The gravestone before him was nothing fancy. It was as plain and simple as the fact of the loss it represented. Supported by the bench near it, Dr. Grant sat, his unfocused eyes softening its rounded edges further. He sat easily, with tilted head, hands atop his walking stick, at peace. The Snowdrops had done that. And Willy had come to see him today. Willy. Today. Always invited, always welcome… but, oh, dear me, never expected! His aged eyes brightened. Well, sometimes the unexpected does happen. Yes, siree, sometimes it does! Like finding you've won the Lottery, when you'd not remembered you'd bought a ticket. The crow's-feet at the corners of his eyes deepened, foretelling the smile that creased his lips. Like winning Willy's Golden Ticket Contest, when you'd thought you weren't eligible?
A happy 'harumph' followed on the smile's heels. He should have known, though. The townhouse they had once shared hadn't been Willy's first stop. No, siree, not hardly! When Dr. Grant had first arrived, he'd seen, placed across Cyn's grave, a bouquet of golden-centered, Icelandic white poppies. They indicated the true timeline. Stepping closer, Dr. Grant had understood Willy's reluctance to return; his turning down the offer they visit Cyn together. The flowers Dr. Grant found were as fresh as the surprise of Willy's visit. And that meant… Dr. Grant stooped, picking among the very real poppies, searching, removing the sugary Snowdrops tucked alongside. They'd be out-of-this-world tasting, and Willy wouldn't mind. He'd retired to the bench with his tender treasure, savoring the excruciating lightness of their delicacy, dissolving in a flood of flavour, almost before you knew they were on your tongue. His eyelids drifted lower, his face transfixed. Visits, maybe so, but when it came to candy, Willy didn't disappoint.
The Snowdrops dissolved, Dr. Grant sat there still, his thoughts subsiding to merely tracing the slice of condensation rising from Willy's central cooling tower. Curling above the skyline, it rose towards heaven. Where Cyn was, he fancied. Like the Snowdrops: lovely; delicate; dissolved. But the vapor was getting harder to see, even as the slice was expanding. The day was fading, and it was getting colder.
"Goodnight, Cyn dearest. I miss you."
Quiet answered. Sighing quietly back, wondering why he was still here, Sin rose. It was time to head home.
Dr. Wonka rapped the knocker to no answer. He rapped again. The silence echoing behind the door was eerie. As eerie, come to think of it, as this interfering couple ending up living on his block. They weren't from around here; they weren't returning to their roots. How had that happened? It was true he'd seen Grant at the Annual Meeting every year. It was true they knew of each other. That was unavoidable. But those two, moving here? That was as avoidable as it gets. Grant's practice was cutting edge, in the big city. Why leave that? Dr. Wonka shifted where he stood. Should he try and rouse the old coot again?
A scholarly type, Grant was forever presenting papers. Mostly, hoity-toity oral surgeon that he was, on jaw re-construction techniques. Car wrecks, cancers, birth defects, that kind of thing. They'd bored Dr. Wonka for the most part, though some of the do's and don'ts he'd later had occasion to find useful. His grin at the remembrance was fleeting. Though they had become nodding acquaintances—one did at these things; networking, you know—he'd never thought Grant liked him. That was fine. He didn't much care for Grant. He hadn't met the wife until they'd moved here—Grant never brought her with him—and once he had met her, Dr. Wonka wished he hadn't. She was some attorney or other… too busy to bother to attend her husband's events. The muscles at the base of Dr. Wonka's jaw tightened. At least the time he'd brought Mina along had shown Dr. Know-it-all Grant that his, Dr. Wonka's wife, knew where her place was. It was wherever he told her it was. Suddenly anxious, Dr. Wonka shot a furtive glance towards the hole in the line of houses on the other side of the street.
Not sure if he was shrugging his shoulders or shivering, Dr. Wonka turned back. The excuse the Grants had passed around town for leaving the bright lights and excitement of the city, was to semi-retire. The deadly dull of this town must not have suited them though, because not six months after moving here, they'd chucked the tedium of their new routine for the far more exciting thrill of ruining his plans! Years of careful work, thwarted! More precisely, that gawdawful wife had stepped in, sticking her nose where it wasn't wanted. Till then, she'd spent her time playing 'help the poor', an activity best served by charity galas and lip-service. She'd played poor too, walking to the bus stop each day, when Dr. Wonka knew she had a perfectly good car. Why? Sometimes he swore it was so she could get a glimpse of The Boy; maybe talk to him. She never had. Willy knew the rules better than that. Till the day he'd moved the house, that is. She'd talked to Willy that day, by God!
