Mr. Wonka was staring through the ceiling of the Great Glass Elevator, the snow, his house, everything below us not even in his peripheral vision. Where would he take us now? I held his bunched-up black overcoat across my chest. In such a hurry to escape his house, Mr. Wonka forgot to take it from the hook, but I grabbed it as we passed. The bottom part was all snowy—I couldn't keep it from dragging as we legged it to the Great Glass Elevator—but I had it!

"This is yours, Mr. Wonka."

"Huh?"

I was afraid of that. He'd forgotten all about me, for not the first time. I don't think that's a good thing in the Great Glass Elevator. It was going up and up, and who knew where it would stop?

"Your coat."

"Oh, yah, my coat." He reached for it. Shook it out. Shrugged it on. Punched a few buttons that changed the elevator's course. "Thank you. I'll take you to your house."

To my house! Oh, good! To my house would be a good place to go. This house has been so creepy. Dr. Wonka is creepy. I bet he fools a lot of people though. He almost fooled me. Let's face it. He's very proper and up-right looking. At first glance, that wall of his knocks you over. It looks like a shrine. That's what I thought it was. Such a loving father he is! That's what I thought he was. So convincing. But if it is a shrine, it's a shrine to his son's failures, and that's not loving. Sure, you can start a chocolate factory it says, and maybe even do well for a while, but it won't last. Someone will try to destroy you, they'll drive you into hiding, and that will be what you deserve. Thinking about what it said about what his father wanted for his son made it hard for me to breathe. I shivered. Dr. Wonka is the worst kind of enemy: the kind that tells you they're your friend.

"Are you cold? I can give you back my coat. It makes a good blanket."

"No, I'm fine. It's just that wall."

"That wall? You mean the clippings?"

"I had time to look at them. Up close—"

"And personal."

Mr. Wonka interrupts. Does he know that's not polite? But interrupting me wasn't going to stop me. It's not like Mr. Wonka stops by for coffee every day. This was probably the only chance I'd get to tell him what I thought. "The sabotage—I'm sorry—"

"Don't be."

"I'm talking about the sabotage clipping... He has that clipping where it's the first one you see as you get closer. Right near the center. And that black background. You can't miss it." Mr. Wonka nodded. "But that wasn't what really got me."

"T'wasn't? What t'was, pray tell?"

"There wasn't a single article about your factory re-opening! Not a single one! Like it didn't happen! Or any articles about after! No Golden Ticket Contest clippings... Nothing! It's like he stopped caring after the spies shut you down and drove you into hiding."

"Drove me into hiding? Tut, tut, my oh-so-concerned-clipping-commentator. I wouldn't describe it as that."

"Well, I would! It's like shutting you down was what he'd been rooting for all along, and you opening back up is something he doesn't want reminding of!"

"My opening back up…" Mr. Wonka whispered to himself. "Mmm..." Mr. Wonka remembered me again. "I'll bet he didn't count on that, did he? I'll bet he doesn't count on that. A point to ponder, oh-sagacious-one. Shall we ponder it together? Nope, let's not. Let's scrap this speculation and see if we can't get you to where you're going."

That was fine by me. "Mr. Wonka?"

"Pass message, my dear Charlie. Another pearl about to drop?"

My dear? And my name? That was unexpected, and warming. But you can never tell with Mr. Wonka. I don't have any pearls to drop or not drop, so what was that about? He was eyeing me in that sly, sideways way he has, and I wondered if he was warning me to drop the shrine subject—in case I thought I had something else to say about it—but he needn't have worried. "When we get to my house, will you please not smash through my roof?"

Mr. Wonka let a smile raise the corners of his lips, his chin moving a little off kilter. I'll bet his eyes were merry under his sunglasses. "Ha! Your roof had a hole in it already! I didn't think you'd mind a second one. Did I miscalculate?"

I cocked my head. Miscalculating might have happened last time, though I doubted it, but it had nothing to do with this time, and Mr. Wonka hadn't said he wouldn't smash again. Reading my mind, he touched the side of my knee with his cane. "Your roof is safe from me, Charlie. I won't make a hole in it this time, I promise."

