The Factory… it was wonderful. Splendid in its mantle of blue light, it was like a beacon on a hill, and it was on a hill, making it more wonderful still. So why was his hand so hesitant to press the button that would take them back there? Charlie was already noticing the hold-up; his head was swinging this way, a question was coming… The tip of Willy's index finger pushed the button. It was easier than coming up with an answer explaining what was inexplicable to him.
Getting across town is no trick for a conveyance capable of taming Space, and in a thrice they were there, and there, the question was, again, where to put the Elevator. It had Charlie in it, and no George. George was handy, dallying as he was in the courtyard. So, land in the courtyard, fix the George issue, and off to Georgina? Nah, they'd be walking the last of the way anyway; Georgina would never be the wiser as to how George had been delivered. Unless Pops spilled the beans about not arriving via Charlie's chosen steed… which he would. But George wasn't the only lolly-gagger. The parens with their trucks were standing with him. Why the deuce were they still here? There was house to move; shouldn't they be at it? And where was Terence? All three of the relateds were gawping at him as if they'd had lobotomies in the interval. That decided it. Willy touched down on the top of a Wonka truck parked in an alcove across the yard. Let Charlie lend them his brain.
"Can you scoot down from here? Not off the side, obviously." Wavy hand motions made plain the route Willy intended, down the front of the truck. Charlie's eyes held the question—it was an odd place to park—and as obvious as it was, Willy didn't want Charlie to have to ask it. So he explained himself without the question. "No need for me to get caught up with your crowd at the moment. If Terence is finishing by morning, I'd best get cracking with my end. You beat feet for them, while I stash the Elevator."
The 'ding' of the opening doors forestalled discussion. Willy shooed with his hands, and Charlie left the Elevator. This wasn't how Charlie imagined this would go, but he'd better go. His mother was waiting for him. The top of the truck was surprisingly stable. Charlie moved to the windscreen, sliding down the glass on his butt. That was fun, and Charlie laughed. He turned to see Willy, clutching his walking-stick, but with a big grin on his face, laughing as well. Rolling back onto his feet, Charlie stood on the bonnet, facing Willy.
"Are you coming to dinner?"
"Heh... No," said Willy, his finger stabbing the button that would shut the doors. "Something in the Factory needs my attention."
"Okay, then," said Charlie. But he didn't like the sound of that. That sounded like it would be true any time, day or night. Hiding his disappointment, Charlie dropped back down on his butt, finding the front bumper with his feet. Once he was safely on that, it was an easy jump to the ground. Charlie raced across the yard to his parents, and when he was safely in his mother's embrace, the Elevator rose into the darkened sky, only to quickly disappear down the tall, central cooling stack.
Leaning against his mother, Charlie turned and watched, his lips pursed into a frown. His mother squeezed his shoulders.
"Let him go, Charlie. It'll save us having to tell him the bad news now."
"What bad news?"
Charlie looked at each of them, waiting for an answer. Silent for once, Grandpa George turned away.
Humming to himself, Willy ditched the racy version, and took the Factory's usual Elevator to Deception… er, Reception. Clearing the door, he shrugged off his greatcoat, letting it fall to the carpet as he walked. His walking-stick joined it on the floor a step later, even as his other hand reached for the top hat on his head. Desk chair pulled out, that item was soon off, and turned upside down on the edge of the desk.
Still humming, Willy sat, pulling out the desk's spacious central drawer. From it, he removed a few wide pages of graph paper, returning all but the bottom sheet to the drawer. The top sheets were versions of the Bucket house he and Charlie had been working on together, but there was no time now to let those versions morph into the version that had been finished, and in this drawer, before even a shingle of the Bucket house had been dismantled.
