Warning: Abuse often masquerades as discipline, and mild violence is violence, and isn't that an oxymoron! In this chapter, you'll find both.


Bother this dinner… and what good was sitting on the floor doing him? Willy climbed grudgingly back to his feet, assessing his predicament. These Buckets probably expected more than dinner. They probably expected sitting at the table, and using utensils. No stranger to both, Willy wasn't fond of either. Nibbling on this and that, at odd moments, as the mood struck him, was far preferable to sit-down meals, and meshed so much more neatly with his style of working. As for utensils, bah utensils; he'd given them up in favor of fingers decades ago, and for very good reason: when you graze all day, who has utensils, and utensils, unlike fingers, are inflexible, making them beastly hard to maneuver around… around… Wire. Wires.

Willy felt like a wire himself: stretched, and taut. Bother these Buckets, and bother these thoughts. The Dentist trained him well to stand and serve at meals, and it suited Willy to do it. Utensils and wires don't mix. The alternative, coaxing utensils to thread wires, meant eating slowly, and clumsily, making him seem uncoördinated, and oafish, at the table of a man whose eyes laughed at your every move: a man who savored as enchanting entertainment the spectacle his cumbersome, creepy, confounded contraption created. It was positively dreary, deary, and cold comfort knowing, if not for The Dentist's hideous handiwork making it so, you were none of those things.

At least The Dentist's heart-felt belief that children be seen, and not heard—and scarcely seen, at that—was small comfort, and it spared Willy the agony of suffering this torturous eating ordeal in front of guests. On the rare occasions of dinner parties—or gatherings of any kind—The Dentist would trot Willy out, tight-lipped and mute, an expected display for the assembled company's amusement, their vapid observations boring The Dentist, while Willy dutifully kept his observations to himself. "Oh! Look how little Willy has grown," they'd coo, a few attempting to tweak his cheek, or pat him on the head, as if he were a well-trained pet.

Assiduously polite, and assiduously keeping out of their reach, Willy kept his face a mask, inwardly groaning. Did they mean to say he had grown not much? Or that little before, he had grown a lot? If the last, were they thick? What else did these ridiculous adults expect? Did they honestly dream, from visit to visit, he would shrink? Then Willy remembered Mike Teavee, and promptly snorted a giggle into the hand he hastily brought to his lips. There was little chance of that fate befalling him back then: he hadn't invented the machine yet.

Thinking about it, Willy flipped the hand so lately at his mouth dismissively into the air: it hardly mattered what the fools meant back then. On nearly every one of those occasions, he was, without further ado, sent packing off to his room. Remembering, Willy's head tilted dreamily back, and he exhaled contentedly, his mouth relaxing into the tiniest of smiles. Willy adored that: the packing off to his room part. His room was his sanctuary; lovely, and sweet: a sweet space of blessed escape. In later years, the sound of the doorbell alone was enough to send him shooting up the stairs—in the unlikely case he wasn't in his room already—with nary a peep of compliant from The Dentist. As un-amusing as Willy could make himself, even with threatened consequences to suffer later, Willy's not being required to amuse those he found un-amusing was a point they learned to agreed on.

His hand drifted to his face, and nothing prevented Willy from touching his cheek. There were no wires now; just wiry memories, snaring him in this nasty past: long gone, long over, long finished. Why didn't it stay that way? These Buckets: they weren't The Dentist, but they stirred up these thoughts, blissfully unthought for years. Willy clenched a fist, only to unclench it a moment later. Resisting was futile; these thoughts, they wouldn't go away, and sweetly or otherwise, there was no escaping them: if the future mattered, these thoughts needed thought now, because… because… Because they were roadblocks, getting in his way. That's what they were!

