The spaceship was hard to manage, and what he was shooting at was off the screen. A pointer pointed the way, and the tracers of the pirate ship's weapons made their own path, but a target you could see would be so much easier to hit. Dr. Grant fired at random, hoping for a lucky kill, as another ship hove into view, firing on his vessel relentlessly. About the time his ship was hit with a crushing volley, he heard the knock on his door.
"I say, thank God, whoever you are," Dr. Grant muttered, as he put Freelancer on pause.
"But," breathed as an afterthought, "I dare say ... who can you be?" It was an odd time of day for a knock, unless he expected a package, but nothing was on order, and no package was expected. Dr. Grant turned to the other monitor on his desk, checking the status of the Lot. The neighborhood, well coached, referred the curious in that direction to him, but the Lot looked undisturbed, and the sidewalk was quiet. He got up, deciding for the hundredth time to put in a camera at his door, and knowing for the hundredth time, he wouldn't. The day he got as paranoid as Willy, was the day he would hang it up.
"Coming," Dr. Grant called out, in a cheery way. As much time as he'd taken to answer, most folks would have knocked again. Visitors were too few to squander, and he didn't want to discourage this one.
Crossing the living room, he heard footsteps on the steps, and he called out again. "Almost there!"
The sounds stopped, and Dr. Grant threw open the door.
"There!" he crowed.
"Here," came a squeak.
Dr. Grant stepped back, before his inclination made him make the mistake of stepping forward. The darkly bespectacled, heavily be-robed visitor was Willy, and even as shocked to see him as he was, Dr. Grant knew he would rush headlong out to hug the boy, now man, if he didn't step smartly in the other direction, immediately. A hug would be a disaster, and this was no time for disasters.
"I say," he choked out. "Willy. Come in. Come in."
The door stood agape, the heat escaping, as Sinclair stood well back. Willy had no choice but to go in, if only to see the door got closed. All that heat escaping was a terrible waste. Taking a deep breath, Willy swanned in, as if dropping by like this was an everyday occurrence.
"Crummy disguise, if you know who I am," Willy said. He was minus his trademark top hat and walking-stick, and that should fool anyone.
"Oh, dear me, no! It's an excellent disguise, my boy. Anyone who didn't know your voice, wouldn't know you."
Willy cringed at being called 'boy', as he always had, 'my' or 'dear' or other modifiers notwithstanding, and wondered for the billionth time if Sinclair would ever notice that.
"I came to visit my room," Willy said, closing the door with his foot, as he cleared the threshold.
"Visit away," answered Dr. Grant, with a half-bow and wave in that direction.
Willy hesitated, as if he wanted to say more, but Dr. Grant ignored him, and headed back to his study. It was time to pack up Freelancer for something much more diverting, and doing this now would spare Willy the awkwardness of further immediate social interacting; give him time to adjust. At least, that's what Dr. Grant hoped.
When Dr. Grant returned to the living room, Willy was gone. From the house? Dr. Grant tiptoed down the hall, listening at the stairs, hearing some faint noises. There wasn't much in that room to move. Books? The photograph frames perhaps? Ashamed of himself, he felt like a snoop. Curiosity be jiggered, this was no way to treat a guest, much less Willy, and Dr. Grant tiptoed back to the living room.
Deciding to wait by the mantlepiece, Dr. Grant wondered if he should offer Willy some refreshment. Tea? Coffee? Hot chocolate? That would be daunting— serving hot chocolate to a chocolatier— that chocolatier. Making something … tired of standing, Dr. Grant took a seat in his well-worn armchair, and sat on his hands instead. Until they fell asleep, that is. Then he shook them out, and folded them neatly in his lap. Whatever interested Willy was taking awhile, and though itching to know what it was, Dr. Grant resigned himself to patience. He slouched back in his comfy chair, and closed his eyes, pretending he hadn't hoped for a visit like this, for years.
"I came to visit you, too."
Dr. Grant's eyes snapped open. Willy was standing stiffly by the matching armchair, his long, black great-coat hanging as stiffly from his arm, his oversized sunglasses still in place, as was his British newsboy style hat.
Hearing that, Dr. Grant, a man who prided himself on the 'bon mot', the ready quip, found his throat like a sand desert: quip-less, and scratchy with its dryness.
Willy seemed to understand. With a pale hand he plucked his great-coat off his arm, and dropped it on the chair's arm. For a minute, Dr. Grant thought Willy wasn't wearing gloves, but then he saw he was. They were ultra-thin, and the color of his skin. The coat's skirt looked as stiff as when Willy held it, but Willy himself had relaxed a little.
"I blew off Martha."
Dr. Grant's brain shifted into high gear. Willy was bringing up his, Dr. Grant's, granddaughter? Blew her off? Willy must mean his guest-chef visits to her restaurant. A smile cracked Dr. Grant's face, and he chuckled.