He promised! And said my name doing it! That was good enough for me.

The farther we got from Mr. Wonka's father's house, the better I felt, but the closer we got to my house, the more I felt that this would be the end of my adventure. I'd never see Mr. Wonka again, and that made me sad. I had so many questions still unanswered. I guess Mr. Wonka did, too.

"If all he wants is to see me fail, how do you explain the hug?"

"I was there. Isn't that why you took me with you?"

"Not exactly. I didn't expect the hug... He's not a hugger. But you were there... so what?"

"So, I knew who you were, and you knew who you were… So how would it look, with his wall claiming he loves you and all to all who go into that room—"

"That would be his patients."

"Right, his patients... but how would it look if the press found out he didn't recognize his own son? Much less make you feel welcomed."

Mr. Wonka giggled. "You're right, that would look bad. But who would tell them?"

Good question. Mr. Wonka wouldn't. I wouldn't. But maybe Dr. Wonka didn't know that. "The press has a way of finding these things out," I said. "Maybe your father didn't trust me not to tell them. Maybe he thought he had to put on a good show for me."

"Maybe," said Mr. Wonka. "And he did." Mr. Wonka slowed the elevator. We were almost to my house. "The press aren't that good, you know. I expected any day to read in the newspaper that my Factory was the special prize. But I haven't. You haven't told them."

"I wouldn't, ever, and my family wouldn't, either. We figure if the press needs to know they'll find out on their own. We expected any day to read you gave your factory to one of the other winners."

"Never, while I have options," said Mr. Wonka. "You're the winner. Those others were Golden Ticket finders. It's not the same thing."

Mr. Wonka sped up the elevator again. What did he mean by options? But I didn't think he'd answer that question. He'd said it so low I almost couldn't hear it. My house was less than a mile away, and then we were there. I quick thought of a question I thought he would answer!

"WHY is Dr. Wonka's townhouse out in the middle of a field?" I blurted out.

My face got red right after that. I didn't mean for the 'why' to come out like a shout that way. Mr. Wonka, about to push the buttons that would land the elevator, froze. The elevator hovered. The snow outside my house kicked up, the rockets making their roar. My parents appeared, my Dad without his coat, my Mom wrapping herself in a shawl, her hand trying to tame her flying hair. I waved to them.

"Hi, Mom! Hi, Dad!"

They moved out of range of the elevator's blast.

"Wanna see where it was before it was where it's at?" asked Mr. Wonka.

"Sure!"

"What about them?"

Mr. Wonka jerked a thumb in my parents' direction. They were waving back at me, and now they were beside each other, their arms around each other's waists, waiting for the elevator to land. Mr. Wonka turned his back on them.

"They'll be okay," I said, still waving at my parents. "They know where I am now." I pointed to Mr. Wonka, and cupped my hand to my mouth. "See you later," I yelled down to them. They exchanged an unsure look, but that was enough for me. "Go," I said to Mr. Wonka, and we went.

It wasn't far; not far at all. The neighborhood the house reminded me of was exactly the neighborhood it came from.

"Won't these people mind that you're landing on their roof?"

"Maybe, maybe not, but I don't care if they do," said Mr. Wonka, putting the Great Glass Elevator down as light as a feather on a roof across from a vacant lot. "I own the building. Surprise!"

The elevator doors opened with that happy ding!, and we stepped out. Walking with the swagger he had in his factory, he led me to the roof's edge. That wasn't as dangerous as it sounds. The roof had a low wall that was part of the house's front to make it look taller.

"Voilà," said Mr. Wonka, extending his arms the way he had done at his factory's opening, the vacant lot getting the benefit of one pointing hand, his cane held up in the other. "That's where it was."

"Gosh! You lived so close! We're practically neighbors!" I said, leaning out, my hands on the top of the low wall.

"We're practically neighbors now," said Mr. Wonka, his brow furrowing. "What does that have to do with anything?
"By the way, are you planning an Augustus Gloop-type demonstration of gravity for me? Because if you are, I must point out to you there's very little chocolate flowing down there, and no pipes at all."

