In the end, Charlie did not make it back in time for bed.
He lay crouched on his knees in the grass for several more hours, afraid to move, trying to shake off what seemed like a fever dream. What had he done? He had only been trying to help. But Mr. Wonka would never have lost his mind like that, unless something was really wrong.
Charlie did not want to go back to his house, where his parents would see his face, see the bruise on his cheek from where he had fallen against the tree. He did not want to lay in his bed and stare up at the Wonka Bar wrappers that plastered his wall, thinking about what he had done.
I knew there was only one person who could control me, Willy had told him, as they sat together on that night. I had to go back.
But Mister Wonka, you loved him.
Willy gave Charlie an odd look. Her, you mean. Camille.
Yes. Her. After all, Mister Wonka had told Camille he loved her; he had said nothing of the sort to Olive. But somehow, Charlie knew. Like a brother, like a friend, anything, Willy had desperately loved Olive.
Then again, what did Charlie know about love? He had never been in love with anyone. When you're struggling to survive, you haven't got time for it. On the other hand, Charlie now had everything he could've dreamed of. He had time for love.
Still, he didn't think he was quite ready. Look what love had done to Mister Wonka. Charlie shivered. If love could destroy you like that (for even Charlie could see that Willy's heart was broken) Charlie didn't want it.
Charlie stood, finally, shakily. He walked through the Chocolate Room, along the bank of the swirling chocolate river, climbing into the candy boat and using an oar to push it heavily along. He climbed out at the dock and walked through one of the round, glowing doors, down a long, curving slide that Charlie knew was made of sugar.
Down to the heart of the factory.
He leapt off neatly and walked very quietly past Willy's room, coming to face a door. It was a tall, slim door, with a shorter, even skinnier one beside it.
"Why are there two doors to the same room, Mister Wonka?"
"One for my heir, one for me."
"But why one for each of us?"
"Well, if you're ever angry or sad, and need a moment, you can lock your door."
"But then you can come right in anyway, through yours."
"Exactly. Because we need each other to work things out." The chocolatier laughed lightly. "Ha-ha."
Charlie tried the handle of Willy's door. It opened quite easily. Charlie slipped through and flicked on the light, shivering in the cold of the room. They had been working on different flavors of ice cream lately. Charlie walked to the file cabinet in the corner of the room and pulled it open.
"How do you organise your things, Mister Wonka?"
"Who needs organisation?"
"My family always loved to organise things. It was nice when we had enough things to sort properly."
"Good God, I'll get you something then." The chocolatier patted him lightly, tenderly on the shoulder. "Jeez. You can have whatever you want, Charlie."
"I'll get spoiled then. Please, no."
"Who could ever spoil you?"
Charlie reached deep into the cabinet and pulled out a picture. Willy had an arm resting around Charlie's shoulders, and he looked slightly awkward, not used to affection of any sort. Charlie was wearing Willy's top hat at an angle, and it was slipping over his eyes. Both were smiling broadly, though one of Charlie's front teeth was crooked.
"Charlie, where are you going?"
Charlie pulled his sweater on. "I have an appointment with an orthodontist, to get my teeth fixed. I'll be back soon."
"You look fine to me."
"I probably need braces. I promise I'll be back really quick, okay?"
Willy was beside him in a flash. "If you go to that orthodontist, I—won't speak to you for a month. You aren't going through that."
"Mister Wonka, it's just braces—"
"No one is putting bits of metal in your mouth." Willy was breathing hard. "I'm not letting anyone touch you."
Charlie put the picture back in the drawer and reached for another, trying to block out the memories.
Instead, he found something unfamiliar.
It was a picture of two boys, side by side, both smiling. The first boy was dark-haired and looked shy, his smile slightly crooked but clearly heartfelt. His head was turned slightly to the side, facing the other boy as if speaking to him. The second figure had long, brown hair, and sparkling eyes with a trace of mischief. The boys were holding hands tightly, as if afraid to let go. They didn't seem to be aware that the picture was being taken, as they were looking at each other instead of the camera.
Charlie felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. Was that shy, dark-haired boy Willy, a child Charlie had never gotten to meet? And if that was him, (of course it was) that could only be Olive with him.
Charlie smiled, sadly. They were looking at each other with such obvious adoration; this must've been the first day, before anything got between them. Perhaps Camille had snapped the picture, unknown to all of them. But then, how would Willy have it? Charlie dropped the picture back into the drawer. Who would've guessed that such hatred had come between them, looking at this photo. It didn't add up. Surely one bad day in a lifetime of days hadn't ruined their friendship forever.
Charlie needed to find the rest of the puzzle.
And the only piece he had was the boy named Whitney.