Putting his back against the wall, beside the Buckets' suite door, and liking the clichéd metaphor immensely—his back was against the wall—Willy surrendered to it all, sliding back down to the floor. Sitting cross-legged, placing his walking stick carefully beside him, his top hat next to that, Willy crossed his arms against his chest, and hunched forward. The Dentist upset, but Thea soothed: he'd think about Thea. Thea, who never said come to the table, but who never touched a morsel, until he did. Thea, who never asked him to eat, but who ate with such enjoyment, he followed her lead. It was so easy without the…

Unasked for, The Dentist was back, his voice silvery, like moonbeams, crooning softly: "When you're good, Boy, I'll take those braces off." It was a ritual Willy stood impassively for, his face a stone. The Dentist said the same words to him, on every night there was no one else to hear them. "That wasn't today, Boy, was it?" And he'd beckon, and Willy would take the indicated dish off the sideboard, and step forward, and The Dentist would serve himself another helping. "Good boy," he'd say, and then he'd laugh.

Willy's eyes half closed. Moonbeams were deceptive: they shone, but what you saw in their less than illuminating light was often not what you thought you saw, and remembering something murky, Willy's eyes lost focus, and in his warm Factory, he began to shiver: the cold of the bare floorboards of his bedroom, seeping into his body, as it had in the wee hours of an October night, long ago. The moonbeams on that cold, misty night revealed to him a dream: a dream of his father, in the garden—where his father never went—calling for his mother—in the garden she loved—searching for her, but not finding her; calling for her, but hearing only the wind, rustling amidst the rotting leaves, scattered by his father's feet.

So real the dream seemed, in the morning, Willy imagined his toes still ached from watching on tip-toe at his window sill, and throwing back the covers, he pelted down the stairs, never so happy in his short—four, almost five-year old—life, to wake up. He would find his Mum's arms, and tell her about the awful dream, and she'd hug him tight, and laugh, and kiss the top of his head, and make it all better. This, as he careened down the stairs, was his dream, but as surely as had his dream of last night, this dream, too, abruptly ended, and the nightmare began. It started with the changing of his name.

"She left you, Boy." The growl of his father's voice stopped Willy at the bottom of the stairs, with the grip of his father's fingers, buried in the fabric of his collar, adding to the persuasion. Struggling, Willy tried to break free, to find his Mum. His father's words made no sense, and hurt, in a different way, as much as the hand on his neck. His father's fooling was no fun, but it never was. Willy knew his Mum wouldn't leave! Ever! Not without him!

Incredulous disbelief showed starkly on Willy's face, and in response, his father's fingers tightened, his hand twisting, his unrelenting grasp on Willy's collar beginning to choke him.

"Don't believe me, boy?" his father barked. "Let me show you." Like lightening spent, the bark disappeared, replaced by saccharin sweetness, but the grip on his collar was tighter than ever, and sharp, prodding knuckles, digging into Willy's back, propelled him along the hall, and down the stairs to the basement; to the corner where the seldom used articles were neatly stacked. "See," his father shoved him roughly toward the disarranged pile, "for yourself!" The saccharin voice singed itself with suppressed rage. "All her suitcases— gone!"

Giving Willy no time to look, his grip as strong as ever, Willy's father propelled him back up the basement stairs, and up the flight of stairs Willy had so recently run down: propelled him into his mother's room— her room: the room she didn't share with his father, and hadn't, for as long as Willy could remember. The closet door was ajar, the closet bare. Empty hangers and other odds and ends were strewn about, extreme haste conveyed by their helter-skelter locations. His father dragged him to her dresser, where Willy saw the same: the drawers all empty, and left in disarray. "She didn't take you with her, Boy," his father sneered, finally letting him go, shoving him away, forcefully enough to slam him into his mother's dresser. "Not even in a photograph!"

Willy hit the dresser and whirled, breathing hard, facing his father, as his father threw a scrap of paper at him. It fluttered to the floor, and through misting eyes, still gulping for air, Willy picked it up. It was a picture of him, with his mother, but marred by a jagged diagonal tear, his image intact, his mother's ripped out. Only her hands remained, on his shoulders, her fingers trailing down his upper arms. With tears in his eyes, Willy held it tightly, distraught with disbelief.

