Warnings: A marriage outside the Disney mold. Mentions of death. All in all, a chapter not conducive to holiday cheer.


Schooling together, the earth and stones swam before his eyes, and Dr. Wonka wondered at the blurring. Yes, Mina had said yes, but no, the plan, as he'd hoped it would, hadn't panned out. Dr. Wonka lifted a hand to his eyes, rubbing his temples. Where these stones were taking him pressed upon his spirit, the weight of them growing with every step. Where they were taking him… Dr. Wonka's head ached. His hand dropped, finding sanctuary in his coat. This couldn't be real. The Boy didn't know. But in the back of Dr. Wonka's memory, a pale light flashed.

The brush he'd tarred the Florist shop with, had tarred Mina as well, and that wasn't all. His marrying her, as he'd thought it would, hadn't undone the damage. Damage he'd inflicted. On all of them: on Mina; on the people she worked with; on the people he called his friends… his friends. Among other people's, it was his friends' events he'd ruined. They didn't know the half of it, but they knew enough. They knew he was the one who'd recommended the shop. The one who'd sung its praises. Blast 'em all to hell, in the end, the small-minded, petty little spoil-sports blamed HIM along with the shop! Abominable! His hands shook beneath the fabric covering them, his jaw like rebar. He hadn't considered that result.

There was more abomination. He and Mina married, but not in the way he wanted. They married in the way she wanted: Quietly, at his house; after dark, as if she were ashamed. In a civil ceremony, no less, attended by almost no one. A scowl twisted his features. Those had been Mina's conditions, and try as he might, she hadn't wavered from a one of them. The rebar in his jaw descended through his neck, reaching his shoulders.

Her stubbornness over the matter should have tipped him off that Mina wasn't going to be the pliable waif he'd imagined she'd be, but it hadn't. In the merit of her argument, he'd missed that nuance. After causing so much disappointment, to so many others, on the occasions of their occasions, she'd insisted it would be obscene for her to take part in the large ceremony—with all the frills—that Dr. Wonka wanted. For the occasions of those disasters that she didn't understand, she must make amends. She must keep the occasion of her marriage austere.

Deep in soft pockets, Dr. Wonka's fingers clenched against his palms. It didn't help that she'd been right. Her forbearance, and by association, his, was noted, and eventually given credit. But not enough, and not right away. Dr. Wonka had hoped, by marrying Mina, to kill two birds with one stone. She never had bitten on the idea of becoming his dental assistant, and he wanted those teeth. The marriage plan had seemed like such a brilliant fall back. For years, Dr. Wonka had enjoyed the enviable niche of the 'eligible bachelor'. That standing had provided him a steady stream of invitations. Professional; cultured; well-situated, he was that certain someone for the singles, or otherwise unescorted, no hostess could be without. One day, without a warning, it all changed. He crossed a line. Past his prime, the niche no longer fit. He became an aging iceberg, amongst a sea of marrieds. The invitations melted away. The solution was simple, if chilling. Becoming one of the marrieds would restore the flow. Unthinkable, before he met Mina, but having met her, the unthinkable became an option. Who better than Mina, with her lovely teeth, to fill the bill?

Yes, the plan that begat Operation Wilt-the-Flowers had worked, but not without its own flaws. The invitations were slow to return. His circle couldn't fathom his choice: this Mina person was beneath him… and them. She was a tradesperson, incompetent at that, and one of the leading culprits in their disappointments. Knowing better, Dr. Wonka resolved to wait out their vitriol, and as time went by, he told himself that if that never happened, he didn't care. He told himself owning the teeth were what was important, and he had them now. But this fix, of his own making or not, left him with a lot of unoccupied time on his hands. That rankled. Mina had noticed, and made a suggestion.

'You will begin some research, Wilbur? Yes?'

The newspaper he'd been reading slapped the table.

'Did you say something?'

Mina was buttering a piece of toast, her eye on the pot of jam beside her plate. With arched brow, Dr. Wonka leaned across the table, his hand sweeping the jam out of her reach.

'There'll be no jam. It might hurt your teeth.'

'Wilbur, you are jok—'

'There'll be no jam.

Lifting the newspaper back to his face, his tone put an end to it. The silence that followed was thicker than the jam. It felt wrong. It felt defiant. He'd gone too far, too fast. Increments were what was needed; infinitesimal increments. Dr. Wonka lowered his paper.

'I'm sorry. What sort of research do you suggest, Mrs. Wonka?'

Minty colored. That name should sound right, but it didn't. For one thing, being Mrs. Wonka shouldn't mean giving up her jam. Its yummy flavor aside, as thin as she was, she needed the calories. But Wilbur sounded so pleasant now, and it would be so nice if things were pleasant, and the jam was really only a small thing… her wrist limp, the toast dangling from her fingers, Minty sighed. Couldn't he come up with his own research ideas? What did she know about dentistry? There was his mention of her teeth. They were strong—no match for jam—and straight. So many people's weren't… but braces, to fix them... they were so obtrusive.