"She didn't mind. L'usine will survive, I dare say."
Willy took off the sunglasses, his face a study in skepticism. "She didn't?"
"Sit down." Dr. Grant saw no need for a fuss over an arrangement that no one in the family had thought would go on for very long. "Make yourself comfortable. I'd offer you something, but I'm afraid it wouldn't measure up."
"I'm a sucker for hot chocolate," Willy grinned. "And I don't want to sit down. Do you have any?"
His forearms flat on his chair's arms, Dr. Grant nodded, his fingers tattooing a little dance. "Yours, of course."
"Then let's go to the kitchen, and I'll make it. That way, I'll have only myself to blame if I don't like it."
His hands clapped the chair's arms forcefully enough to raise a little cloud of dust, and then Dr. Grant was on his feet.
"Deal!"
The sudden movement was startling. Willy got over his fright by hightailing it to the kitchen, where Dr. Grant, trailing after him, found him taking an inventory of every cupboard in the place. It was amusing, the boy hadn't changed a bit, and Dr. Grant settled himself at the kitchen table to watch, moving Willy's discarded hat off to the side.
"Martha told me just last week she thinks you have some kind of radar."
Willy quirked a brow as he lined up ingredients and put a pan of milk on the cooktop.
"You stopped your visits just in time. She noticed some of her customers filling Tupperware containers with samples of their courses. I say, not your usual doggy bag. She thinks the other restaurateurs are sending in spies, to see if they can analyze the recipes."
The carton of heavy cream and bowl Willy was putting in the freezer almost hit the floor.
"Sorry, you probably don't think that's funny, but she did. Some things never change." The juggling act was over, the cream and bowl unharmed. "Why are you putting those in the freezer?"
"The cream whips better if it and the bowl are cold. I thought we'd have whipped cream on top."
"I say, yummy!" Dr. Grant caught Willy's eye and winked. "Martha really thinks they just love your recipes and are taking them home to savor later."
Willy turned away, looking askance. He wasn't used to people pulling his leg with a straight face. It was weird.
Dr. Granted leaned back. "But she says your real menace was Chopped."
"Chopped?" The milk was starting to boil. Willy took it off the heat.
"You know, the show on the Food Network. Surely you've heard of it?"
"Shirley, I have. The Oompa-Loompas watch it. I've seen it a time or two. Doris insisted. They have a song about it." Willy made a face. "There's bacon involved. And a lot of slicing, and dicing. And chopping blocks. And cutting boards. Heh. It's kinda grisly."
"Dear me! You do realize there's no chocolate in that milk?"
"Dear you, I do." Willy took the cream and bowl out of the freezer.
"Martha's staff were thinking you'd make an excellent contestant on that show. They were about to volunteer you."
Willy turned a wide-eyed, incredulous stare Sinclair's way.
"So you see, your radar was spot on. Any more visits, and there'd be complications."
Willy stifled a groan. Presently, the world was nothing but complications. Being here was a complication. And he should have made the topping first. With more clatter than was necessary, Willy put some cream into the bowl and beat it to within an inch of its butter, but ruining it was something he couldn't bring himself to do. It did stop the talking, though, and as he set the topping aside, Willy re-played the tape in his head of the conversation so far. Martha wasn't mad at him. She thought him clever; with good timing. Whew.
Willy added some dry ingredients to dark chocolate pieces he'd found, and added that mixture to the scalded milk, now back on the heat, stirring. Sinclair held his peace, and Willy finished making the hot chocolate, thick and rich, still pondering the comments. He brought the mugs to the table, and set them down. He was still standing.
Dr. Grant peered at his mug and smacked his lips.
"I say, how do you make the cream look like that?"
"The quenelle? It's easy. You do it with the spoon." And then, with a little chuckle, his eyes far away, Willy smiled as if he meant it.
Dr. Grant sat back, beaming. "What?"
If Willy sat down, they'd have it made.
Willy sat down, his head in his hands, really laughing now. "Can you imagine," he said, coming up for air. "Me? On Chopped? I'd get chopped in the first round! Holy Hornswogglers!" He snorted with laughter. "Ya know what would be good?"
Dr. Grant shook his head and picked up his mug. The chocolate was very thick. He might need a spoon.
"Me choosing the Mystery Basket ingredients." Willy sat back, composing himself for a minute, before throwing his head back with a tilt, half-closing his eyes, and saying in Ted Allen's voice: "Chefs, please open your baskets. Your dish must contain green caterpillars, the bark of the Bong-Bong tree, fresh cacao bean pods, Whangdoodle blood-meal, and snozzberries." Then Willy leaned forward, elbow on the table, forehead in his hand, his other arm clutching his middle, as he dissolved in giggles.
