The cheery crackling of the fire in the grate was long gone, and now there was barely a lick of flame to stroke the burning logs. The embers that remained glowed red, warming the two people sitting comfortably in the armchairs snuggly pulled up close, taking full advantage of the radiating heat. With a gentle, swooshing sigh, a log surrendered to its irresistible fate, and broke in two; its collapse spraying a firework of sparks, fanning up the chimney.
The dancing light and soft sound stirred Nora from her trance: like the fire, by this time, she and Dr. Grant were quiet; contemplating their earlier conversation, in companionable silence. Glancing at the clock on the mantlepiece, it alarmed her to read six minutes shy of 11 o'clock. "My word," Nora gasped, dismayed. "Look at the time! It's frightfully late. I should never have kept you this long. I didn't mean to."
Dr. Grant languidly raised a depreciating hand. "I wouldn't care if you had, dear lady. I've enjoyed this evening immensely, and just between you and me, at my age, I say, sleep is a friend you don't spend as much time with as you'd like." He turned to look at the clock himself. "Ah. It is late, if you have plans for tomorrow involving anything other than sleeping in. I'll call a cab at once, and send you on your way."
Nora nodded. Despite his protestations to the contrary, Dr. Grant looked tired, and he rose from his chair as though through quicksand.
"I didn't mean to stir up sad memories," she offered. Dr. Grant, having made the call, remained standing by the telephone table, and Nora rose to join him.
"You didn't. They are happy memories of Cyn, every one. What's sad is that they are memories." He turned away slightly. "I say."
Nora put a hand on his arm, and smiling faintly, he placed his cool hand on top of her warm one, patting it gently. The gesture's connection screamed a question—he must be lonely—and Nora, surprising herself with her own nosiness, earnestly blurted out: "Why don't you live in the Factory?"
The effect of the query on Dr. Grant was not what she expected. He broke instantly into a burst of giggles, reminiscent of Willy, that quickly turned to peals of laughter. "Oh, my dear lady," he breathed, between fits. "My dear, dear, lady! You are too funny!"
Nora's face was the picture of profound confusion.
"I am very happy where I am, and Willy sees to it that I lack for nothing." Dr. Grant made a sweeping gesture with his arm, to include his very comfortable surroundings in his statement. "I doubt I'd ever get to the bottom of Willy's generosity, so I don't try. I'm very happy with what I have, and I'm also very happy with my sanity. It's one of my most treasured possessions— a possession I can boast I have living here, and a possession, I say, I would shortly lose, living in Willy's Factory."
Dr. Grant seated himself on the arm of one of the chairs, and studied Nora appraisingly. "I say, dear lady— isn't that why you stayed this evening? To see if I can help you answer the question whether you can keep your sanity, if you live there?"
Nora flushed a bright crimson, wondering if that's why she was here tonight. She hadn't, when Terence and Charlie left, expected to stay, but some force or other hadn't let her leave. What was it?
Dr. Grant softened the edge that had crept into his voice when he saw the blush. "I didn't mean to imply you weren't welcome: you're very welcome, and I've enjoyed our chat, but Willy and I are very different people. We had Cyn in common, and each of us prizing her is enough to make us prize each other— but my kind of crazy is conventionality, and Willy's kind of crazy is creativity." Dr. Grant folded his hands in his lap. "The rub, I say, is my kind of crazy, cramps his kind of crazy, and we're both the losers for it— don't frown, it's no one's fault— it's perfectly alright to like different things— but after all he and I have been through, I hold him in too high a regard, to put myself in a position where I make life more difficult for him."
Nora turned the words over in her mind, shying, to no avail, away from the glaring comparison. Misgivings born of conventionality… cramping Willy's style… in his own Factory. Her family, impeding his creative abilities… The thoughts were terrifying, but more terrifying was Willy Wonka, inviting them in, proving he was willing to take the risk. Now Nora could understand why Willy was proceeding slowly: the stakes were high.
Nora shivered at the ramifications of being responsible for hamstringing a great talent, but it was Cyn who popped into her mind. She had listened, all night, to stories of an imaginative, creative, vibrant personality, and yet… "Why did Cyn become a lawyer? Isn't that a rather defined profession, for such a free spirit?"
