Willy hadn't gone far. He'd just wanted some perspective, and Buckets ruing buckets of unspoken thanks he'd rather not hear notwithstanding, Willy knew just the place to get it: the ledge at the lip of the chocolate fall.
Surprise! Leaving with the other Oompa-Loompas, Eshle and Doris were there ahead of him, each with a hand on the arm of the tour's welcome song's chair-throne. Willy's shoulders slumped. He stared at the red velvet, with its gold embellishments, his eyes narrowing. The fire had spared that? More's the pity. Willy wasn't looking for any prizes tonight, 'sur' or otherwise, and a fleeting wrinkling of his nose and downturn of his mouth told the tale. Undaunted, his marshals flanked the glitzy fabrication like footmen. Except Doris wasn't a man.
"I'm this predictable?" sighed Willy, when the silence threatened to stretch into next week. His walking-stick dangled from his hand at a forlorn angle. He'd managed to skip sitting in that chair, made by his friends, on that day, and Willy wished to skip it now. He spent considerable energy convincing people he wasn't fit for handling responsibility—a fact belied by the Factory itself—but for the most part, the effort paid off for him brilliantly: the Oompa-Loompas took care of nearly everything. They'd grown into it over the years, even as he'd grown out of it, and by now, the paradigm was old-hat for all involved. This chair upset that apple cart. It screamed the opposite. Everything about it—its wood, its velvet, its gold leaf—screamed what it screamed on the day of the tour: "This is a castle, and you're the king!" It might be so, but did they have to remind him? Willy hated screaming. Hell's bells; he wasn't fond of raised voices.
"We know you don't like crowds," began Doris.
"It's a very small house—" took up Eshle.
"—With very large Buckets filling it," cut in Doris.
"But we know you wouldn't want to miss anything," persisted Eshle.
"But not be underfoot," agreed Doris.
That was true. What if there were some problem with the house? With one of them? Hovering like an old granny, no offense, while they sorted themselves out, was out. What if they found they didn't like the sustained smell of chocolate? For that matter, of candy? Would they have the sense to close the windows? The windows were made of ballistic glass, and that would squelch the smells, and the noises, and any other darn thing, except the light. There were curtains for that, but they were obvious. So were the air conditioning controls. They didn't have to be as warm as was the Chocolate Room, if that wasn't what they wanted.
"We thought," said Eshle, "what better vantage point could there be? The Great Glass Elevator won't do."
That too, was true. Willy shrugged. He was predictable.
Doris and Eshle exchanged a glance.
"We thought," began Doris, trying to cut the somberness, "since you didn't sit in the chair that we made for you on the day of the tour, you'd like to sit in it tonight, as tonight is the end of your search for an heir, and that started with the tour."
Willy tensed a corner of his mouth at the inaccuracy. The tour started with the tickets. No, it started with the idea for the tickets.
"Now that they're settled in, we mean," said Eshle, grasping for a reason that made tonight different.
Willy raised a brow, still parsing Doris. Had she said an heir? He'd found an apprentice. An apprentice whose stated interest was in learning design, as in machines, as in the machines his, Charlie's pater, liked so much, and spaces, as in the spaces Charlie liked, like the Factory itself. Taking over the Factory in all its functions was a bigger undertaking altogether. But progress had been made tonight. Charlie had agreed to broaden the scope of the agreement, and make candy with him. An eatable candy window to be exact: in four different varieties. Willy rocked back on his heels with satisfaction. It was a start.
"You might say tonight is the end of the tour," said Doris, encouraged by the fleeting smile she'd seen.
A scowl as fleeting, answered. Poppycock! The tour was long over in Willy's mind, and Charlie hadn't been on it. Still, there'd be no getting around this chair tonight. This chair was like those blasted cue cards, on the day. The Oompa-Loompas had insisted on making them, and having made them, if he didn't use them, they'd be offended. Having already dodged the chair, there was no point compounding the offense over a little thing like cue cards, and he had used them. Sight unseen. There was a mistake! And found himself fodder for their fiendish sense of humor. Well, they'd all been a little nervous. It had to leak out somewhere. So there he was, reading along, fat, speaking, and happy, only to hear himself reading out loud that he'd shake the blighters warmly by the hand! Whose idea of a nightmare was that? It's one thing to suggest that action on the ticket, where it is clearly meant figuratively, but to have him say it, in person, in real life, when the Oompa-Loompas knew he'd sooner take off his gloves and clean a sink-trap than shake hands with loutish strangers! EW! Double EW! Ha! That sounded like 'W'. That cracked him up. Willy smiled.