"She tore you out of her life, Boy, because she didn't love you— she never loved you," jeered his father. "But I do, Boy. I haven't left you. Now stop your sniveling— it's demeaning."

Willy heard the words, not believing them. He looked up. His father's eyes were like flint, cutting and cruel.

"I'm all you have now, Boy, and I don't tolerate sniveling."

To escape the stab of his father's eyes, Willy hung his head, clutching the scrap of paper that was the only anchor he had with the way of life he'd lost this morning.

"Listen to me, Boy. I'm telling you she didn't love you, and I know what I'm talking about," his father spat, disgusted by his son's emotion. "In fact, it's you who've made her do this. You— with your frivolous, foolish, silly ways. It's not too late for you, Boy, I can put a stop to those now— and you'll thank me for that, I promise you. But never forget, Boy, what's happened here is your fault, and you'll jolly well spend the rest of your life making it up to me, for the inconvenience."

Willy stared at the grain in the floorboard, following its pattern, struggling to understand the accusations being heaped upon him. His father was blaming him. Saying his mother didn't love him. His heart screamed out in denial: not true, not TRUE, NOT TRUE! If anyone, it was his father she didn't love. His father, who disapproved of—his mother never said it, but they both knew it—of her, of him, of life, of joy, of everything. His father made his mother leave, and Willy would never believe otherwise. Tears tracked freely down his cheeks, but Willy refused to take the blame, and through their blur, he rushed at his father, like a terrier, his small fists pummeling his father's legs. "She left you," he screamed. "She left you, she left you, she left you! Not me! She left you!"

His father's retaliatory blow to Willy's cheek and jaw was as swift as it was dispassionately accurate. The force of it snapped Willy's head back, and the sting of his cheek brought fresh tears to his eyes. Willy raised his arm in self-defense, but his father, anticipating the move, seized Willy's forearm, bringing his face in so close, the breath he exhaled was warm on Willy's face.

"There'll be none of that, Boy," his father said lowly, his measured voice dripping with menace, but melodious. "I don't tolerate displays— or raised voices— or silliness. Do you understand? It's very important you do: as of this minute." His father placed his other hand beside the first, on Willy's arm. "If you raise your voice again, I'll wash your mouth out with lye, Boy. Do you know what lye is?" As he said the words, his hands simultaneously twisted roughly in opposite directions on Willy's forearm. "It's a chemical, Boy. A chemical that will burn your tongue so much worse than that little rub burned your arm. If I use enough of it, it will burn your screaming little tongue right out of your skull. We wouldn't want that now, would we?"

His father's flinty eyes burned as they bored into him. "Have I made myself clear, Boy?"

The searing, burning sensation was still shooting through his arm, but Willy defiantly choked back his cry of pain, before it achieved expression. His father dropped his arm, and Willy snatched it to his body, rubbing the hurt.

"I see I have. Good boy." Turning his back on Willy, satisfied with his morning's work, his father left the room. "Don't come downstairs, Boy, until you can behave."

Rubbing his arm, Willy blinked back salty tears, watching the disappearing back of his father dissolve into… Ahlia. Ah. Ahlia. Willy breathed out, ever so gently; and breathed in, ever so gently. How 'bout that? Time travel. Willy repeated the breathing exercise. This solved the mystery of where Ahlia was: not, after all, in the suite. Willy stopped rubbing his arm—there was no real pain—slowing lowering it to his lap.

Ahlia was sitting facing him, on the floor, mirroring the way he was sitting. She looked quite comfortable, as if she had been there for hours. He hoped not. She was looking tenderly into his eyes, which made him feel horribly uncomfortable, as, when he was himself, that was something he made sure it was nearly impossible for anyone to do. How long had he not been himself? Lowering his head, Willy began a mental inventory of his person, to find the cause for this disturbing tenderness, and reaching for his hat, he wondered what on earth he was going to say to get himself out of this particularly sticky wicket.