In the midst of his rising anger, Dr. Wonka suddenly felt the constrictions of anxiety gripping him again. Not remembering that day, but remembering the events of a week or so later: The day he tried to reclaim The Boy at the schoolyard. It had almost stopped his heart to find her, not The Boy, there. The Boy was with them? He'd half-listened to her ice-cold accusations… meaningless drivel, until she'd said: "I know where the bodies are buried, Dr. Wonka, so unless you want an abuse case paraded through the courts… and the press… stay away."
That choice of words… and the horror of his name, dragged through the mud! He'd done nothing wrong, she'd lose, but the chance! Courts were dicey. And the press? Odious. His throat dry, Dr. Wonka's mouth moved like a fish. Now, as then, he wasn't getting enough air. It was being sucked out of him. What was he doing here? Like that hole across the street, he must leave this place, these people … these sleeping dogs. These secrets, these failed schemes… the street was closing in on him. Dr. Wonka stumbled down the steps, steading himself with the handrail. His face pale, rivulets of sweat beaded his temples. His driver, seeing this relapse, was out of the car, opening the back passenger door, holding out a hand.
"Water," Dr. Wonka mumbled. "I must have water."
Dr. Wonka slid across the seat, the driver handing him the plastic bottle he'd taken from a recess in the door. Nervous eyes danced to the cap, and back up to the driver.
"Could you open that, please?" Anything to buy some time.
The driver untwisted the cap, handing the bottle back.
"Thank you." Dr. Wonka drank, his jumbled thoughts vying with each other for supremacy. He wasn't done yet. He could still win. Terry didn't know. He could go bully Terry. He should have done that in the first place. There'd been no reason to flee. The Boy wouldn't be there. It was outside his Factory. There was no chance of contact. The Trust was safe. It needed to be safe. Dr. Wonka needed the money, for same reason he'd been forced to sell The Boy the lot: a string of bad investments, made after The Boy had returned, putting Dr. Wonka's spies, the source of his grand, ill-gotten income, out of business. Dentistry didn't pay a quarter so well. But he still longed to know what The Boy was planning; he needed to know. He needed to prevail. Terry would tell him. Dr. Wonka decided.
"Take me back to the hovel," he snapped.
"Of course, sir."
The right words, but bitten off.
"Please." Dr. Wonka said the word as if he'd meant to say it all along. As distraught as he'd been, normalcy was a requirement now. Deviant behavior in children and the elderly resulted in unwanted interventions. He couldn't have that, now, could he?
The driver swung into his place behind the wheel, thankful his cantankerous client looked less like he was about to expire, and more like the man-in-control he'd picked up. Lowering his foot to the gas pedal, the car pulled smoothly away.
As it did, Dr. Grant rounded the corner. Like Willy's plume in miniature, rising threads of condensation caught his eye: the exhaust of an accelerating car.
"Well, I'll be! I say, Cyn, looky there. A limousine! Pulling away from our curb! Is Willy sending in his new friends as reinforcements?" Grinning at the thought, with a cheery wave, and a quickening of his pace, Dr. Grant tried in vain to attract the attention of the receding car. "Too far," he said, as he gave up. "Oh, dear! I say, though, they'll be back if it's important."
With a resigned shrug, Dr. Grant closed the gap to his stoop. As he reached his door, the car disappeared around the corner at the end of the block. His key hovering in his hand, Dr. Grant looked after it, the street now quiet.
"I wonder who that was?"
"I wonder which way we should go?"
Terence and Charlie had reached the end of the utility tunnel, Charlie still holding Terence's hand. The corridor they found themselves in was empty, and where they emerged, it curved in either direction, which limited the view.
"Let's be quiet, and see."
"Do you mean hear?"
Terence glanced down at Charlie. Was he pulling his leg? Nope, the face turned up at him was as sincere as they come.
"You and Willy are going to get on famously, Charlie. D'ya know that? Yes, I do mean hear, but by hearing, we'll see."
Charlie nodded. They were quiet, and heard nothing. It was time to feel the air. Willy couldn't be far; he'd know the curving would make for an adventure in choosing the correct direction, but where Willy wanted them must be nearby, or he'd have waited. With a shake of his head, Terence tightened a corner of his mouth. Knowing Willy, he'd have stationed a kick-line of Oompa-Loompas, waiting to turn them back if they went the wrong way. A kick-line of laughing Oompa-Loompas, ready to give them a swift kick in the drawers for their error. It had that feel about it. The truth was, sensing people in both directions, Terence couldn't tell.
"Charlie, what say you, we handle this the way Willy would?" Without waiting for an answer, Terence began chanting, as loudly as he could, "Eeny meeny miney moe…"
"The left's the right way to go…"
At the sound of that flutey, sing-song voice, Charlie's grin was ear-to-ear.