"Ah," purred Dr. Grant, ever so slightly nodding his head. "In that you have asked an astute question, my dear lady— very astute. Why indeed? Cyn could have been an artist, or a designer, or an author, or a poet, or a— well— anything she liked, but Cyn also wanted the comforts life had to offer, and creative pursuits, for nearly everyone pursuing them, are notoriously low paying. I think she thought with the financial angle handled, she'd have time left over to devote to the creative endeavors."
"I see."
"I don't think you do, Nora."
Nora's head snapped up, as she realized Dr. Grant had used her given name, for the first time all evening.
Dr. Grant continued in a low voice. "There's never enough time for it all. Cyn made the thing she wanted second, the thing she did first, only to find there was no time left for the things she wanted first. Fear of what the future would, or wouldn't bring her, kept her from following her heart, and I think Cynthia regretted her decision. Not all the time, mind you— her life was a full one— but in the background— a little niggle, every now and again, of opportunities missed, for the sake of playing it safe."
Dr. Grant looked wistfully into the past, but cheerfully returned. "I didn't regret her decision, mind you— not one itty bit. I applaud it as the sensible course of action, and so does most of the rest of society. Had she followed her heart, right off the bat, I'd never have met Cyn, and her clients didn't regret it, either. Cyn used her creativity to wangle a way out of any difficulty, but she regretted it. Right up, that is, until the day Cyn brought Willy into our lives— then everything she'd done made perfect sense, and she was glad for all of it. She did her best to pass what she knew on to Willy, but especially, I say, making sure Willy followed his heart, straight away, and gosh darn the consequences!" Dr. Grant looked ruefully at Nora. "As Willy would say."
"And gosh darn them he did."
Dr. Grant nodded. "He did. Despite all the grief. Thea would be proud."
Nora cocked her head.
Dr. Grant laughed. "Don't tell me I didn't mention that. I called her 'Cyn'. Willy called her 'Thea'. 'CynThea'. Simple, but Cyn loved it."
Nora laughed. It was so Willy. There was a knock on the door, and the sound made Nora jump. The cab was here, the visit about to end, but the names involving Cyn made her suddenly badly want to know one last thing. As Dr. Grant crossed to the door, her words tripping over themselves, Nora breathlessly nearly shouted her last question. "Why does he call you Libby?"
His hand on the doorknob, Dr. Grant's breath caught in his throat, expelling itself in a low hiss. Nora's desperation to know carried in her voice, and he turned to her, his face inscrutable, before, without a word, he turned back to the door. He took a minute to think, his hand still on the knob. Despite the misgivings she'd expressed tonight—for those not on his wavelength, Willy took some getting used to—his impression of Charlie's mother was a good one; considering how important Charlie was to Willy, and his mother to Charlie, anything that helped Nora, helped Willy. Nora should know.
His decision made, Dr. Grant opened the door, and the cabbie on the doorstep tipped his hat. Dr. Grant spoke quietly, and the cabbie left.
"He'll wait in his cab," Dr. Grant explained. "I'll just be a minute." He left the room, and shortly came back holding photographs. "Dr. Wonka didn't make any trouble for us after he packed up his house, and moved without Willy. These photos are a big part of the reason. Cyn took them before I took the braces off, with that in mind."
Nora took the photos handed her, and after seeing the first two, sank into the nearest chair. She looked through the rest silently. "How did he sleep?" she whispered. "How did he eat? He can't even close his mouth." Pale, she looked up. "How long were they on?"
"For years, but in that monstrosity, ten minutes would be too long. Willy called me 'The Liberator' because I took those braces off, but over the years he's shortened it to 'Libby'." Dr. Grant sagged a little, and his voice became wistful. "He doesn't know I know, but I wish he did. Sinclair is so formal sounding, and I say, with all we've been through, getting on as I am, I'd rather be Libby."
Nora handed the photos back. Her voice was a hoarse croak, her eyes unwilling to focus on anything specific, lest they see those pictures again. "Thanks for showing me. I had no idea. What kind of father would do that to their son? What kind of mother would let him?"
