Though he had turned away, Willy's fidgeting hands betrayed a sorting of his feelings, and Terence was content to wait.
In not long, the walking-stick flashed out to Willy's side once more, the light, catching its spiraling ridges in its warm embrace, making it sparkle. Pivoting on his toes around it, Willy strode to the saucer of candies on the table. With a grand, sweeping motion, he doffed his hat from his head, depositing it upside down on the table next to the little dish of candy. Studying the selection, he picked one out and held it up, turning it between his thumb and fingers the way he had earlier turned the rubber ball.
"These candies, my dear Terence, are not meteor fragments. They are pollens."
"Pollens?"
"The surface of pollens have some very strange convolutions. Each color is a different variety. They were your idea."
"My idea?"
"I already said that. You said the Chocolate Room would be eatable, but uninhabitable, if the flowers in it came with pollen. I thought I'd make some."
Terence remembered the comment. It was an aside; an ice-breaker really, made the first time he'd seen the Chocolate Room. Not seriously meant, but it was dawning on him that you could mention a dripping faucet to Willy, and he'd come up with some candy idea from it. Terence grinned, and just as quickly frowned.
"Okay, so you've said… and this is taking us… where?"
Taken with Terence's meteor observation, Willy bent and set the candy sphere on the table, ranging others from the saucer around it, like a little solar system. Straightening, he looked up, eyes sparkling.
"D'ya think if I crush one, like crushed ice, and use just a piece of it, we could say it was Pluto?"
Terence sighed, and ran the fingers of one hand through his hair.
"Willy…" Sometime today, maybe? "Are we wasting my time?"
Squared shoulders rounding, Willy sighed back, his tangent as pulverized as his plan for the candy. Leaving the candy, he put both hands atop the walking-stick he moved front and center, and took a gulp of air.
"We are not. We are having a not-what-it-seems-will-seem-what-it-is situation."
Willy broke the stance, and like a diagnostician delivering bad news, clasped his hands behind his back, his head down, the walking-stick settling at an easy angle, but quiet.
"You cannot see, from my desk, that poking out from tiny cracks, these candies have little spikes and pits all over them. From where you sit, they look smooth. I cannot see, from that window, that the little boy who inspired my contest, standing outside the gates of my Factory, day after day as he did, is not little only because he is small, but also because he is starving. I had to see him close up, in your shop, to discover that. What applies to me looking down this hill, applies to them looking up this hill. There are cracks in me they cannot see from their house on the edge of that dump, but that they will see in me…" Willy shook his head, remembering the morning, "are seeing in me… if they live on this side, of those walls."
Taken aback, Terence folded his hands against the supple leather of the desk's surface. He didn't need to see Willy's hand gesture to know which walls he meant, and Willy was right about that: no one will see imperfections, or anything else for that matter, if they don't see you. Viewed from that angle, the disappearances made sense. Time-outs, they were, to get it together… or keep it together, though Terence judged them a high price to pay to seem flawless. Everyone has flaws. But what struck Terence more, was the way Willy had spoken. Like old times, they may as well have been sitting under that tree in the schoolyard, on a bright fall day, discussing the pitfalls of knowing everyone's future but your own, on account of living life backwards: your death your birth, and your birth your death. As carefree, or serious, or tinged with the macabre as those discussions might be, Willy's side had always been understandable, first time, really, you didn't even have to try. Now Willy was using that understandability to make clear the concepts of 'starving' and 'cracks'. The directness was in such contrast to the usual verbal convolutions. The feel of the cool leather was gratifying on Terence's skin. Yielding and full, and distinctly smooth, it provided a contrasting balance.
"Which is not to say I'm saying I'm cracked."
Terence looked up. Willy had rocked once on his heels, the small motion, as much as the words, attracting his attention.
"My cracks, are more like the fine crazing you see in the varnish on old masterpieces, not, masterpiece that I am, in the work itself." Willy paused. "Which is also not to say that the cracks of my crazing make, or makes me, crazy." He paused again, lower lip pushing against upper. "You'd be crazed to think so."
Willy's edgy comments interrupted, and Terence smiled at the familiar pattern of the present, but it was just Willy being nervous, and not enough to make Terence leave his thoughts. His eyes unfocused, his head tilted toward the ceiling, Terence grunted a cursory 'uh-huh', and started on his own sort, his hand reaching unconsciously for the discarded paddle.