"And there you have it. Left it is."
One curve and a few short paces later, they found Willy ensconced on the floor, signing rapidly to Eshle, who was signing as rapidly back. His voice had sounded fine, but Willy was paler than ever, and if anything, Eshle's face was flushed. Deadpan, Terence quirked a brow.
"Signing as fast as you both are, and at almost the same time, can you understand each other?"
Terence expected they'd ignore him, and except for a muttered, "Way to go, ya got here," from Willy, they did. Whatever the signing session was about was upsetting Willy, and angering Eshle. Terence hated not knowing what they were saying. For not the first time, Terence cursed not knowing this language. Ahlia stood to one side, shaking her head when Willy signed, nodding at her father's answers, all the while with Willy's greatcoat draped across her arms, swallowing her up. Whatever they were saying had her in a state of disbelieving wonder, as if she'd never considered ever what they were talking about, but whatever her opinion on the subject was, she knew better than to interrupt. Terence thought he'd do that again.
"Okay then, d'ya ever worry about carpel tunnel syndrome setting in, blathering along like that?"
Willy and Eshle turned as one, their expressions blank. What did those sounds mean? They went back to their signing, but soon finished. That is to say, Willy, his face reflective and unconvinced, stopped signing. Eshle, noting this, decided to try a different tack. He turned to face Charlie.
"Willy is distraught—"
"I am not distraught!"
Eshle's glance back at the speaker was as pointed as it was brief. There wasn't a soul seeing him who believed him.
"—Distraught, because he thinks that because we work for him, and only for him, and only in this Factory, his Factory, and no where else, that we think we are his slaves. Pure and simple, Master Bucket, we are not his slaves. We are not anyone's slaves. We are here because here is where we want to be, on account of our own free will. But if you hear anyone insist that we are slaves, you can tell them from me that it's not to Willy. Cacao beans maybe, we do adore those things, but Willy didn't buy us, he doesn't sell us, and he doesn't own us."
Charlie's embarrassment turned his face a shade of ripe strawberry. "I didn't mean to say…"
This, thought Terence, is as good a time as any to air this subject. Charlie's having brought it up has clearly shaken Willy, but Charlie did nothing wrong, and he shouldn't feel as though he had. Terence went ahead with the elephant-in-the-room question.
"Aha! That's what you say, but of your own free will, can you leave?"
"Any time."
Ignored by all, a timidly curved finger raised itself ceiling-ward, as if to point. It was as timidly withdrawn, the accompanying, "Not exactly…" smothered by the ongoing conversation.
"But you don't."
"But we have."
Willy's eyes widened to the size of dinner plates, with Eshle keenly aware of the change.
"You didn't know?"
Shaking his head, Willy's face registered hurt, then doubt.
"There's always a few malcontents. It's not your fault. They all came back."
Willy tilted his chin, not trusting his voice. Eshle elaborated.
"Except to go back to Loompaland, no one's left for years." Eshle placed a finger on Willy's knee, as quickly withdrawing it. "I know you know about those."
Willy minded the finger more than he minded thinking about the Oompa-Loompas who don't want to stay. No doubt why Eshle did it. Different strokes for different folks, but Willy did tend to take the wanting to leave personally: as if he'd failed them in some way. Willy tried to shake it off, but with regret, he nodded to Terence and Charlie.
"I do know. I take them. Anyone who wants to go."
"There aren't many," chimed in Eshle.
"Not many," agreed Willy, with a glance, "but a few. I go twice a year, less or more. There are flavors to be had in Loompaland, with Whangdoodle blood not being one of them." Longing to hear a reassuring squeak from his gloves, Willy flexed his fingers, interlacing them, his thumb tracing back and forth across his palm, but the pale gloves spun of spider-silk he wore were silent. He reached for his walking-stick instead, cradled across his lap, and finished his thought. "My candy is safe from that putrid, slimy, shiny, sickening, purple glop, let me assure you." Tilting his head, Willy paused. "The green caterpillars aren't that hot either… No offense."
"None taken."
But having settled again, Willy was elsewhere—probably taking a mental inventory of Loompaland flavors, including how much of each he has on hand—and Eshle waited. Charlie shivered. Willy frowned, making a mental note to be more careful about what he says out loud. Hey! Glop is close to Gloop! Like the stuff that came out of Augustus, when the Oompa-Loompas made him thinner!
Seeing Willy's face lighten for some reason, Eshle spoke, needing, now that this was out, to explain.
"Willy."
A pause. A long pause. The benefit of the doubt felt like the way to go.
"Eshle."
