Charlie's finger stabbed at the night air. "Look," he cried excitedly, forgetting completely the mystery of the stones. "Willy's here!"
Terence and Nora turned in unison. It was too dark to make out the landscape of the lot by now, but the light of the street lamps cast a warm glow on the sidewalk. Bathed in that glow, was a tall, flowingly draped, slim man, made taller by a top hat. Standing easily, with most of his weight on his right leg, his left leg crossed in front, the man balanced, with bent knee, on his left toe and the tip of his walking stick, its top held at a jaunty angle away from his body by his extended right arm. His features were in shadow, but his silhouette was unmistakable.
Pell-mell, Charlie took off running, only to reach the sidewalk and slide abruptly, in an unceremonious tangle of flying arms and legs, to a confused halt. "You're not Willy," he gasped, breathing quickly from his exertion. Instinctively, Charlie took a step back, out of the stranger's reach.
"No, indeedy, I should say I'm not," laughed the tall man. "No, siree! I dare say you're not Willy, either, but here you are, tramping all about, on the lot he owns."
In the light, Charlie could see his mistake. This man, dressed like Willy, but not Willy, was old: maybe as old as Charlie's grandparents… maybe older: Charlie couldn't tell. The man had silver-gray hair—still surprisingly thick—his otherwise fashionable haircut a little on the long side maybe, as the ends curled above his collar. His eyes were bright blue, but pale: like the blue of the sky, near the horizon.
"I'm sorry…" Charlie began, flustered, wondering if he should tell this man Willy wouldn't mind he was walking around on the lot, he knew Willy personally, but Charlie didn't get past the thinking stage before the man laughed again, cutting in on his deliberations.
"I say, young man, did you notice I didn't ask you Willy who?"
Charlie thought that a silly question. There was only one Willy in this town: Willy Wonka. Everyone knew that.
The man straightened up, planting his walking stick front and center, both hands atop it, imposingly friendly. "That face you're making makes me think of my friend Terence, also a prolific face-maker. Do you know what 'prolific' means?" He didn't wait for Charlie to tell him, one way or the other. "Lots. It means lots— but not this lot." He chuckled, the happiness derived from the recent phone call from the Factory spilling over into what he was saying, and how he said it. "There is, I say, more than one person named Willy in this town, no matter what you think, even if ours does have the limelight."
"Ours?" Charlie tried to guess who this man who dressed like Willy might be. He couldn't be Willy's father. This man was too nice to ever do a thing to Willy like what Charlie had at his back.
The man didn't answer, but lifted his head, and raised his walking stick, in a gesture of small salute at the two figures approaching from out of the darkness. "Speak of the devil, and he appears! Terence!" The man stepped around Charlie, holding out his hand.
Terence moved quickly, clasping his hand in Dr. Grant's, shaking it warmly. "Dr. Grant, it's great to see you again."
"Tsk, tsk, dear chap. Don't make me start from scratch. I haven't the time. Sin, Sinclair, or Libby."
Terence ducked his head at the 'Libby', smiling, but jumped right back in, lest Dr. Grant—er, which one was he going to use?—beat him to the punch on the introductions. "Mrs. Nora Bucket, may I present Willy's godfather, Dr. Sinclair Grant, DDS. Dr. Sinclair Grant, may I present Mrs. Nora Bucket, and Mr. Charlie Bucket, Willy's new friends, and apprentice. Charlie, this is Dr. Grant."
At the word 'friend', Nora bent her head, thinking Terence was being kind again: in her opinion, her recent behavior made that description overly generous.
"Very formally done, Terence," nodded Dr. Grant, "very formally done. Quite right. I'm very pleased to meet you both." Dr. Grant shook each of the Bucket hands in turn, holding Charlie's for a longer beat than necessary, studying Charlie as much as he dared, without being rude. He smiled to himself, noting Charlie studied him right back.
"Willy's godfather? You're a dentist, too? Like Willy's other father?" Charlie's amazement shone in his questions.