No wonder Charlie had been so calm, day after day, sitting on that bench. It was only a pattern already long-established for both, extended. And weren't they the peas in the pod, neither of them bothering to mention that to him? Terence could forgive them that. Charlie wouldn't have thought it important—he was just doing what you do outside the Chocolate Factory—and Willy knew Terence's job was to discover things. How could he do that, if Willy told him? A smile played across his face. In an odd way, Willy probably thought he was being thoughtful. But Willy'd better think again, and perhaps he had: Terence couldn't discover everything by himself.
The room was silent, Terence not noticing that his friend, expecting more of a remark, and not getting more, had keen eyes fixed on him as if he were a microbe. Terence hadn't understood then why Willy had allowed— no, wrong word… INSISTED, that Terence let Charlie into the shop that night. He did now. Willy had already been aware of Charlie; had already thought Charlie had a soft spot for the Chocolate Factory. Willy just didn't know if what he thought about Charlie was true, or only wishful thinking; or even, small detail that it was, Charlie's name.
"Huh."
The utterance was involuntary on Terence's part, but Willy perked up.
Tapping the edge of the paddle gently against the desk, Terence let his eyes refocus, avoiding looking directly at Willy. Instead, he looked at the solar system on the table, and held the paddle still.
"Before you had the contest… does Charlie know you know he was at the gates every day?"
"Nah-uh."
"Does he know he was the inspiration for the contest?"
"Nope."
"Huh."
Terence lifted his gaze.
"Are you gonna tell him?"
Dropping his gaze, it was Willy's turn to study the solar system.
"Can't imagine why I would… it'd be nothing but pressure. Don't see that either of us are in short supply of that at the moment."
"Huh."
The insights were piling up. Terence resumed his tapping, the noise of the paddle against the leather filling the silence while he pondered.
"Must you?"
"Huh?"
"Tap that? And can you expand your vocabulary some? 'Huh' is getting old."
Terence chuckled.
"Uh-huh."
Willy smiled at the choice of reply, but Terence, off in la-la-land somewhere, was paying him only half a mind. For what was coming, Willy wanted all of it. Stepping around the table, Willy moved to the sofa, staring at it fondly.
This oughta do it.
"I have a shrink, you know," Willy confided.
"Didn't know," replied a fully alert Terence. "That your idea?"
"Hardly."
"Huh."
Terence caught the monosyllable too late, but hurried on.
"And how's that working out for you?"
Not as well as that revelation worked out, Willy thought, dismissing the 'huh' with a flip of his wrist, pleased at the level of attention. Willy sat gingerly down on the edge of the sofa, patting it as if it were the fur of a freshly groomed Yorkshire terrier.
"Not here," Willy went on, his eyes limpid. "There's no shrinking done here… not on this sofa."
Willy gave it another pat, but sitting proved impossible, and up he popped to circle the table, only to sit down in the other arm-chair… the one facing away from the office doors, and toward the un-embellished door in the other wall.
"I have a chaise lounge for those occasions. It's made of black leather, with fancy tucking, but it's not like that cadillac I have in the Inventing Room… the one you slept on. The shrinking sofa's on the short side, and narrow, because I don't want to get too comfortable on it. I might stay on it." Willy's eyes widened a little. "Wouldn't that be ghastly! I mostly set it up in the main hallway, because my shrink uses a red chair. Not the same red as the carpet… a different red… and they clash, but good. I like it that way. Every time I look up, I see it. The clashing is jarring. Being shrunk is a jarring business, so I think it suits."
With a nod, Terence smiled.
"Just ask Mike Teavee."
A hand lifted to Willy's mouth, and Terence heard a titter.
"You're bad, Terence. My shrink is an Oompa-Loompa… who'd a guessed?… But then again, as I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted," Willy smirked at Terence, "the Oompa-Loompas, living on this side of the walls as they do, have already noticed some of my, ah, inconsistencies, and this was their idea. I picked the Oompa-Loompa I picked because he's picky about his company… stays away from everyone, he does… and because he's as deaf as a post. He doesn't hear I word I say, so I feel free to say whatever I like. Sometimes I get lucky, and I figure something out, but mostly, I do it because it keeps the worry-warts off my back, and out of my face."
"Don't the worry-warts know he's deaf?"
"I dunno… maybe… Why are you asking me? Ask them."