"You guys weren't too happy about those four next-gen and their keepers hitting the Factory on that tour, were you?"
The two looked at their feet.
"Ya coulda told me. Those cue cards… Revenge before the fact were they? Heh?"
"We didn't like any of them…"
"…No winners in that crowd."
"You're forgetting the bubbly BB, Miss Blueberry Beauregarde," responded Willy, with a tilt of his head, his smile morphing to mischievous. "I clearly recall her claiming in her television interview that she's a winner."
The floor at the two Oompa-Loompa's feet remained compelling. "You didn't think so."
It was time to end this. Doris and Eshle were waiting, barely breathing, and Eshle's last remark bordered on sullen. Willy registered the fact, knowing that whatever mischief the Oompa-Loompas got up to, for a million reasons, he couldn't do without them, and more importantly, he had no wish to. Those cards of theirs had brought to his attention the nonsense of his nerves. They were less than no help at all. And that had helped. And to the detriment of the boors, heh, heh, he'd felt much more himself for the rest of the tour. As he felt now. Grinning, he gave in.
"Why, well, what a thrill! How kind of you to provide me with a place to sit. Don't mind if I do," said Willy, good-naturedly. But nearing the chair, he did mind. He was no king, and he didn't need, or want, a throne. Leaning his walking-stick against the arm of the tribute, he hooked his top hat on one side of the back, and the frock coat he shed on the other. The additions made the chair look like a glorified clothes rack, and that toned it down. Happier, Willy plopped himself in the chair's embrace.
"D'ya think they like it?"
Not as satisfied to see him sit as they thought they'd be, Doris and Eshle turned their gazes to join Willy's. The Bucket house stood in the distance, shadows moving across the lighted windows, as the inhabitants did whatever it was they were doing. For all the world, as skillfully placed as it was, the house looked as if it had always been there. Willy toed off his boots, and drew up his knees, tucking his chin atop them. The silence held. They all knew there was nothing not to like.
In not too much longer, the lights in the house were one by one extinguished, Charlie's last of all.
"That's that," said Willy, languidly unfolding himself, and rising. "It was a lovely presentation. Please convey my thanks to all. And for all your hard work. The Factory is back up?"
In salute, Eshle clicked his heels together, before crossing his arms and bowing. "As instructed, sir. All skeletons are accounted for, and returned to their closets. The Factory is in full swing."
Willy smiled at the gentle mocking. Of course it was: the roar of the fall vouched for that. For three days, it had been a trickle. He suddenly felt wistful. "Terence should have been here. He said one or two days, and it's been three… All of three."
Doris and Eshle nodded, but kept quiet. That was out of their hands. With deliberation, Willy put himself back together. Top hat and coat in place, he reached for his walking-stick. His boots he carried in his other hand.
"Speaking of spies, we'd best park this elsewhere." Swinging boot toes indicated the chair-throne. "We don't want the newbies waking up and spying this," he giggled, "and thinking we're voyeurs."
"Peeping-tom techies with X-ray eyes," quoted Eshle, smugly.
"X-ray eyes, now there's an idea," murmured Willy, "The future's so bright"…" He held up an index finger. "But not if they see this with their X-ray eyes, and get the wrong idea."
There was silence while Willy thought about where it should go. His chair, his choice… Running through the alternatives, he found one. "Egomaniac works for me," he declared. "With the Buckets in residence, traffic is bound to pick up." Subtle movement in the boots he held gave away his distaste. Tightening the grip on his walking-stick, he finished the thought. "Put it behind my desk in Deception Reception." For a moment, Willy paused, pursing his lips at the changes he saw coming. "Ya know, dear cohorts, I may put the Buckets in charge of the Bucket traffic. I bet George would love this chair. Or Josephine… Yeah, Josephine, gate-keeper extraordinaire… She'd be like a barracuda."
In the dim light of the fake moon, Doris and Eshle exchanged an uneasy glance. The object here wasn't to see themselves replaced.
"Na, I get it," laughed Willy, watching them out of the corner of his eye. The boots dropped like a brace of geese to his side, but were they really geese, dead as they were, they'd be hanging over his head. "I won't leave the Buckets to you, or to the Buckets. I'll leave them to me. They'll be my project."
Fooling no one, Willy smiled as if the thought made him happy, but the grins Doris and Eshle exchanged were real, because that was the point they'd come here to make. Willy was wrong about the alone part, they'd help, but Willy wasn't foisting his crowd off on them going forward. They had a Factory to run.
The evening over, the chair relocated, Willy retreated to his room, where he surprised himself by easily falling asleep. Asleep, he dreamed of viruses, invading bodies. They looked like tiny houses, planting themselves in colorful cells, beside hot, melting strands of brown DNA, of the finest quality.