"Guilty, I'm afraid," answered Dr. Grant, with no sign of guilt at all. He carefully lowered himself till he was eye-to-eye with Charlie. "I say, young man," he stage whispered, "between us two, I don't think dentistry was all the culprit between those two." With the help of his walking stick, Dr. Grant rose carefully to his feet. "And now, with the formalities over, I've been dispatched by Willy to send you home. He says to tell you, you've dilly-dallied long enough for one day, and dinner is waiting."
Charlie, smiling, glad to get out of the cold, and back to the Factory, and Willy, and his family, clapped his hands at the news, but Nora was elsewhere, her head still bent. She was turning over in her mind the word 'home', and the phrase 'dinner is waiting' used by Willy Wonka, to refer to them: their home, in his home: the world's largest, and best-loved Chocolate Factory: their dinner, in that place, waiting… for them. Try as she might to pooh-pooh it, it was heady stuff.
"Send us home? No Great Glass Elevator coming to fetch us?" Terence and Dr. Grant had already exchanged knowing glances at Nora's dreamy look of preoccupation. Terence was only talking to fill the time until Nora regained her footing, and rejoined them in the present.
Dr. Grant took a tentative step toward his townhouse, to see if Nora would follow. Though still far away, on autopilot, she did. "He said to put you in a cab."
Terence and Dr. Grant exchanged glances again—Nora was practically floating—but this time, Terence caught Charlie's eye, and nodded toward Charlie's mother. Charlie, alerted, quickly abandoned his own reverie—wondering what dinner might be, and who was making it, and if Willy would be there—and catching on, gently slipped his fingers around his mother's hand.
Brought back to earth by the touch, and seeing the concerned look on her son's upturned face, Nora laughed lightly, squeezing Charlie's hand, before she pulled her own away, placing it on his shoulder, instead. Then, with her hand to steady her, Nora playfully leaned down, and planted a great, big, smacking wet kiss on the top of her son's head.
"Mum!" Charlie did his best to sound distressed, but his face was alight, and even as he rapidly brushed the spot with his hand, he was laughing with delight to see his mother so carefree.
Nora beamed at the men. "What are we doing?"
Dr. Grant resumed his measured walk. "We are going, I say, to my home, dear lady, to wait for the cab I am going to call, once we get there, that will take you back to The Chocolate Factory."
Willy stood in front of the double doors of the Bucket suite, his walking stick poised to rap on the righthand door. He was there to make sure the suite had everything he needed to make the dinner tonight, as promised. It would help him a lot, if he knew what he was going to make, but seeing what was on hand might inspire him.
Willy's arm might be poised to knock: but that's as far as he got. The imminent threat of the social land mines tripped him up. Charlie, and Noah, and definitely not Terence, his allies, were definitely not in there. Even Undying Gratitude, aka Nora, aka Mrs. Bucket, whose undying gratitude, replaced with simmering mistrust, had run out pretty quickly—but who he still thought he could count on: they had in common, after all, their mutual interest in Charlie's well-being—wasn't in there.
The walking stick was still poised, but Willy's arm was getting tired. Ahlia might be in there: she was his eyes and ears vis-à-vis Bucket activity, cleverly set up in the guise of liaison. Till Noah had helped today, Ahlia was the only Oompa-Loompa the new-to-the-scene Buckets had met. As an intern, Ahlia was easy to re-assign, and so he had, and as Eshle's daughter, her reports would be filtered by the right person. He trusted Eshle, his Head of Production, not to waste his time with details he didn't need to know, and he trusted Ahlia to report every detail. Ahlia was young, and headstrong, but on her toes.
If Ahlia wasn't in the suite, that meant only the grandparents were in there. Willy dropped the Nerd filled cane to his side. The Follower was grumpy, and would most likely snap at him. Georgina would know who he was, or she wouldn't, and if she didn't, then it didn't matter, and if she did, she would say something amusing, that he knew would make him smile. Smiling at the thought, Willy lifted his walking stick again, only to drop it back down a moment later.