Recognizing nothing on the list but cacao bean pods, Dr. Grant sat back, chuckling a little himself, and glanced over to Cyn's place, to see what she thought. She wouldn't care if she had no idea what Willy was talking about; she'd laugh because he was. His gnarled hands grasped his mug harder when he saw Cyn wasn't there, his face coloring as he realized his mistake. Ducking his head, Dr. Grant risked a peek at Willy, to see if he had noticed the lapse. Willy was just turning back from looking at the same empty chair, and their eyes met. The room was suddenly quiet, the atmosphere as thick as the chocolate.
"Willy." Having instantly lowered his gaze, Dr. Grant traced the tablecloth with a fingernail.
Willy thought for a long time before he answered. There was no ambiguity in the names any more.
"Sin."
Dr. Grant brought his head smoothly up, not daring to believe what he'd heard, but what he saw in Willy's eyes closed the door to any thought that Willy's use of the nickname had been a mistake. Terence had told him Willy forgave him for his lack of compassion all those years ago. In this moment, he truly believed it.
"Willy." The name was more of a croak.
"Sin." Not a split second of hesitation.
Sin cleared his throat. "You didn't say what course that basket was for." He gave a little cough, his throat still not right. "Appetizer, or entrée?"
Willy grinned and took a sip of his chocolate, before leaning in with a fiendish gleam in his eyes. "Dessert … natch."
They shared a smile, and drank their hot chocolate.
"Willy." Dr. Grant's hand flew up before Willy could respond, continuing before Willy's look of puzzlement deepened. Now was as good a time as any to get this done. "I say … over the years ... I've come to think of myself as 'Libby'."
"Heh," Willy sheepishly laughed, after a pause. So the man did know about that. "You don't say."
"I say. I do say."
"Then I'll say, 'Libby'. 'Kay?"
"Okay."
"Libby."
Willy said the name he'd used for years, to the man he'd used it for, behind his back, to his face. The sigh that escaped him, at the dropping of all those years of gentle subterfuge, would have been inexplicable to Libby, if Libby hadn't known about the moniker, all along. For Willy, it was like thinking you hadn't studied for the exam of your life, only to discover on the day you thought you had to take it, you'd already graduated, with honors. He felt light-headed, and floaty, like fizzy-lifting without the fizz, but there was more to do, and he waited for Libby to respond.
"Willy."
Willy gathered his strength in the face of this light-headedness.
"I invited a family to live in my Factory."
Libby's eyes narrowed; his turn to be puzzled. "I know that. I've met two of them … Nora, and Charlie. I say, my dear boy, they seem like the right sort of people. They were here, last night. You know that."
Midway through what he'd been saying, Willy's shoulders had hunched … and then it was gone. Libby frowned, wondering if he'd imagined it.
I do know that. Willy drew his finger along the line made by the base of his mug and the tablecloth. Maybe one more tangent? Why not? Nora had stayed for dinner. "What'd ya have?"
"Spaghetti."
Willy sat up, delighted.
"Hey! Me, too!"
Dr. Grant smiled a small smile, wondering what this was about, knowing it wasn't spaghetti dinners.
Willy could see it was time. He meant it; he'd say it.
"The invitation extends to you," Willy said.
His first inclination was to laugh, but Dr. Grant could see Willy was deadly serious, and Willy was never deadly serious. This would take some diplomacy, though he'd thought they'd understood each other on this point. But perhaps the new family had Willy off-balance; not seeing what was left of his old family in the light they both knew, in their hearts, was the right light.
"Well, well, good heavens! I say … I'm honored." Dr. Grant gave the table a gentle slap. "On behalf of Thea and Libby, I heartily accept."
Willy looked up from his study of the tablecloth, violet eyes searching.
"And on behalf of Dr. Sinclair Grant, may I beg a rain check?"
Willy cocked his head.
"I say, my dear…" Dr. Grant noted the tensing of the shoulders again, "…Willy, Thea's not here to take advantage of your offer, as I know she would…"
A flick of Willy's eyes to Thea's empty chair, and back to Libby, as he listened.
"…But there's so little of Libby in me, and so much of Dr. Sinclair Grant, that while I know Libby would, too … I can't." Dr. Grant paused, his voice as gentle as he could make it. "As empty as it seems, I fear I'm the ruler of my roost, and were I to live anywhere where you rule yours, I'd spend all my time staying out of your way, and you, out of mine. Why make that obvious, when this arrangement is so much more convivial?"
The seconds ticked by in silence.
"I say, as an example, look how long it's taken me to figure out you don't like being referred to as, no, no, you don't need to cringe, I won't say it, but you know the word I mean."
Willy shifted in his chair, eyes on linoleum he'd helped make worn.
"In your defense, you don't see me a lot."
"Would you like to talk about that word?"
"Nuhh-oooo."