Dr. Grant tossed and turned. He should have called when he'd found out… not, in his own defense, that he'd found out in any kind of a timely manner… why would he? He only volunteered on Tuesday mornings, and Friday afternoons, and no one at that hospital was going to catch their hair on fire notifying him as to the doings and/or surgeries of a certain Dr. Wilbur Wonka! Why should they? What did they know? Nothing, that's what; nothing!
The not telling didn't sit well. Patient's orders, strictly observed, as protocol demanded… I say, what does the patient know? Who else, if not Willy, has he? The patient's chart, surreptitiously examined, held a surprise answer to that question.
For the umpteenth time, Dr. Grant thumped his pillow in the hopes it would mold its shape into something comfortable. It didn't. Friday afternoon was long gone; Friday evening with it. The early hours of Saturday were joining them. Angry with himself for his inaction, Dr. Grant reached for the robe at the foot of his bed. He shrugged it on over his nightshirt. Slippers were next; two furry spots on the berber carpet. His feet found them in the dark. Attired, he crossed to the window, pulling open the drapes. Dawn wasn't far off, but it was only his clock that told him so; the sky kept its secret. He'd start calling when he saw the first streaks of dawn. Willy was always up early.
Willy was always up early, and Saturday was no exception. Dressed in his favorite, he was off to Terence's shop, where Terence had no doubt gone when he'd seen how late it was when he'd got back. Three days was plenty long enough for one meeting, and today made it four. Square Candies were in order; he'd stop by that room on his way out. Terence loved the crunch of those things. Willy knew that. He could see Terence listening to it when he ate them.
In deference, Willy waited until 5:30 before descending to his office. No need to disrupt the Factory's routine, after all. To his delight, the candlestick phone on his desk began ringing before he was half-way across the room. Wonderful! Accurately predicting the future! And Terence had finally figured out the number! About time, clever spy that he thinks himself to be!
Settled in his desk chair, on the fifth double ring—the double and not single ring cluing him in that the call originated from outside the Factory—Willy picked up the phone, disengaged the handset, put it to his ear, and said… nothing: nothing at all. He hated wrong numbers. Anyone calling this number knew who they were calling, and if they didn't start the conversation, he, as sure as Shinola, wasn't gonna.
"Willy?"
The smile on his face straightened itself into a line.
"Libby?"
An intake of breath, and then, "Your father is very ill."
Willy's smile snapped back into place. "Ya sound fine to me! Ya looked fine on Tuesday. Are ya joking? Cuz, I'm told, jokes like that aren't considered very funny. Ha, ha, ha, ha."
Libby held the phone away from his ear. He hadn't known what he'd expected Willy to say, but hearing what Willy had said, he knew it wasn't that. His mind roamed, looking for the portal to return itself to the reality he had thought he had known so well. At the other end of the line, Willy wondered at the silence.
"Did ya die? Cuz yer not talkin', and if yer ill, I guess you could go at any moment. Yeah? So did ya die, or are ya gonna talk?"
The scratchy nosies coming from the phone did the trick. Libby heard the last part, and put the phone back to his ear. "I'll talk, I'll talk," he managed to squawk. "I'm not dead. I say, it's your father I'm talking about… Wilbur!"
As if in a trance, Willy placed the earpiece of his candlestick phone straight down on the desk. The feedback as it neared the surface was like a knife through Libby's eardrum, but it alerted Libby as to Willy's reaction. The connection wasn't cut, and Libby waited. And he waited. He waited for five minutes, the handset in his lap. The sound of feedback would alert him when Willy picked up the phone again. If Willy did pick it up. He may have walked away. If that were the case, Libby would go over there.
That wasn't the case. Piercing feedback filled the room.
"Were Wilbur unwell, the hospital would have called me," said Willy, in a silky voice.
"I say, by crackers, he left orders that they mustn't," snapped Libby.
"Then he's not that sick," said Willy.
"He's dying," said Libby. He listened to a minute or three of steady breathing. Willy spoke.
"So am I. So are you. So is everyone. So what?"
"So, I say, we don't know when, but he does know. He's got a month, more or less."
Another pause, but the pauses were getting shorter. "How do you know?" asked Willy, suddenly skeptical. "Did he tell you that?"
"I read his chart."
"That's allowed?"
Libby scowled at the phone as if it had asked him to fly. "Of course it's not allowed, my dear chocolatier. What are they going to do? Fire me from a volunteer job? Make me retire?"
Willy's laugh was heartfelt. "Thea would be proud. What did it say?"