'I thought you didn't hear me.'

'I heard you.'

Minty slumped. Wilbur could be so grumpy. It was a new side of him; an after-marriage side. Straightening again, she wouldn't let him spoil her day.

'Perhaps you can make braces that can't be seen? So the children who need them are not called names? I would not like 'metal mouth' to fix my teeth, if I were a child. What do you think?'

'If you knew anything, my dear, you'd know what a preposterous—' Dr. Wonka froze in his own annoyance, cutting himself off. It was an excellent idea! It would bring him a whole new segment of the trade! He could charge an arm and a leg! He grinned. He could charge a jaw.

'My dear, you are so right! Why didn't I think of that?' Moving as he thought, Dr. Wonka buried his chin in his chest. At the time, it had seemed like such a good idea.

As they had before it all came apart, he and Mina made a good team. Using the latest materials, he was wildly inventive, impressing Mina with his zeal. It was such a helpful thing for him to want to do. As well as his research went, Mina encouraged him to publish his findings. He did.

Minty threw herself into restoring their good name. Her volunteer work was tireless, her good humor and optimism contagious. The attention to detail that was her hallmark, introduced doubt. There were whispers that in the matter of the flowers, she may have been wronged. But why? And by whom? As charming and vivacious as her colleagues found her to be, it was a mystery that gained her sympathy.

Beyond that, in Dr. Wonka's eyes, Mina shone. Her unfailing cheerfulness made his life rich. Looking for the smile that lent him the perspective on life he'd never have found for himself, Dr. Wonka came to rely on her. Contrary to anything he could have imagined, he discovered that felt good; wonderfully good. He began not to think of the others, or their doings. Mina became his prized possession. No, she was more than that: she became a living, breathing, extension of himself. Remembering, the rebar dissolved, and Dr. Wonka shared a smile with the earth and stones beneath his feet. That year of living happily! By the time the invitations began to re-appear, like toadstools after a soaking rain, he truly hadn't cared. That is, he hadn't cared about most of them.

The year had ended with an invitation Dr. Wonka had no desire to refuse. Mina's suggestion that he publish more than paid off. His pioneering work in low profile brace-making had landed him the keynote speaker honors at the National Dental Association Annual Meeting. Naturally, it was his spotlight, but rather than be without her—how could he leave himself behind?—he must take Mina with him.

He did take her. At the time, it had seemed like such a good idea. For her benefit, of course. To underscore how lucky she was to have him. Dr. Wonka sometimes wondered if she appreciated that as much as she should. Her other condition had been separate bedrooms. A surprise coming from her, but one he'd welcomed. His own space suited him—it was only the poor who huddled together in bed—and separate bedrooms were a time-honored tradition in the best of families. Later he found it irked him as much as it suited him. Separating each night in the hall, sometimes—nasty surprise—finding himself not wanting to, pointed up what an arrangement it all was. Mina wasn't supposed to know that. But between that civil ceremony—no God invited to look in on that shindig—and those bedrooms, he couldn't shake that she did know. Couldn't shake that she might be using him.

That galled. Using was for him, not her. Flushed with pride—and more than a little single malt scotch—late on the night he'd given his speech, and for only the second time in their marriage—he'd insisted on consummation—he'd shown her what's what. Not as beyond that particular form of gymnastics as he'd thought, he'd insisted Mina discharge her wifely duties, while he discharged his. It was only right; she was his, to do with as he pleased… though that ceremony again… there was no 'obey' in that civil litany. To his fuzzy astonishment, freshly bathed and scented, with a warm smile and soft kiss, she'd welcomed him with open arms.

Open arms. Like the cultivated earth of this garden had been, under Mina's hands, ready to receive the seeds she gave it. That night… This garden… Another night. Unbidden, tears welled. Dr. Wonka glanced about, feeling eyes upon him. There were none. Mina had been right about the separate bedrooms, and he'd have done better to leave her at home. He hadn't, and The Boy had stolen her from him. It was unforgivable. The eyes were still upon him. The hairs at the back of his neck were telling him so, but Dr. Wonka knew he wouldn't find them beside him, nor behind him, nor even above him. It was dawning on him what these stones were all about. They were about The Boy, curse him! Awake, when he should have been asleep; meddling, where he wasn't wanted.

Blinking away the tears too feeble to fall, with the back of his hand, Dr. Wonka daubed away a straggler. This was why he hadn't stayed. This mawkish emotion, beyond his control, creeping over him at inconvenient moments. It was why he'd moved his house. Why he'd started the process soon afterward. Acid, eating away brick. The smell masked by lilies. A houseful of them! Dr. Wonka didn't want to leave. He used to tell himself he'd win The Boy over, wrest him away from her, and it would make all the difference. He could stay. Believing that, he'd stretched the process out over years. It hadn't worked. As well as the brainwashing had gone at first, he'd lost out to a force less worthy than Mina's undermining influence: Candy. Candy! His jaw clenched. His tears dried like rain in the Sahara. Grinding together, he heard his teeth squeak. Confound that runt for causing him harm! Even when he isn't here!