A little cross, Willy continued. "He reads lips perfectly. When I want him to know what I'm saying, I look at him directly. Maybe he's got 'em all fooled. You don't need ears to read sign language, and I think he's got 'em convinced he won't converse in anything else," Willy's fingers made air-quotes, "'to preserve the old ways'."
Terence gave a little thought to the tidbits he'd just heard, and what they might mean.
"I'm not as deaf as a post. I'll hear every word you say."
"That's the idea," sighed Willy. "I'm in over my head, and all of this is all your fault."
"My fault?"
"You foisted a familia on me. I should have known better. I told ya I tried t' get cha back for that."
Terence failed to respond. If there were a clock in the room, they'd have heard it ticking, like a bomb, counting down to zero. But there wasn't. Except for their quiet breathing, the silence stretched out like a desert: endless, unmarked, and devoid of oasis. Finally tiring of the anticipation, Willy looked over at Terence.
"Aren't cha gonna say something?"
His elbows making indents in the leather on Willy's desk, chin in his hand, Terence shrugged.
"Not when you say something as stupid as that."
Willy laughed, and relaxing, toed off his boots, tucking his feet up under him. Terence was a link to the past, and the only welcome link to the part of his past that was bothering him now. And Terence didn't seem daunted by the prospect of further revelations, or too fazed by what he'd heard so far, but best of all, as blunt as Terence was, he was also blasé, and if Terence could be blasé about this looming nightmare, Willy could be too.
"Now there's a thought… Maybe my shrink isn't deaf." In his relief, Willy mirrored Terence, his elbow on the arm of the chair, his chin in his hand. "Maybe my shrink thinks everything I say is stupid. Wouldn't that be a laugh? On me? I'll bet that guy cleans up in the Willy or Won't He Room. I babble endlessly about all sorts of plans on that couch." Willy sat back, pleased. "This might work… If I say something savvy."
Terence knit his brows.
"The Will He or… you know, I'm not even gonna ask."
Willy giggled.
"Not 'will he'. Me. It's the conference room, and it'd be nothing but a cobweb collection 'cept for the Oompa-Loompas using it, cuz I almost never conference. I dare say it's become the Factory's casino. Certain of the Oompa-Loompas are as bad as you are when it comes to making bets."
"My bets are hypothetical."
"Theirs aren't. They've got a regular bookie cacao bean exchange going on down there."
"So? How'd we get on this subject? Anyone ever tell you you're a master at deflection?"
With an indolent smile, his eyes three-quarters closed, Willy curled the fingers of one hand and blew on them, then rubbed them against the velvet on his chest, as if he were polishing a medal.
"No. So?"
"So? So say something savvy and see if this works."
Bracing himself against the chair with his medal polishing hand, Willy lifted his head and stared at the ceiling, all amusement leaving him, his body tensing. "So, so say you, I say something? So how 'bout this… She can't be both." The words bit. Cold eyes turned to Terence. "That savvy enough for ya?"
"Both?"
"I already said that!" Irritated, the fingers of Willy's hand flicked the arm of the chair. "Savvy? I left this morning because Nora can't be Thea. And she was. She was being Thea."
Too tense now for the blasé approach to stay àpropos, or even possible, Willy popped up, pacing the length of the table.
"It was the Swudge that did it. She was into the Swudge… All over it."
Willy turned narrowed eyes to Terence, but the energy flowing from them was like the on-coming high-beams of a truck close-in on a moonless night. Terence knew better than to look away, but he wanted to. Willy was downright angry.
"So I have no intention of marketing Swudge. She had idea after idea. Swudge Juleps… you know, it has a minty taste…"
Terence saw Willy close his eyes for a beat at the word 'minty' but Willy was soon back in form, the pacing unabated, eyes still locked on Terence.
"Make the Swudge look like hay… make Hay Juleps, for days at the race track… Toast the horses in the paddock with them… some folderol about making them jealous. Make medicated Swudge, that tastes like sugared hay, for horsey medicine feeding!"
Willy stopped the prowl for a moment.
"She said I'd make a fortune doing that. Do I look like I need a fortune? I think I've already checked that box."
The sharp eyes on Terence made him feel like a mouse in the sights of an owl, but Willy wasn't looking for an answer, and the pacing resumed. The stream of words cascaded like the chocolate fall, with Terence thankful for the respite from the stare when Willy made his turns.