"It said he collapsed in a shop on Wednesday evening. The shopkeeper called an ambulance. The EMTs responding suspected an acute gall bladder attack, got him stabilized, got him to the hospital, but during the surgery for the gall bladder, the doctors discovered pancreatic cancer."
"His bladder had the gall to attack him?" Willy giggled as he got into this. "Doesn't it know how important he is?"
Libby sighed. "I know you know his gall bladder isn't his bladder."
"Don't ruin my fun. My point is something in him had the gall to attack him. Why quibble? And why, if the hospital doesn't see fit to do it, are you telling me?"
"You need to go see him."
The morse code of the pauses switched again from a dot to a dash, but this time, there was no feedback. As he waited, Libby imagined the phone laid on the desk, on its side. Or held in Willy's lap, as he stared at the ceiling.
"I don't," said Willy, finally.
"You do."
"Do not, do not, do NOT, and now you say, 'you do, you do, you DO', and then we can run through it again. Wanna? Cuz I can play at this game all day long. Can you? D'ya wanna?"
"By jiminey, I say, I don't wanna... er, want to, and I know I can't make you go, but if you don't go… Have you ever seen Casablanca? Rick's speech at the airport? If you don't go, you'll regret it. Not now, or in the near future, but someday, and when that day comes, I say, there will be nothing you can do about it. Regret is regret, and it feels and tastes terrible. Go and see him. Say goodbye. It's thirty minutes out of your life. But if you don't, and there ever comes a day when you wish you had, well… you've set yourself up for years of heartache."
Years of heartache! That's rich! Willy would have laughed aloud at that, but he was afraid if he started, he wouldn't stop, and he'd already planned his day. Maniacal, bordering on hysterical, laughter, hadn't made the cut. There was another long pause, but Willy wasn't worried as he let it stretch. Libby had shown himself able to cope with these lapses, today.
"Did you go and see him?" Willy's tone had gone all silky again.
"I did." Dr. Grant could hear the curiosity lurking under the silk.
"What did he say?"
"He said, if he could have died in the five minutes before I walked in, and never seen me again, he'd have died a happy man, but as that wasn't the case, he relished that he had the chance to tell me to my face, that I was the biggest asshole he had ever met; that he wished he'd shot me and my nosey wife dead in our beds on the day we moved onto the block, and that if there were a God, or any justice of any kind, he'd never have to see me again. And then he hit the button that would bring in reinforcements."
Willy sat hunched over his desk, listening, the phone pressing against his hair mashing his ear.
"Gosh," said Willy.
"And then, I say, the cavalry arrived, and the night-nurse hustled me outta there."
"Gosh," said Willy, again.
"I say, yes, gosh. But as I was leaving, he informed me, spitting mind you, that the papers of mine that he listened to at the national conventions year after year, weren't fit to line the bottoms of birdcages."
Libby was out of breath, his face flushed at the insult, but in the pause that followed, they both knew they were both smiling. Willy's giggle floated through the line.
"So, basically, ya ra-ruined da-daddy's day."
"I say, Willy, I did, and as I said, you need to go and see him."
Willy laughed. "I'll think about it."
"Don't think too long."
Willy grinned as Libby cut the connection.
Thank you readers, reviewers, and those of you who fav and/or follow. It's your efforts that make all this worthwhile. I do not own "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory" in any of its many forms, and there is no copyright infringement intended. Ditto for the film "Casablanca", and the lyrics from the song "The Future's So Bright, I Gotta Wear Shades" by Timbuk 3.
Linkwonka88: I'm with you. I too, think they are old friends. Read on for the explanation, and thank you for your review. Sonny April: I think not worrying about your house collapsing on you must be a wonderful thing, and it's a point that hadn't occurred to me. Thanks for mentioning it. As far as the BFG goes, I hadn't and haven't read that story, so I didn't know that the BFG is an ancient creature until I read it in your review. But! Mr. Wonka is a master of Wonkavite, and as masterful as he is, who's to say that he didn't master that formula back in the day, when he and the BFG were both wet behind the ears, and teaching each other nonsense words as they frolicked in the primordial ooze? For all we know, given the properties of that particular pill, they may be the same age. ;-) Thanks for reviewing. Squirrela: Thank you, and you're welcome. That was one soufflé that waited a long time for the Oompa-Loompa song to bake. Dionne Dance: Thank you for your three reviews, and thank you also for your review of "The Sunset". It's the drawback of the one-shot that I cannot thank you there. Your observations and insights in all four are most welcome. As you've read, the Oompa-Loompa song took awhile, as my first take was that it should be happy. That went no where, except to show me that when one finds the right angle, the words flow.