'Oh, but he is here,' a voice whispered in his mind. A lilting voice, he never would forget. 'This arrangement is his.'

"Really, dear? So you think you have me, do you?" Dr. Wonka said to no one, his heart hardening. "I think I had the last laugh. But you have a point. Let's see if he got it right, shall we? Why not? I'm not afraid."

Ignoring the patterns, Dr. Wonka picked up his pace, and went to where these stones should lead. He chuckled when he got there.

"You see, dear? Stupid boy. There's nothing."

A minute later, his chuckle died in his throat. The stone he thought he wouldn't find was set at an angle, not far from where he was standing. Aghast, Dr. Wonka went to it. It wasn't the center of the design—not even close—but unlike any of the other shapes, this oblong stone, as smooth as the others, was clearly its focus. The location was key: near the edge, but still inside, what had once been Mina's vegetable garden. His face a blank, Dr. Wonka turned back to look towards a not so distant space, considering how once a certain window had occupied that space. A certain window, looking down upon this very spot. Where this particular stone was set was not right, but it was damn close. Parallax might account for the error.

As Dr. Wonka squinted, the crows' feet at the corners of his eyes pinched white. That pale flash, in that upper-story window. For all these years, he'd thought it was the rays of the moon, catching on the glass. He understood now there was another explanation. The Boy's pasty face, being hastily withdrawn. It made him shiver. It couldn't be… but it must be. He could hear The Boy laughing in his ear.

'Bet ya know now why I wanted the place, don'tcha?'

That slang!

'I'll wash your mouth out with soap!'

Rollicking laughter split his skull.

'Can't, Papa dear! The bar would never fit! Your braces are in the way!'

He heard Mina's silvery voice joining The Boy's.

'The last laugh's on you, mon chéri!'

In his head, or at his feet, Dr. Wonka couldn't tell anymore. Their laughter was all around him. He retreated to where the toolshed had stood, not knowing that as he did, he disappeared from the screen in Dr. Grant's study. The retreat did no good. His breath coming in ragged gasps, Mina and Willy's mirth combined against him. Against him, as they always were, with their bright little smiles, and silly games.

Dr. Wonka could stand it no more. With his palms pressed against his ears, his fingers curled in his hair, he ran to the sidewalk, to the street, stumbling, lurching, over the frozen ground. On the sidewalk, he struggled to get his bearings. It must look bad. The driver was out of his limo, one hand splayed across its roof, the other on the frame of the door, poised to sprint to his aid.

"Are you all right, sir?"

Panting, his arm across his middle, Dr. Wonka struggled to catch his breath. Struggled to stifle the voices. The driver's concern wasn't welcome, but it was sobering. Dr. Wonka managed to stand upright, to slow his breathing.

"I'm fine," he barked, the anger warming the blood in his veins. He caught sight of the Grants' townhouse. Good old, snooty, Dr. Oral-Surgeon-family-dentistry's-too-good-for-me Grant, the man who never missed a National meeting in his life. Dr. Wonka would go there. Find out what the old coot knew. "Bring the car, and meet me at number 916. I'll walk."

The normalcy of his voice frightened Dr. Wonka, but maybe something else was frightening him. Maybe it was that he'd been spared blackmail all these years, or worse, prison, by people who could have skewered him. He'd certainly have skewered them. Was he supposed to be grateful? Whatever they thought he was supposed to be, Dr. Wonka knew one thing. He had to get away from this from this Lot. From this place… Away from the most elaborate gravestone he'd ever seen.


Thank you reviewers, for taking the time to comment. Your perspectives make my day. And thank you readers. I do not own Charlie and the Chocolate Factory in any of its many forms, and there is no copyright infringement intended.

Guest: Thank you. If true, it would be sad, but Minty's assessment of her capabilities may have been premature. Squirrela: It is interesting to see how people think of themselves, reflected in what they call themselves. They say, "What's in a name?", but I think more than meets the eye. Along those lines, the musical makes the point that you never really know who's standing next to you. I guess whether that's a good thing, or a bad thing, could go either way. Thank you. Ifwecansparkle: Thanks for all your comments, your descriptions are most welcome. 'The Addams Family' not withstanding, thanks particularly for your kind remarks regarding closing lines, and Terence. I'm flattered. dionne dance: Fear not, I don't think I could take that either! I've the creeps just thinking about it. As far as Wilbur and Minty go, I think Wilbur is one of those, "What have you done for me lately?" types. Thank you.