I grinned, and stepped back. Did Mr. Wonka care about something? Me, maybe? How weird would that be? "Why did your Dad move your house?"

"To teach me a lesson."

"About packing?"

Mr. Wonka couldn't help a smile. He even giggled. "I never thought of that. Maybe I've been looking at this the wrong way all these years." He held up a finger. "If it was about packing, it was about how to pack in a hurry."

"In a hurry?"

"He moved the house in an afternoon."

"That must have been something. Was it fun to watch?"

Mr. Wonka's smile vanished. "You tell me and we'll both know. I wasn't there."

That didn't sound right. "Where were you?"

"At the museum," said Mr. Wonka, turning away from the low wall, and walking away. "Have you been to our museum? It's cross-town," he said over his shoulder, "but you can walk it. I did, and I was shorter back then."

I was about to follow him, but he turned back, and I saw he was only making a slow circle. He slipped his sunglasses into a pocket—the sun was behind clouds now—and it had gotten colder.

"You were shorter then?"

"Sure. Shorter. Shorter strides. It took me awhile.
"They had a flag exhibit that day. On other days, too, no doubt, but I'm talking about the day I went. Flags of the World, they called it. I made a list of countries I'd visit to learn chocolate making. Then the museum closed. The guard sent me home. It was cloudy, like this, and cold, and it was getting late. When I got here…"

Mr. Wonka was standing with his knees against the low wall now, his face a mask, except for his narrowed eyes, and I caught my breath, and made my breathing shallow. He shrugged his right shoulder, as if it had a weight on it that he was letting drop. I waited, but he didn't go on. He stared across the way and was lost.

"When you got here…"

"The house was gone."

It might have been a machine answering me.

"But your father was here."

"He wasn't. He was with the house."

"Because he was with the movers?"

"You tell me and we'll both know. There was no one here. They were done. Gone."

"But you knew where the house was."

"I didn't. When I left that afternoon I didn't know it was going to be moved."

What? This wasn't making any sense at all. Mr. Wonka left in the afternoon, came back at the end of the day, and his house was gone? Was that even possible? Did that matter? What mattered was… "But your father came back and got you."

"Of course he didn't, silly. The entire point was not to be here when I got back, and he made his point. Did he ever. He always made his point."

Mr. Wonka turned his back on the lot across the street, sank down to sit on the low wall, his cane leaning beside him, his face covered by his hands. I had no idea what to say, and a silence grew between us. I kept trying to make what he was implying make sense, but I couldn't do it.

"I don't get it," I said. Every explanation I came up with to explain this was awful—worse than awful—and against everything I knew to be true. Mr. Wonka raised his head, dropping his hands into his lap, his left hand reaching for his cane.

"I know you don't. You don't know anything about… about…" he sighed, defeated, "those people, but you think you do, and you're wrong. That's why I thought I'd show you for myself. Show you the real thing, how it really is, in the gosh-darn flesh." Mr. Wonka stood, closing his eyes, and dropping his chin, letting his mouth go slack. When he spoke next, it was in Dr. Wonka's voice. 'No son of mine is going to be a chocolatier!'

The harsh words, in that low, smooth voice, hung about us like the bad smell from a swamp. All you wanted to do was get away from it. I turned my back on the vacant lot and sat on the low wall a little way from Mr. Wonka. He'd sat down on the low wall, too, his head bowed, his crossed arms clasping his ribs. I hadn't said to my parents what I wanted to be when I grew up—it was only recently I thought I would grow up, so why worry about it?—but I knew for a fact that whatever it was—except for maybe being a serial killer—they'd support me in it. I sure knew they wouldn't leave me on a cold street at the end of the day with no house, and no knowing where it was, after telling me that if I went after my heart's desire they'd leave me. I snuck a glance at Mr. Wonka. He was standing again, his back to the lot, looking up at his factory, and I got the impression he wished he was there... anywhere but here. His fingers curled around his cane, and I bet, if I could see his knuckles under his gloves, they'd be white.

"You're pretty good at that," I said. "Imitating voices."

