It was the swudge that did it. Nora getting her hands on the swudge; tasting it; losing herself in its possibilities. All those ideas, spilling like the Chocolate fall, one after another, and he, hearing them, thinking all the while he never intended to market the stuff. Her reaction was what he imagined Thea's might be, and that memory, Thea, was one memory too many, on a day when memories of mothers, and not-mothers, poked at him like sharp sticks.
It was enough.
With these memories, further sticking around might prove stickier still—these slimy tendrils of thought, like Sargasso seaweed, sucking him under—so with adroit finesse, at his earliest opportunity, Willy segued himself from the stickiness. Successfully unstuck, having spirited himself away, Willy dropped his palm to the top of the wing-backed, solitary chair he stood behind, stuck now, wondering whether he should drop the walking-stick, and the hat, and the gloves, and drop into it, to curl himself in a ball, like a caterpillar on defense.
It was tempting.
Willy dropped the walking-stick and kept on the gloves, leaning instead of sitting, his elbows propped against the chair's back, his chin resting atop his knit-together fingers. The light filling the room was odd, but he welcomed the distraction it afforded. He was almost never here during daylight hours, but if he wasn't going to be where he was—and that was an issue today—here was where he may as well be. It was private. He could think here. And if he disappeared here, to wherever it was he went when he disappeared, no one would be the wiser.
The top hat came off next, bumping two-point on the carpet, brim and tall edge, forgotten, and then it was the boots. Willy moved to the front of the chair and sat down, tucking his feet up on the cushion, arms around his legs, chin on his knees. It wasn't the caterpillar curl, even if one shoulder did crook itself into the join of the chair's back and wing, and it better not be. Caterpillars were easy prey; even Oompa-Loompas caught caterpillars. And ate them … for lunch, and dinner … and breakfast. Gah!
Willy's eyes widened with where this was going, but then, remembering the taste of the caterpitorial green variety, Willy smiled, even as he grunted a sound of disgust. That was one flavor that was never gonna see the inside of any of his candy. Caterpillars were off the menu, Oompa-Loompan or otherwise. No one would eat them. Willy ducked his forehead into his knees and chuckled. The way his guts were churning, it was perfectly possible he was the caterpillar in this cup of confusion, and living like this wasn't gonna cut it. He couldn't run his Factory if forgotten, and half-forgotten memories put him at their mercy; at their whim, turning him willy-nilly, into a time-traveler. And if the past twenty-four hours were any indication, at their willy-nilly whim, he was, with the Bucket family their obliging trigger.
That would have to stop.
Willy leaned back in the chair and got comfortable then—really comfortable—tucking his feet underneath himself; legs folded at an angle, supported by the chair's arm; and let his mind go blank. It was easy. He was used to it. It was what he always did here, and he waited for the answer to his dilemma to paint itself on the canvas he had wiped clean, for just that purpose.
The first paint-bubble that floated up to burst on the canvas made him laugh aloud: it was the Factory, as it was before the contest— but for himself and the Oompa-Loompas, not another soul in sight. Wouldn't that be grand? With his eyes closed, thick lashes shadowing his cheek, Willy waved his still gloved hand in the air, banishing the thought. The present arrangement had its rewards. There was no going back.
There was no going forward, either. Nothing else presented itself, except scenes of Charlie, with his family, from last night's dinner. The loneliness he'd felt last night crept back, smothering him, as if chained to a rock, in a rising tide.
The surface calm erupted. Like a waterspout, Willy leapt from his chair. Feet apart, nostrils flared, he cast about for his walking-stick. Seeing it, behind the chair, he whirled, hair flying, and in one fluid motion, he scooped it up, crushing the Nerds to his chest. It was a chair, not a rock, and the tide wasn't rising! He never felt lonely! Thousands surrounded him! If anything, it was the opposite! He felt crowded, and anyway what Charlie had now he'd had twice!
Willy stood there then, slowing his breathing, wondering what all the excitement was about. He'd had it twice. That should be enough. How greedy was he? He just didn't remember one, and the other was long gone. It could be worse. He could be Terence. Willy looked at the walking-stick in his hand and let it drop. Here he was, right where he thought he was, and he was thinking about all of them. Maybe that was the trick of it— don't wait for a trigger, think of them yourself. If that were true, there was more to think about.
Stepping over his walking-stick, Willy headed for his bed, peeling off his shimmering frock coat as he walked, dragging it on the lush carpet until it fell from his hand, stretched along its length, still shimmering, collapsed in its own folds. The gloves were next, tossed without a thought, and then he was on his stomach, stretched out on the carpet like his coat; his arm buried up to his shoulder in a space it barely fit; his hand digging under his bed for the tattered cardboard box he kept there.
"Eureka."
Pulling his find toward him, Willy sat cross-legged on the cloud-like grey carpet, gentle fingers exquisitely removing the brittle lid of his treasure, holding it delicately. This box was the relic that held his relics; the first box of candy he'd ever bought. He'd kept it hidden from … well, hidden, and the corner of his mouth turned up, to think that in this humongous Factory, that belonged to him, he was hiding it still. His index finger softly traced the faded, flowing letters emblazoned across its top. Willy didn't know which he loved more— the sense of continuity he got from it, a tangible link with his distant past, made by a candy maker who'd never tried to steal his secret recipes, or the rollicking, cursive 'W' his finger was tracing. Willy closed his eyes, the better to feel it. It was the 'W' that had done it; the reason he'd chosen this particular box. Mr. Whitman, the lucky man, had a name that happened to start with Willy's initial: both initials, in fact, and back then, that was as close as he could come to his own name. Willy knew he would change that— make all the letters his, and he had, but this box was an old friend.
Opening his eyes, Willy set the lid aside. What he was looking for lay next to the vial of Wonkavite—well, what was left of the Wonkavite—in a small, artfully engraved, hinged silver folder, its interior lined with a soft, acid-free fabric. It held the torn half of a yellowed snapshot, taken with a cheap Brownie camera, long gone, and Willy didn't stop to look at it now. If he'd learned anything today, it was that he owed the family he still had, and after changing his coat for the third time, that's where he was taking this.
It's short, but it's angst. Thanks for reading, enjoy your day, and if you'd care to, please review. I do not own Charlie and the Chocolate Factory in any of its many forms, and there is no copyright infringement intended.
Thank you, thank you, thank you reviewers: dionne dance, Ifwecansparkle, LinkWonka88. I'm too tuckered to say more, but thank you, thank you, thank you.
