true, made Terence catch his breath in the cold air, in the face of mounting evidence that his attempt to skate through life, entirely on its edges, unnoticed by anyone, in any meaningful way, had failed, years ago. Too late to think about that now—Willy was undoubtedly pretending sleep at the end. "Charlie came in just after. Willy was very peppy after that; like he got his second wind."

"You think that was an odd question, so late in the day, don't you? But it's not as odd as you think. I've been thinking about it since you told the story. From what you've said, Charlie and Willy share energy, back and forth. What a relief for Willy to find someone like that, after all these years. I'm sure they'll manage to make it all work out."

"I hope so," answered Terence distractedly, Dr. Grant's reference to 'late in the day' reminded him again of the time slipping away. "They share something. And your secret, Dr. Grant, about the number? It's still safe. I have to figure out the ointment part. Bye." With a wave, Terence bounced down the steps, and hurried up the street. He had a Factory waiting for him, and a small friend.

Dr. Grant smiled, as he carefully shut the door. After a minute, he moved to the phone.

"Libby called," Doris sang out. She was standing in the door of The Inventing Room, but she could hardly hear herself over the strains of Number One blaring from the room's excellent sound system—a sound system as good as Willy could design, and money could buy—a sound system that was almost never used, and nearly forgotten. Installed before the Oompa-Loompas arrived, it was almost never used because the Oompa-Loompas preferred live music, their music, and so did Willy, who, in The Inventing Room, usually preferred no music, because it was too distracting.

It was Monday evening, and Willy, and Eshle, and every Oompa-Loompa who had helped in The Inventing Room that day, was happily line dancing to the words: I'll do my best, to beat the rest, and be the best, in the nation! The song was a happy joke, with everyone making the most of it.

Doris watched for a moment, and easily picking up the steps, danced her way over to where a candy-glass bowl, festooned with dragonflies, sat on a work table, as the music entered an instrumental section.

Willy, still dancing, left the line and joined her. "And?" he asked as they danced side by side, admiring the admirable bowl.

"Georgina—he thinks Wernicke's Aphasia, manifesting paraphasias." It was fun dancing with Willy. It didn't happen often.

"…Number One is a hard time in the making…"

"Not too hard… Terence?"

"Diverted."

"Charlie?"

"New clothes."

"…Number One is the one way to salvation…"

Willy's grin was ear to ear as he spun happily, and danced back to the line, falling in beside Eshle, timing his words to the song. "Carry on, dear chap..." 'the best in the nation' "...will be back before you know it." Laughing delightedly, thinking the world, as Eshle grinned back, Willy danced his way out of the room, his hat and cane providing the flourishes, as he disappeared.