He didn't look at me, but he did answer.

"Thank you, I practice. It comes in handy over the telephone."

I'll bet it does, but I only said it to lighten the mood. You know things are bad when it feels like there's no oxygen in the room and you're actually outside. My teachers tell me I'm average, but I'm not average when it comes to dire situations. When it comes to dire situations, I'm expert. This situation might not be dire now, but it was dire once, and even now, it's pretty close. How many times in his life had Mr. Wonka had to listen to people like me tell him that what his parent had put him through wasn't horrible? And how horrible would that be? And I was one of those, earlier today, lecturing him as if he was clueless, certain of every word I'd said, pitying him for not knowing any better. They do it because they love you I'd told him, as smug and self-righteous as my Grandma Josephine sometimes is. Gosh.

"About those… people," I said.

"What?"

"You've convinced me."

He swung around to face me, his eyebrows climbing to the brim of his top hat.

"I have? That hug didn't ruin everything? I hadn't planned on that," he muttered, "though I could have spun it to suit."

Mr. Wonka's voice on 'I have?' was somewhere higher than the highest smokestack at his factory, his eyes wider than his sunglasses' lenses. I nodded. Mr. Wonka's side of the hug hadn't been much of anything.

"You don't have to spin it. I'm convinced. I'm wrong. You're right. I don't know as much about parents as I thought I did. The parents of the other winners were blazing the trail for me, but you and your father have shown me a whole other wrinkle today. One I wish wasn't out there, but there it is, and now I know. And thanks for saying you planned the visit."

"Have I said I planned the visit?"

"As good as."

"'Kay, then, clever Charlie. I did."

"I thought you had, but I wasn't sure."

"Oh, yeah, I plan all the things I don't leave unplanned," said Mr. Wonka, pacing in a short back and forth. "Does this mean…?" He was looking me in the eyes now, his pacing slowing and stopping as he waited for my answer.

"Does this mean what?"

"That you'll reconsider your answer to my offer? That's the real point of all this. The others disqualified themselves. But I disqualified you for not feeling like me. I don't think that was fair. I've been trying to give you a better picture of the situation."

I slid off the wall, leaning against it. "By offer, do you mean your offer giving me your chocolate factory?"

"Yeah, that."

"Didn't I say yes?"

"Well, yes and no, you said 'sure, of course' which could be taken for a yes, but you also said—"

"That my family coming with me is part of the deal."

"Yeah, that."

I sat back down on the low wall. Mr. Wonka's lessening enthusiasm was like a tire with a slow leak, but I couldn't help that. "My answer is still 'sure, of course' and my family still has to come with me."

"But—"

"Let me give you a better picture of the situation. I thought you were awful, Mr. Wonka—"

"Not so nice, you mean."

"Okay, not so nice, for saying my family couldn't come, but after today I know why you said it. Your parents…" Hey, wait a minute! "What about your mother? Where's she?"

With narrowed eyes, Mr. Wonka's face set hard. "You tell me and we'll both know." I tried a little smile—I didn't know—but Mr. Wonka must have decided if his father was fair game today, his mother was, too, and his face lost its look of concrete. "My mother bowed out early."

"Bowed out early?"

Mr. Wonka cupped a hand to his mouth. "Echo," he said, softly. Then, as if he was talking about chopped liver, he said, "I confess, it amazes me how many of your people haven't bowed out themselves at present, but back to my people. I'm sure she's dead." As he said 'she's dead' he looked over my shoulder, at the back of the lot across the way. A chill went down my spine and then up it, but not before the hair on the back of my neck stood up. "You've met my things-aren't-what-they-seem father. Shall I speculate for you on what caused her to bow out early?"

Back on me, Mr. Wonka's eyes glittered like shards of rock candy in sunlight, and I shook my head 'no'. Maybe I didn't want to live in Mr. Wonka's factory, even with my family with me. But I knew I did. On the edge is where I've lived all my life, and I could tell Mr. Wonka wasn't his father.

"You were saying about my…," he waved his hand, and I knew what he meant.

"I was saying your parents—"

"My p-a-r-e-n-t."