"Make long strands of Swudge to use to make nests in the bottoms of Easter baskets she said! Wasabi flavored Swudge… in little fence shapes for sushi serving—"
Willy's hand motions weren't keeping up with his words, and they were becoming more and more extravagant. Terence leaned forward, the desk in his way, his voice firm.
"So the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. Charlie will be a star. What's your beef? That medicine idea would work for cattle, too."
That stopped the pacing, and the rushing tirade, but Willy turned a quarter-turn away from Terence, still talking, but now to the carpet, his words clipped, his voice icy.
"It. Was. So. So…"
"So what?"
Pivoting, Willy turned the high-beams back on, beaming them back at Terence.
"Ambitious."
"So?"
"So? So, with Charlie's she's always been like… been like… like…"
Willy threw his head back, his shoulders set like stones, his eyes closed as he did his best to continue, but in another minute he gave it up, his chin falling to his chest, the hand not holding his walking stick pushed against the velvety high collar of his frock coat. His cheek was against that, and a tear threatened to leak from the corner of his lowered eye. The anguish was smothering. Terence couldn't have moved if he'd wanted to, and he didn't want to. Anything tactile would just make this worse.
"You can say who, Willy," Terence said softly. "I know you had one. I've been, with you, in the house where she lived, with you. And you've met mine."
Yes, dear Terence, to see it, that was the link. Willy said nothing. Instead he stood quietly, his eyes closed, the lashes moist, his head on a slight tilt, the hand holding his walking-stick letting it fall. The carpet sighed a welcome, as the stick found a nest in its nap, the Nerds, moving against each other, making a slight rustle of protest. Willy's other hand danced at his hip, thumb repeatedly sliding against fingers, as if it were deciding and un-deciding, all on its own, a course of action.
The decision made, the sliding ended. A shoulder dropped, and arms went into action. Terence watched the same maroon frock coat Willy had worn to the shop, that first day he'd resurfaced in Terence's life, drop to the carpet beside the stick.
Without the swath of color made by his coat, the only points of color on him were his brooch, his collar, and the sleeves of his paisley shirt. Except for the pale gloves, from head to toe, everything else Willy wore was black. As black as what we don't know about his past, Terence thought. A difficult past Willy keeps as thoroughly disguised by his personality, as the colors of his frock coats disguise all the black he wears underneath them.
Following his stick and coat, Willy sank to the carpet, legs crossed, black-stockinged toes poking out incongruously, with one elbow on his knee, his chin resting in his hand. The effect on Terence was a touch disconcerting. Without his trademarks, Willy looked surprisingly like everyone else, and surprisingly the way Terence remembered him, sitting on the hard-packed earth of that schoolyard, under the spreading branches of that tree.
Having transformed himself sufficiently for time travel, Willy faced Terence matter-of-factly, using his other hand to absently carve and re-carve a curving design in the carpet's pile.
"You think so, do you? That I can say it? That I had," an intake of breath, "a mother? You've seen my belly button, have you?" The breath exhaled. "You haven't. It's an innie, by the way. But I did. I had a mother who lo…" He stopped. "Like Charlie's mother."
The next pause was longer, and when he spoke, Willy's face was hidden behind his steepled fingers, as he rocked gently where he sat.
"Her name was Araminta."
Willy turned his head to the side, as if he wished what he were saying next were still true.
"I haven't said her name out loud to anyone for years."
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, perhaps reviewing, and just in general, for stopping by.
Thank you, dionne dance, and, yeah, it was a cliffie… Ain't I a stinker? But, hey, the wait wasn't a long one for a change.
And thank you Linkwonka88. Willy fears new pain on top of old pain, in the form of family dynamics. Kinda like having someone break your femur, managing to set it yourself, getting it in a cast, getting the pain under control, and then seeing the person who broke it approaching with a gleam in their eye, and a sledgehammer in their hand, bent on hitting you in the same place again. Bad enough the first time, when the bone was strong. How much worse now, with the bone unhealed? Definitely something to dread. Good luck, by the way, with your Hot Air Balloon commercial rating.
And absolutely not least, thank you, Ifwecansparkle. I, too, am inspired by Willy's resolve to continue. I suspect the willingness of these characters to pursue their dreams, in the face of all logic and common sense screaming at them it'll never happen, is why I like this book/movie so much.