The Stickler was in there, too, and she would probably point out some grievous social faux pas, like not knocking three times, or knocking three times, or knocking too loudly, or not knocking loudly enough, whichever one was wrong, the wrong one being whichever one he did, and who needed to walk into that? Willy almost turned away: The Dentist was notorious for moving the goal posts: these parens were likely the same.
Willy's shoulders slumped at the dread The Dentist crossing his mind conjured up, even as his pulse quickened, readying his body, in defense of the menace, for fight or flight. He felt his hand tighten painfully around his cane. To distract himself, and stay on course, Willy continued with the inventory.
Grandpa Joe was in there. Grandpa Joe was Charlie's favorite, and Willy liked him, too. He'd remembered snippets about Joe as he watched him on Charlie's private tour: Grandpa Joe was one of his better workers in the Factory. Grandpa Joe was an old familiar face, and not just because he was old: Joe worked at Cherry Street, as well. Familiar was good: squaring his shoulders, Willy made ready to knock again.
But Willy remembered something else, and the walking stick dropped back to his side for the third time. Grandpa Joe, and Cherry Street, and the Chocolate Birds. How could he forget? So simple, so awful, and not Joe's fault, his fault, but he'd steered clear of Joe after that. Polite, but distant: the way, come to think of it, Joe treated him, after that.
The Chocolate Birds were really Candy Eggs, and Willy, to this day, was very proud of them. The candy eggshell timed itself to melt all at once, with the timing delayed to make you think it wouldn't melt at all, and when you were practically positive it never would, it did—in a surprising flash—releasing a foamy filling that tickled the tongue, and tantalized the taste buds. Thinking about this lovely creation, the corners of Willy's mouth crinkled in a smile. Wonderful as all that was, it was wonderfully not the best part. The best part was when those sensational sensations subsided, because then, to your wonder, you noticed a tiny chocolate bird—sitting on your tongue—so detailed in its markings, if you told someone about it, you'd swear it was alive. The leftover foamy filling made the bird seem to move.
Willy remembered giving Joe one of the eggs, and all was well until the last, when Willy remembered, to his mortification, saying, 'now, open', to reveal the chocolate bird. The cringe had hit him a second after he'd said those words then, and remembering them now, in a second, the cringe hit him again. 'Now, open' were the words a dentist would say—what The Dentist would say—and nothing Willy would ever say, but he had: the words as unbidden as they were unwelcome. The implication that you could choose, in an unguarded, light-hearted moment, the mannerisms and expressions of the heartless thing you wanted with all your soul not to be like in any way, was staggeringly frightening, and back then, to cover his horror, he giggled: an awkward, forced, mindless sounding giggle, because that is the sound you make to make people think you are happy, even when you aren't. Joe must have thought him daft.
Willy avoided Joe after that embarrassment, but that solution wouldn't work anymore, because here Joe was again, and Willy couldn't very well go on avoiding him now. With a dejected sigh, Willy sank to the floor.
Charlie held the framed photo in his hand, as if it hid a secret. "This is Willy? His hair is so short."
After calling the cab company, to pass the time, Dr. Grant had bowed to Charlie's request for a tour of Willy's former home. He didn't see the harm: Charlie had already toured Willy's present home, and he knew Terence and Mrs. Bucket were not likely to object. Now they stood in Willy's old bedroom, furnished, Dr. Grant confided, as Willy wanted it.
The room's simplicity impressed Terence favorably: a single bed, with a night stand and lamp; a desk, a chair, another lamp; bookshelves above the desk, with assorted books: mostly science fiction, and classics, with a smattering of mysteries, and adventures. Otherwise, the room was bare. Willy had once complimented Terence on the Spartan austerity of his own room, above his shop. Then, Terence had thought the compliment ironic, more a gentle dig, but now, seeing this, he thought Willy might have genuinely meant it.