"It happened when we first arrived. There were some who thought that if your Factory were a good place to be, some other place, out beyond it, might be better."
"The Swudge is always greener," offered Terence dryly.
Willy felt like he was floating. 'The Swudge is always greener'… did Terence just say that? 'The green, green Swudge of home'… This was home… How could anyone, seeing this place, living in this place, think any place else was better? Today had been a long day, and it wasn't over. The endorphins associated with exhaustion came roaring over him, and suddenly, everything was funny. Swudge was funny, home was funny, green was funny, Terence's flat delivery was funny, it was all just too, too funny. Careful not to disturb his hat, Willy leaned forward, laughing, holding his hand across his forehead. Terence dropped down next to him.
"You okay?"
"Yes," said Willy, looking over at him and smiling. "The green, green Swudge of home."
Charlie moved to join Ahlia.
"They were wrong," Eshle started, yet again. "But a few had to see for themselves—"
"Ya know," said Willy, getting a grip on his laughter, "when the Oompa-Loompas first arrived, this place didn't look like this. It looked kinda drab compared to now… I hadn't even invented Swudge yet. Maybe I'd a wanted to leave too, if I didn't know what my plans for how the Factory was gonna look were—"
Terence held out a hand. "As gripping as that may be, Eshle was saying…"
Eshle continued.
"For one thing, they discovered the weather's the worst out there. For another, they discovered the people aren't much nicer. If they're not laughing and pointing at the midgets… their word—
"Better than 'freaks'," piped up Willy, remembering Mike Teavee's assessment.
"—who they have no intention of hiring, by the way," agreed Eshle, nodding, "they're thinking we're runaway children, and turning us over to the authorities—"
"Us? The authorities!" That had Willy's attention. "Did you go?"
"You know I didn't, I'd never have kept that from you, but I dealt with the ones who got caught at the time, and I heard all about it. They begged me not to tell you. You had your hands full with your plans, and I didn't want the lapses of these adventurers to ruin the opportunity for the rest of us."
"Huh." Willy steepled his hands, resting his index fingers on his upper lip. "'Kay, I think."
"Which authorities?"
"Child Services. Specifically, our adventurers discovered that escaping Child Services is tiresome and difficult."
"Yeah," said Willy, his eyes round, amethyst reflectors, reflecting on a fate he'd narrowly escaped himself. "That crowd! They say they mean well, and maybe they do, but I coulda told your crowd they wouldn't enjoy that."
"But they did escape—"
"Not surprising. They escaped Loompaland… No offense."
"None taken… and they got back, and no one's ever left for the other side of this Factory's walls again."
"The cautionary tale is that good a deterrent?"
Disheartened, Willy's ''kay, I think' preying on his mind, Eshle spoke with dejection.
"No, Terence, it's not. We don't tell it. Which is why Willy hasn't heard it. I'm sorry, Willy. I should have told you at the time. But we didn't know each other very well then, and you'd already had people do bad things behind your back. I didn't want this to end before it began. To live with myself, I told myself that you did know, and that you were looking the other way. Can you forgive me? Can you forgive us? If it helps, what we discovered was, it's not about what's bad on the outside. It's about what's good on the inside. We love living here."
"That's nice," said Willy, his voice dreamy. He'd drawn up his knees, with his arms wrapped around them, his walking-stick dangling from a listless hand. There was a permanence to the pose that made Terence question the future.
"So Willy."
He stirred.
"So Terence."
"Do you still have an interest in seeing the other side of this Factory's walls this evening?"
"No," Willy answered, in that still dreamy state. "I agree with Eshle."
But before Charlie could begin to feel the disappointment he'd then have to hide, Willy was on his feet, his eyes sparkling with anticipation.
"But Charlie is in charge of this foray… I'm just the transportation. Lead on, my dear Charlie, lead on. And anyway," with a knowing grin, Willy gave Charlie a tap on the shoulder so Charlie would know he didn't mean it, "aside from Charlie's crotchety Grandpa George, who or what could be out there to spoil our fun?"
Rising, Terence took Willy's greatcoat from Ahlia's arms, her fingers reluctant to leave the warmth of its folds.
"Then time's a wasting, Willy," said Terence, handing Willy his coat. "Lead us to your promised steed."
"That way," said Willy, draping his coat over his arm, and waggling his fingers as if he hadn't a care in the world. "Ahlia will show you. To Elevator Maintenance, Ahlia, as fast as lightening. Eshle and I will catch up."
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. If you'd care to, please fav, follow, review. RevolutionRoulette, Guest (who writes remarkably like Squirrela), and Linkwonka88, thank you, thank you, for your reviews.
