Olive A. Slugworth paced up and down his son's room, staring absentmindedly at a picture on the wall. It was a poster for one of those loud, annoying metal bands that Whit had always loved to pretend to listen to, who knew why. Maybe the vibrations were heavy enough for him to feel. Whit himself was lying on his bed, staring fixedly at a book and probably pretending that his father wasn't there.
Olive strode across the room and tapped his son on the shoulder. Whit glanced at him, then looked back at his book, face burning.
Hi, Olive signed at him. Whit signed the motion swiftly back (he had always been so much better than Olive at sign language) and continued to look at the pages before him. The book was upside-down.
I'm sorry I couldn't eat dinner with you, Olive signed. Are you mad?
No.
Muriel told me you brought a friend over today.
Yes...
She said he was very nice.
He is very nice.
Olive paused. What's his name?
Whit fingerspelled C-H-A-R-L-I-E.
Okay. Olive hesistated again, then signed, Does he know sign language?
He doesn't know at all. I lip-read.
Have you thought anymore about getting hearing aids?
Don't want them.
Olive sighed. "Whitney—"
W-H-I-T.
Sorry. Well...you can have him over anytime if you want.
He wanted to ask you a question.
Me?
Yes. He said it was about a friend you'd had.
Olive's hand shook so much he had to sign again several times before Whit understood. A friend?
Yes.
Oh. I don't know anything about that. (Changing the subject) Would you like to go to the circus this weekend?
Whit perked up considerably. Yes please.
Great. Love you.
Love you too. Whitney allowed Olive to kiss him quickly on the forehead before going back to his book. Etiquette? Did that book say etiquette on the front? Whitney, to put it politely, had never really cared about etiquette.
"Dad?"
Olive looked, startled, at his son. He hadn't heard Whitney speak in months, yet his voice was just as normal-sounding as it had been when he was younger. He nodded.
Whitney did not look up from the book, and he spoke very carefully. "Do you know anyone named Mister Wonka?"
Olive froze. How did he know? Had he found something? Or was it that boy? Charlie? And why did that name sound so familiar?
"Just—Charlie said something about him." Whitney's voice was carefully measured. "He's his father."
"His father?" Olive spoke aloud even though Whitney couldn't hear. He'd spoken the word before, heard it spoken a million times, but now it felt strange and wrong. Like looking in the mirror and seeing a monster instead of yourself. "I—I've never heard of him."
"Right, just curious." Whitney, who had looked up briefly to read Olive's lips, went back to his book. "G'night."
Olive backed out and shut the door, then leaned against it, breathing very hard. No. No. Nononononono. It was a coincidence. The boy with the father could not possibly be related to the man with the chocolate, who definitely wasn't related to the child with the braces. It was impossible, or at the very least improbable.
But even though the odds were all against it, Olive could not let that child, that Charlie, talk to his son. Whitney hadn't even told him he was deaf, for heaven's sakes.
I was hurt by his father, and you are not going to be hurt by him.
Even though the odds were all against it.
But the odds haven't been very dependable lately.