Reaching out, Dr. Grant gently took the photo from Charlie, replacing it on the plain desk, among the other photos there, in its exact former location, adjusting it carefully. There weren't many of them, and Dr. Grant didn't keep his photos of Willy where just anyone could see them. Over the years, he found the explanations too arduous, and the friends you made after they heard the explanations, were, more often than not, no friends at all. "It is. Willy wore his hair short for most of his life. I don't know when he changed it, but it was after he joined forces with the Oompa-Loompas."
Nora, without touching it, looked closely at the photo. "Who is he mad at?"
"Oh, you noticed that, indeedy, indeedy," answered Dr. Grant, dryly. In that particular photo, Willy looked positively sullen. It was one of the reasons, no doubt, Charlie wondered so at the image's identity. "That photo was taken on his birthday— a promise he made to his father, when he came to live with us. I don't think he was very happy about it. I kept a copy." Dr. Grant indicated the sparseness of the pictures on the desk. "As you can see, Willy wasn't too keen on photos."
Intrigued, Nora studied Willy's face intently. "Did he look this aggrieved every year?"
Dr. Grant shrugged his shoulders. "What every year? There's just this one."
Nora connected the dots. Terence had said four years with the Grants: only one birthday photo. "Willy was born on leap year?"
Dr. Grant nodded.
"Neat," said Charlie.
"No birthday this year," said Terence, with no surprise: he knew the fact from his earlier visit. It was part of Willy's phone number Terence didn't know the rest of: 229.
"He says it's why he looks so young," laughed Dr. Grant. "Come. I believe that's the doorbell. The cab is here."
Nora lingered as the others left the room, one photograph seeming to reach out to her as she passed, pulling her towards it. It was the photograph of a lithe, sharp-featured, intelligent looking woman, perhaps a few years older than Nora was now, boldly staring straight into the camera's lens—as if her look would make the photographer hers—and Nora found the forthrightness beckoning her, too. Thrown carelessly over her shoulder, making its length indeterminable, the salt of grey was making noticeable inroads in adding another color to the woman's straight, milk chocolate hair: but her mischievous, gray-green eyes were full of life, and the smile on her face lit up the photograph, and the room, defying time, and belying the truth she wasn't really present. Next to her stood young Willy, with his odd, to Nora, short hair, looking relaxed, and confident, his smile equally bright, and welcoming, his shoulders nestled comfortably in the crook of the woman's left arm. The tapering fingers of her hand trailed loosely down Willy's upper arm, and the fingers of Willy's own hand reached up, lightly covering hers. It was connection—a single moment, frozen in time—between two people who cared for each other deeply.
"That's Cynthia, my late wife."
Nora started, her involvement with the photograph so complete, she failed to realize Dr. Grant, alone, returned to the room, and was standing beside her.
Dr. Grant went unerringly to the photo that had Nora's attention, picking it up, holding it gently in his hands. "Don't trouble yourself," he said softly, to soothe her. "The two of them together were a tour de force. I know it." With his sleeve, he wiped dust that wasn't there off the glass that protected the photo. "They wanted me to put the camera on timer, and get in the shot with them. They tried every persuasion imaginable, but I was being stubborn, and wouldn't listen. By this time, they were trying every persuasion un-imaginable—hence these ridiculous smiles—and even though by then I thought I'd oblige, they looked so them, I took the picture, instead." With a sigh, Dr. Grant put the portrait back.
"They don't look ridiculous," murmured Nora, her hand barely beginning to reach toward the photograph. "They look…"
Dr. Grant was already on his way out. "I say, I'm sorry," he said, gruffness hiding the catch in his voice. "Did you say something? It's time to go. The cab is here."
"No. It's nothing." Dropping her arm to her side, Nora cleared her throat as she followed after him. "I only said: Willy's not wearing gloves."
I do not own Charlie and the Chocolate Factory in any of its many forms, and there is no copyright infringement intended. Thanks for reading, and please let me know what you think.
Thank you dionne dance, Kate2015, and 07kattho: your reviews do more than delight.