If the strung-out word didn't get the point across, the head-roll did. Willy stood up, and so did Dr. Grant, scooping up the mugs and taking them to the sink.
"You were doing something when I got here."
Dr. Grant turned with a grin. "I was; I was; I can tell you, I was. I was piloting a spaceship, making the universe safe from pirates, in the name of commodities' trading. Say hello to Edison Trent."
Willy's hand looked for the walking-stick he didn't have with him. "Spaceship? Pirates? Don't you mean Vermicious Knids?"
"Vermicious k'whats? I'm referring to a video game, Freelancer, and I say, I'm making a hash out of playing it, indeedy, indeedy. I volunteer at hospital, and everyone under thirty plays these things. They're conversation starters … something to take their minds off why they're there, and if you've actually played them, you've more credibility."
Willy, holding his hat out in front of him like a dead flounder, was already in the living room, reaching for his great-coat, the hat disappearing into it, Libby right behind him.
"Do you want to go to space? Really?"
Willy was offhand, the two questions that were one, throw away, but the way he carried himself after, listening intently for the answer, gave Dr. Grant pause.
"I don't think so. I should think it'd be a lot of bother."
Nodding as if dismissing the idea, Willy resumed his manipulations of his great-coat.
"Okey-dokey."
"Would you like to take a walk? I say, here's an idea … we could visit Cyn."
Willy, concentrating, was still fiddling with his great-coat, shaking it out, and holding it high, like a lantern.
Dr. Grant gave it another go.
"Your interruption was a welcome one." He thought over what he'd said about space. It seemed to disappoint Willy. "No bother at all."
With an upward flourish, Willy pulled a gold-topped, ebony walking-stick from a narrow, vertical pocket, sewn into the folds of the great-coat. His hand felt better already for holding it, and the coat lost its stiffness. He showed the stick to Libby.
"D'ya still have yours?"
Dr. Grant made a beeline for the umbrella stand by the door. He pulled out his well-used, but otherwise identical, walking-stick.
Willy laughed, holding his walking-stick at his side, as he shrugged one arm into his coat. It pleased him Libby's version was so close to hand, but he wasn't really surprised. After all, Libby gave him this walking-stick, the match of Libby's own, decades ago. Willy switched the stick to his other hand and finished donning his coat.
"And yer hat?"
Dr. Grant reached for the shelf above him, and took down his coachman's hat. It was similar to a top hat, but not as tall. "I do … but you don't have yours."
Willy gave his head a mischievous toss.
"I wouldn't count on that."
Now that he had it on, from another pocket, sewn in the coat's back, Willy pulled a Frisbee-like object. He gently tapped the center, and voilà, the body of a top hat popped into place.
"I love these things. They're collapsible. It's not my favorite, that one's back at the Factory, but it is silk, and it'll do in a pinch." Willy popped the hat on his head, grinning like a scamp. "I believe I'll take you up on that walk, but not to see Thea. I think she's seen us already today; we just didn't see her. We'll be two trees in a forest, dressed alike as we are, so if you'd like, you can walk me to my ride."
"I would like that. Where is it?"
"Not what is it?"
"I can guess. It's that confounded Elevator contraption."
"It is." Willy's smirk filled the room.
"Where?"
"The Lot."
Dr. Grant frowned to hear that.
"I say, the monitor showed nothing."
Willy launched his walking-stick upward a few inches, caught it around its middle as it came down, and let it swing parallel to the floor as he started for the door.
"Because, I, my dear Libby, know where the blind-spot I designed in that camera deployment is, and the Elevator I've brought today, was made for it. After that, I took a circuitous route." Willy thought about the extra time the roundabout route added. "We can take that route back, if you like."
The crows' feet at the corners of Dr. Grant's eyes deepened, as holding open the door, he nodded his agreement.
Once on the sidewalk, sunglasses in place, Willy turned the opposite direction to the Lot, strolling as if he owned everything he saw. Dr. Grant wondered. Maybe he did. The overcast was beginning to break up a little, and Willy, enjoying the crisp, bracing air, from the warm sanctuary of his great-coat, spied a patch of sunshine to jump into. He leapt ahead, imprisoning it with his boots.
"Ha!" Willy cried, mission accomplished, waiting for Libby. "It's turning into a nice day."
Glancing up at the minuscule break, and then at the dappled patch of sunlight that was already escaping the anchoring footfalls of his wishful, willful, commandeered, accidental son, Dr. Grant sauntered toward Willy, twirling his walking-stick with the skill of a master.
"Don't be silly, my dear child. It's been a grand day, for over an hour."
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. Ditto as far as Chopped is concerned, and also, that random reference to Airplane!
Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you reviewers: dionne dance, Ifwecansparkle, LinkWonka88, 07kattho. This chapter was longer, but it's not all angst, so that's okay.