Spreading it out before him, studying it, Willy sighed contently. It was a glorious design, with all the necessary improvements… extra space, more rooms… it was perfect he purred to himself, simply perfect. Sweet as could be, it was another masterpiece from the master… and then the master stopped, and frowned, and thought of the suite. The suite the Buckets were in now. The one with all the extra space, and more rooms... and what had they done with it? Turned it into a version of their little house. And where were the grandparents? In their imported bed—all of them—in the center of the living room.
Willy closed his eyes, spreading his hands flat across the sheet of paper. They didn't want this. They wanted what they had. Charlie had gone along with the changes he'd suggested, but what had Charlie really been saying? 'You don't have to do that…' 'Don't go to all this trouble on our account…' 'If you want to, I guess…'
Yup, that's what Charlie had been saying, politely, but maybe not politely; maybe Charlie had been saying the truth, what they really wanted, and he, Willy, had been ignoring him. Ignoring Charlie the way his Pater had ignored him.
'Maybe I'm not allergic. I could try a piece.'
'Really? But why take a chance?'
A shiver ran through him. He saw the flames leap higher, thrilled to consume the candy he wasn't allowed. Banishing the vision, Willy's eyes snapped open. Why was he imposing his will on these people? They liked their house the way it was. The rickety oldsters liked being in one bed. Maybe the energy they shared there kept them alive. Maybe if they were off by themselves, the isolation would kill them. That would be bad. And the opposite of what would kill him. But best let them decide for themselves. They knew what was available in the Factory now. His fingers drummed absently on the paper. Let them…
Let them all go to Hades. Sorting them was more than he'd signed up for. Sorting them was Terence's job. Except for Charlie. If Terence wasn't going to be here, let them sort themselves… And knowing that would never work, Willy hit a wall. It was an invisible wall, but nonetheless, it was a wall. A wall of having to deal with these people he couldn't see beyond, and not being able to see beyond it, he didn't want to see any more; didn't want to deal with it any more; didn't want to plan any more; didn't want to anticipate any more. Didn't want to… He just… wanted… to go… to sleep.
That couch against the wall was looking mighty inviting. He could head for one of his bedrooms, but he didn't have the energy. He was beginning to wonder if he had the juice to make it to the couch. With an act of will, he put the plans he'd removed back into the drawer. There was only one change he'd make to that house he decided, and he didn't need these plans for that. The change was taking shape in the Inventing Room, Charlie's idea, unbeknownst to Charlie, and almost finished.
The couch was calling. Willy got up. There was no blanket. He wasn't cold, but when you fell asleep, it was always cold without a blanket. He retrieved his greatcoat from where he'd dropped it. This would work. It wouldn't work to wrinkle his frock coat. He took that off, letting it drape itself flat on the carpet. Stretching onto it, fluffing the greatcoat into place, the couch was as comfy as it looked, and plenty long enough. Sighing, Willy closed his eyes, drawing the collar up around his throat. Just a few minutes nap, and he'd be right back up. Just a few minutes…
"You! You came in with him. Are you family? They'll need to get this man to surgery in a few minutes."
Felix could only open and close his mouth, like a bitty goldfish, asking for food. Dr. Wonka lay on a gurney, the locus of a hub of medical activity that would have made a swarm of locusts proud. But being unconscious, he didn't appreciate any of it.
"Don't make me ask you again," snapped the elderly hospital clerk, out of patience and time. "Are you a family member?"
The clerk, hovering on the periphery with Felix, was holding a clipboard on which a sheaf of those endless pieces of paper hospitals think are more important then treatment were clipped.
"Will he die if I'm not?"
Curiosity was getting the better of Felix. There were people and equipment everywhere. Requests for drugs and dosages and procedures were flying about his ears. It was hard to hear what this clerk next to him was saying over the hubbub, but he could if he concentrated. It seemed strange Dr. Wonka's life hung on a family member's signature. Mr. Grey Hair here had said that was who he was back at the shack tear-down. When he'd asked where he could find Terry… uh, Terence. That confusion had lasted a minute. When it cleared, Felix had told him about Terry's shop. And laughed at the man's preference for his high-flalutin' name. Terry was better.