Ahlia lowered her head when Willy lowered his. Eshle, her father, had told her about these episodes Willy had—not often, but sometimes—because she worked with Willy, in The Inventing Room, and she should know—but she had never seen one, and until now, she hadn't believed her father. Willy was so self-assured, and such a genius, and so wonderful, and so happy, how could there be anything that could make him sad? It was even more unbelievable that whatever it was could make Willy so sad it swallowed him up: but today she learned she was wrong: there was something, and it could.

Willy reached for his top hat, and put it on, and Ahlia wondered when he would notice the tears. He blinked, and his wet lashes pushed one last tear down his cheek. He noticed. She wondered if he would take out the handkerchief with her initial on it. He had taken it out of his pocket once, by mistake, she guessed, because he had thrust it back before anyone could see it, but she already had: she'd seen the 'A', in the corner, embroidered in a soft lavender color, and imagined the 'A' was for her name. She knew it wasn't, and the handkerchief Willy took out now wasn't it: this one had the expected intertwining 'W's embroidered in the corner, in bold purple.

Her father had told her to do nothing if this ever happened, Willy would handle it in his own way, and that was best, but having wiped away his tears, to Ahlia, Willy seemed uncertain still. Maybe he worried her youth prevented her understanding, and thought he frightened her: but that wasn't true, and she didn't want him to feel that way. She thought about how happy he usually was—laughing his favorite way of expressing himself—and the words of a song popped into her head. Her people adored songs, even songs they didn't make up themselves, and this was one of those. Ahlia sang to him softly: "Laughing and crying, you know it's the same release."

His eyes closed, Willy cocked his head in pleasant surprise, Ahlia's soft, clear voice scattering his confusion, and solving his problem: Ahlia had solved it for him. Matching her intonation, but not her voice, he sang softly back to her in his: "I told you when I met you I was crazy, …keeping the sadness at bay." Willy smiled, his eyes open now, and he spoke lightly. "But not tonight, eh?"

Ahlia nodded. His voice was high, and clear, and deeply expressive.

"That was a good choice," Willy said, getting to his feet, and dusting himself off, the song still floating around in his head: 'I'm just living on nerves and feelings…'

Ahlia got up, too.

'and coming to people's parties…' The song had a mind of its own, and the lyric: 'you seem to have a broader sensibility' inspired him. "Would you like to help me, Ahlia?" Willy asked. "I signed up to do dinner, for the Buckets, because I over-estimate myself sometimes. Will you be my hostess?"

Ahlia nodded eagerly.

"Good. I'm off to have Nôtla whip something up. I'm not ready to take off the gloves."

Ahlia had no idea what Willy was talking about. Did he mean that? She had never seen Willy without gloves, and no one she knew had, either.

"We're waiting for Charlie and Nora to get back. When they do, they'll want to freshen up. We can have spaghetti, and it can cook while they're doing that." Spaghetti was a good idea, and utensil using with spaghetti was fun: all that twirling. Willy waved a hand at the doors to the Buckets' suite. "Can you tell them the plan? And keep them entertained? Noah will be here soon. I'll arrive with the food."

Ahlia nodded her head again. Anything Nôtla, the Oompa-Loompas' distinguished chef, made, would almost rival anything Willy made, and Ahlia loved spaghetti, almost as much as she loved cacao beans. Clasping her hands together delightedly, she loved more than either the prospect of having dinner with Willy, and his new friends. She couldn't believe her luck at the invitation, and 'hostess' put stars in her eyes.

The crisis effectively sorted, with a bouncy sashay to his step, Willy walked away, but he twirled back, grinning. "I doubt Terence will be with them, but if he is, he can use the Voyager suite." Willy snorted with laughter: exploring, and a reference to space, all rolled into one. Keen.