Dr. Grant took the photos back, and held them thoughtfully, thinking back, before looking at Nora sadly. "That dear lady, you'll have to ask him. In all the time I've known him— and this goes for Cyn, too— she'd have told me— Willy never mentioned anything about his natural mother, or what happened to her."
"Nothing? Ever? What do you mean, what happened to her?"
"Not one word: his mother was out of the picture long before we moved here. Willy never even told us her name. Sometimes I wonder if he knows it."
"Gone? What do the neighbors say? Someone must have seen her leave."
"The neighbors say everything under the sun, the moon, and the stars," said Dr. Grant, disparagingly, with a flip of his wrist. "Take your pick— that she had an affaire, and ran off— that she didn't have an affaire, but ran away all the same— that to avoid scandal, they spirited her away; secretly, in the middle of the night, and took her to an asylum for the hopelessly insane, where she languishes still."
Dr. Grant's accompanying smile had a rictus quality to it, that made Nora think Dr. Grant wouldn't mind seeing Dr. Wonka languishing in an asylum for the hopelessly insane.
"I say, Dr. Wonka doesn't say it outright, but that last version is the one he prefers. The braces made Willy odd enough, but that story— why, yes, indeedy, that story— made people wonder if there wasn't something inherently wrong with Willy, too— I say, you know— crazy mother, crazy son." Dr. Grant tried to keep his voice light on this odious subject, but his hands shook with inward rage, his eyes glittering, and he had no choice but to pause until the visceral wave of emotion passed.
Nora waited, feeling numb.
"That's the story Dr. Wonka tacitly goes along with, I think because it so neatly explained Mrs. Wonka's absence, and made people sufficiently leery of odd little Willy, to steer well clear of him."
"Tacitly? Mrs. Wonka?"
Dr. Grant nodded. "Rumor has it, Dr. Wonka always referred to her as Mrs. Wonka, and she called him Dr. Wonka— that's not so strange— it's an old-fashioned custom, quite common in its day and age." There was no need to mention that that day and age, wasn't this day and age, and that did make it strange, or that the rest of the rumor was that Willy's mother's name was Mina. Deciding to respect Willy's privacy in a matter Willy never mentioned himself, Dr. Grant kept that detail to himself: for all he knew, the rumor was wrong. "Dr. Wonka never confirms, or denies, any of the stories, but he nods sympathetically when he hears that one."
A silence fell like a pall, and neither looked at the other.
Drained, and sickened by the aftermath of the rage that had swept through him, Dr. Grant brought the evening to a close: the cabbie was waiting. "I say, you'd best get home." Summoning his manners, he gestured graciously toward the door. "Forgive me if I've upset you, but Dr. Wonka's treatment of Willy is upsetting."
Nora rose on unsteady feet: upsetting was an understatement, and Dr. Grant was as pale as she felt. She smiled wanly, not wanting to end the evening on such a sour note. "May I call you Libby?"
Dr. Grant smiled at the unexpected question: it was one he could happily answer. "Of course, dear lady." Offering her his arm, Nora latched on to it, as if, lost in the wilderness of a world she didn't want to imagine, she had found a path to guide her. Together, they made their way down the steps to the waiting cab.
Before Nora got in, Dr. Grant palmed her enough money for the fare. Having none herself, she took it, but questioningly.
"I doubt, as often as Willy has need of a cab, he has an account with this company, and that fine point of payment has probably escaped him. I say," Dr. Grant chuckled faintly, "as Willy said the fare is on him, I'll be his proxy."
Nora smiled bravely in return, the things uncovered by her throw away question about the nickname 'Libby', still making her sick.
Only a minute to go. Nora was safely in the cab, but seeing the pinched pallor around her mouth and eyes, Dr. Grant, before closing the door, hesitated for the slightest second more. "I say, Nora, those were grim times— but keep in mind— moving his house wasn't the worst thing Dr. Wonka did to Willy. It was one of the nicest."
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 if it pleases you, please review.
dionne dance, Celeste K. Raven, and 07kattho: your reviews are a joy. Thank you.