The clipboard hit the clerk's thigh with a slap as he dropped his arm with exasperation. "Of course not, you twit, the man is unconscious, this is an emergency, but you came in with him, if you're family, you can sign. Everything will be in order—"
Scowling, Felix took a step back, the twit reference rankling.
"You mean the hospital will be off the hook if you kill him—"
The clerk, raising the clipboard and offering it to Felix, hoping he'd get the hint, cut him off. "Are you family, or not? Because if you're not, you can't be here."
Realization spread across Felix's face like the fanning of a peacock's tail, but too late.
"I'm guessing not," sang out an orderly. "Here's the patient's wallet, and the card in here says he's Dr. Wilbur Wonka."
Tsk, thought the clerk. How many Wonkas are there in this town? The greasy-haired fellow standing next to him wasn't old enough to be Willy. The clipboard was withdrawn.
"I'm a close personal friend," piped up Felix, feeling his importance on the wane.
"Forget it. I'll call Willy Wonka and find out what the relationship is, if any."
An intern working with an IV spoke before she could stop herself. "You can do that?"
The clerk looked defeated. "I could if I had a number."
"This man is that asshol— er, person's father," said Felix. At least that's what he'd claimed. Back at the dump. When he'd left in his limo, Felix had followed on foot. It occurred to him, watching the ass end of that car disappear up the hill, if that man were that shit Willy Wonka's father, what a story that would make! Who even knew Wonka had a father? Alive, that is. And now it looked like that wasn't gonna last, either.
"Dooon't…"
The word was a low moan, drawn out, but intelligible. All heads turned to the prone form on the gurney. He'd dragged the oxygen mask away from his mouth and nose, his eyelids fluttering as he struggled to speak.
"Doon't… call him. I can sign…"
Pushing an aide aside, the clerk leapt to Dr. Wonka's side, clipboard in hand, pen at the ready. Groping, Dr. Wonka took the pen, making a shaky line that would suffice for his name. The pen falling from his hand, he lapsed back into unconsciousness.
A nurse hurried down the hall. "The surgery is ready, doctor," she called.
"Then let's get Dr. Wonka to it," snapped the doctor, barely keeping his disgust with the paperwork process in check.
Spry, the clerk jumped out of the way before he was trampled in the rush of gurney, people, oxygen and IV paraphernalia. He knew how the doctor felt. It disgusted him too, but greed, a few incompetents, and the legal profession made cover-your-ass an integral part of the landscape. The fellow who had come in with Dr. Wonka was fixing to follow the group down the hall. The clerk held up his hand, barring the way.
"That's as far as you go, I'm afraid." But he tempered the denial by giving the lad a sympathetic smile. "If you care to, I'll show you where you can wait. I have no idea how long he'll be in surgery." They fell into step together, and the clerk had an idea. "You say you're a close personal friend? Of Dr. Wonka's? Do you know Willy Wonka?" The fellow hadn't sounded like he was a fan back there, but here was someone who might have a number for Willy Wonka, should it become necessary to get in touch with him.
"Um, yeah, er, yes, uh, I am."
Thinking of laughing, the clerk had to smile. It was not a very convincing performance. But the kid was sticking with it, and you had to admire that. "And your name is?"
"Um, Felix."
"Last name?"
"Uh, Ficklegruber."
And then the clerk did laugh. Because he'd lived in this town a long time, and he knew the stories. He knew them first-hand. And there was no way a Ficklegruber was a close personal friend of a Wonka.
Thank you readers, reviewers, and those who fav and/or follow. I do not own Charlie and the Chocolate Factory in any of its many forms, and there is no copyright infringement intended.
Yup, Squirrela, dionne dance, and linkwonka 88: Taking the time to review that you do means so much to a struggling writer. I struggle to find the words to say 'thank you', so, thank you.