Ahlia, not caring why Willy was laughing, but thrilled he was, gave him a thumbs up, and skipped to the door, her face a study in happiness, making ready to knock before she pushed the recessed, Oompa-Loompa height button that would release the catch in the knob high above her head.

Willy shook his head, gratefully watching Ahlia do so blithely what he found so paralyzing. He knew he had nothing on the Oompa-Loompas vis-à-vis suffering: their homeland made anything that happened to him, in his life, seem like a cake-walk. Willy hadn't intended to involve Ahlia in his comparatively trivial problems, but inadvertently, he had. "I'm sorry," he murmured, as he turned away.

Ahlia heard the muffled 'I'm sorry' without understanding, and happy only a moment before, now she watched the retreating figure sadly. Sadly, because the words meant Willy didn't know—and he should—that in her book, he'd never done anything he need feel sorry about.


Nora, waving at the cab as it turned out of sight at the corner, wondered to herself at the speed with which things had already changed. Charlie, eager to get back to The Chocolate Factory, hadn't looked back, and Terence, wondering if he had done the right thing by not objecting to Nora's request to stay, was lost in musings of his own.

Seeing neither of her departing companions wave back, Nora listlessly dropped her hand to her side, as if she believed in some way it had betrayed her: it should have held the power to turn their heads. It hadn't. Disappointed, flexing her fingers, Nora turned her hand over and back, as if she might find some traitorous defect: but if there was a flaw, she couldn't find it.

Saying nothing, Dr. Grant's keen eyes watched her movements carefully, and aware of his interest, Nora smiled wanly. "Looks like I'm relegated to the sidelines," she said, flatly.

"I'd say, dear lady, in this instance, you're relegated to the sidewalk. Shall we go back in? I don't think it will get any warmer out here till morning, at the earliest, and maybe not even then." Dr. Grant started up the steps to his door, Nora following. "They grow up, you know— I know you do, but the knowing doesn't help with the shock— and I do say, it is a shock, yes, indeed, a shock— the first time something big happens, isn't it? New horizons, and whatnot— they move on."

Nora nodded behind him. "I never thought the horizon would turn overnight into a chocolate factory," she muttered.

Reaching the living room, Dr. Grant let the remark pass. The Chocolate Factory was irrelevant: he never thought overnight he'd acquire a son, but thanks to Cyn, whose horizons were always more fanciful than his, he had. The thought brought him inner warmth a fire never could.

"I don't know what I can offer you, but if you'd like to know more about Cyn, as you've asked, I can rustle something up while we talk," said Dr. Grant, moving into the kitchen. He relished the chance to talk about his beloved Cynthia, the way a battery relishes being recharged. "I say, perhaps some tea, and some toast, with jam. That's easy."

Nora, following, was loath to impose on Dr. Grant without contributing something, and as it was dinnertime, and neither of them had eaten, she stepped briskly up to the cabinets, in the manner of Willy Wonka, and began poking through them. Nora hoped Dr. Grant didn't mind, but if he lived with Willy, this behavior should be old hat for him. She laughed to herself at her little joke. "Excuse me," she said, "but if you'll be kind enough to tell me more about your wife, I'll be kind enough to whip up some dinner for us." In one of the cabinets she struck gold. "Oh, look! You have spaghetti. How does that sound?"

Dr. Grant nodded his pleasure, and together, they prepared the meal.


I do not own Charlie and the Chocolate Factory in any of its many forms, and there is no copyright infringement intended. This likewise applies to the quoted song, "People's Parties" by Joni Mitchell. Thanks for reading, and pass along what you think.

dionne dance: Yup— that dentist! And then there's this dentist. You'll recognize the menu, and thanks for re-posting your review when it didn't show up. Kate2015: The togs: imitation—the sincerest form of flattery, or maybe Dr. Grant, indulging his sense of humor. Thanks for reviewing.