I swallowed. His tone told me he must have liked his mother. That he must remember her.

"I was saying your parent isn't like my parents, and I'm telling you he isn't, and if I had parents like your parent I wouldn't want them anywhere near me either, but my parents aren't like your father!"

I stopped and Mr. Wonka stared.

"You're so animated when you're adamant," he finally said, stonily.

He could see where I was going with this, but I could see it wasn't reaching him. There had to be a way!

"Didyouloveyourmother?"

I practically panted at the end—I'd said it like it was all one word—but I had to get it out before he shut me down by interrupting. His eyes shifted in that kaleidoscope way he has, tiny movements of the muscles of his face saying more, and I knew a bunch of answers were being tossed around, my business or not my business, humor or hate, the truth or a lie… I held my breath.

"Yes."

There was hope! "Wouldn't you have wanted to stay with her when you were my age?"

There was no shifting of his eyes this time; no pause.

"Yes."

"Well?"

"Well."

He began a walk around the roof. It was a slow walk. He reached the other side, and peered down at the garden in the back. He went to the Great Glass Elevator. Put his hand on it. Gave it a pat. Took another look into the garden. Put his sunglasses back on. Took another turn around the back half of the roof; stepped into the Great Glass Elevator; ran his fingers lightly along the buttons there; stepped back out of it. Nothing he did was hurried. I wondered how long it took him to decide to go ahead with doing the Golden Ticket Contest. He moseyed up to where I sat. Stood in front of me.

"They're not like him?"

"They're not. You know my Grandpa Joe. He worked for you."

"I don't remember him, unless he was the one who never did figure out it was chocolate bird eggs we were selling. Always telling me we were out of chocolate birds. I'd humor him, and give him an egg so he'd get a chocolate bird, but I had to take him off the stocking detail: too many interruptions while I was trying to work."

"Okay, so maybe not a good example, but he's kind, so are my parents, we all think the world of you, and that makes us the opposite of your father."

Mr. Wonka sighed.

"Double-dare swear?"

"Cross my heart and hope to die."

I crossed my heart with my index finger, and waited. I nearly turned blue, because I was holding my breath.

"You've convinced me," said Mr. Wonka, frowning.

"I have?" My eyebrows were climbing off my forehead, the corners of my mouth pulled up with them.

"You have. Breathe. You've convinced me blue is not your color." And then Mr. Wonka giggled, and broke into a grin. "Oh, and if you'd like to collect the special prize, my Factory, complete with room and board, you can bring your relatives with you. You can bring 'em all."

I was grinning to beat the band. Mr. Wonka didn't shake my hand this time. For a minute, I thought he might ruffle my hair instead. But he didn't. He only shook his head, as if he thought he might be out of his mind, but didn't mind that.

"Let's go tell 'em," he said, turning on his heel.

I skipped after him, taking my place in the Great Glass Elevator. In less than the time it took to exhale, I'd gone from an unnoticed pauper to the future owner of the world's largest chocolate factory, heck, the world's largest candy factory, and I was only eleven… better than 'average' life progress I'd say. "I wonder if my family will miss our house? It's cozy now that we've fixed it up some."

"Why should they have to miss it?" said Mr. Wonka, with a calculating grin. "We'll make a hole in the neighborhood where your house used to be. I'll move the whole darn thing into the Chocolate Room."

"You will?"

"Sure I will," said Mr. Wonka. The sparkle I knew was twinkling in his eyes matched the sparkle I felt twinkling in my heart. "Moving entire houses runs in my family!"

Are these my characters? They are not. Is this purely for entertainment? It is.
Thanks for reading.
Can I thank you for reviewing? Squirrela, Verucabeyotch, emeraldphan, Sonny April, I can, and I thank you encore!
Seriously, for every one who has reviewed this story, it's that enthusiasm on your part to make the effort to review that encourages—and influences—the author, and if you are an author you know how welcome reviews are. For you who have contributed reviews to most or every chapter, I extend my heartfelt thanks.
As it ever is in my stories, direct quotes from the 2005 movie are in italics.