Willy's grin faded with the click of the phone's handset in its cradle, replaced by that thin line that had first made its appearance on hearing Libby's, and not Terence's, voice. The line of Willy's lips flowed further, making a frown, even as leaning forward, his elbows met the leather of his desk top, his forearms forming a 'V'. Dede wasn't gonna die. How silly could ya get? Hands clasping each other, Willy's fingers wove themselves together. Dede alive was a fixture; like the walls around the Factory, or the pattern of the streets: they were there. They'd always be there. They were facts too cumbersome to change. Why would anyone bother? Why would Dede bother? What good did Dede think he'd be dead? What good did Dede think he was alive? Restless, Willy's fingers unconsciously freed themselves. The hum of the dial-tone was in his ear before Willy realized he'd picked up the phone again. What was the number? He turned up the bottom of the telephone, and read the scribbles taped there. Ah, that one!

"Sinclair, here."

"Libby."

"Willy! Are you calling back because you want me to go with you? I say, I will!"

The roll of Willy's eyes, that carried all the way to his jaw, couldn't be heard over the phone, but the disdain in his voice was plain. "Why ever would I want that? I don't recall saying I was going. Does he have a private room?"

"I say," said Libby, recovering from the rebuke, sorry he'd jumped the gun, hoping his haste hadn't snuffed out the desire before it had a chance to take hold. "He's in a semi-private room, with no one else in it at the moment."

"Hm," said Willy. There was a dot of a pause. "It's Saturday. The surgery was on Wednesday. It's too late to go and see him. They'll be sending him home, any minute."

"They won't." The cool of the plastic as Libby held the handset was reassuring. "There's more surgery scheduled for Monday morning. For the cancer, and besides—"

"Then, there ya go," crowed Willy, deeming himself off the hook. "They'll get it out, and we can all get on with gettin' on, no visit required. By-eee."

The fake grin embodied in that last word, floated in the air above Libby's head, like a taunt. "No, they won't," he muttered, holding the receiver first away from his ear, and then in his lap. The dial-tone droned up at him. "It's only surgery to redirect some ducting, to buy some time. Wilbur wanted it. The tumor's too large to take out. You'd know that, if you didn't think you already know everything there is to know, Mr. Willy Wonka, and, I say, had given me the chance to tell you!"

Ah, well; no use blowing a gasket. The dial tone had reverted to that annoying jangle that jangled one's nerves enough to wish it silenced, and Libby obliged. He'd call Doris, later, and fill her in. The phone rocked in its cradle as it settled. Libby contemplated the disturbance that would cause. No, he wouldn't call Doris. This was Willy's business. He'd leave it be.


That's a lot of racket for this hour of the morning, thought George. He was trying to listen to the message on Terence's answering machine, and that street sweeper, or whatever in tarnation it was, was making that damn near impossible. The noise went silent all at once—so much for the Doppler effect—and George listened to the end of the message. He played it again, to be sure he had it, and again after that, and satisfied, he hit the delete key. 'You have no new messages', the machine told him, and that's when George heard the skipping. It sounded like it was coming from the stairs in the backroom. He headed that way to investigate, only to find…

"Willy Wonka!"

Willy jumped back up onto the bottom step, aghast. "George, Grandpa!"

"What are you doing here?" they cried out in unison.

"I said it first," declared Willy, smoothing the edge of his greatcoat, as he stepped back down to the floor, with an ease that almost negated the fright with which he'd so lately retreated from it.

George disagreed with the assessment, he'd clearly had the drop on Wonka, but that wasn't the point he was making. "You never leave your Factory!"

Willy's face went blank, as composed as still water. "You, of all people, know I do."

"Not by yourself!"

Ah, that was the issue. T'were true, as far as the grandpa knew, Willy went accompanied, but accompanied was by no means de rigueur. T'was time the grandpa amended his view. "When I leave my factory," drawled Willy, "t'would seem, dear soul, that solo suits if the situation warrants. Make a note! The next thing I know, you'll tell me you hear tales that I never let anyone in my Factory, either, and you're living in it. That being the case, were I you, I'd take these supposed suppositions with a grain of salt." Willy softened his tone. "So, where is Terence? Is he hiding? What have you done with him?"

Willy was looking about, as if he expected Terence to spring out from somewhere, but George was getting his head around the skipping he'd heard.

"Do you always do that?"

"Look for people?" Willy would like to check the shop proper, but George was blocking the way. "Noooo, I look only for people hiding that I want to find. Pretty much a non-starter of a game for me, really. Have you got Terence tied up? Is he locked in a closet? He's not in his flat. I looked there."

George got thoughtful. "I meant the skipping. I didn't think you did things like that unless you thought people were there to see it. But you didn't know I was here. I thought you did that sort of thing only to annoy people."

"Not only," pouted Willy, while rising to his full height. "Giving it some thought, your thoughts aren't very well thought out. I don't recommend you hide. Now that we're back on that subject, where is Terence? We're wasting time, and that's annoying. Oh look, we never did change subjects! I'll change it now. Where's Terence? I have a mission for him."

George shook his head. "Terence isn't here. It's just me."

"Na-ah," said Willy, twisting his body back and forth to underscore his disbelief. "I heard him."

George met the remark with a stare. Willy was certain. And then George laughed.

"That wasn't Terence—"

"It was!"

"Well, it was, but it wasn't," said George, suddenly feeling sorry for the man in the top hat standing before him. "It was the answering machine you heard. It was Terence leaving a message on the answering machine, not Terence himself."

That struck some nerve. Mr. Wonka was silenced; and at a loss. George didn't know which would be worse: making some small talk to fill the vacuum, or not making some small talk to fill the vacuum. In the end, George decided to make more room in the vacuum, and turning his back, he walked out into the shop itself. Willy would do fine, fending for himself. That's what Wonka did, and what he expected of other people. George was restocking a display near the cash register, when Willy took a seat on the stool behind it.

"I don't use answering machines," said Willy, propping his chin on his hand, his elbow on the counter. "Would you play the message for me, please?"

George put the sheaf of magazines in his hand on its place in the rack, and turned. "I erased it." The slump in his shoulders expressed his genuine regret. "To make room for new messages."

Willy, taking note, waved a hand. Done is done. "What did he say?"

George threw back his head, the better to remember. He might be reading off the ceiling. "He said, 'The coast is clear, space is safe, they're on a mission to put him on another mission, but he's on a mission not to do it.' He also said it will take him a day or two more to convince them he's not the man for their mission."

Willy considered. "Terence, missions, and the many who want him. I'd best get in line, I suppose; or hope for Monday, then. Anything else? Anything about spots?"

"Spots? Er, no, but he rang off kinda sudden, and a day or two would be today. I didn't realize Terence had an answering machine. It's under the counter there, behind all that clutter. I saw the blinking light this morning, when I got here, in the dark. He left the message on Thursday night."

Willy's chin was back in his hand, remembering the lost golden ticket, found amongst this very clutter. He soon sat up, folding his hands on the counter top, his walking-stick acting as an extension. "Terence and his clutter are good at hiding things. D'ya think that's why he, himself, has so few possessions? Because, if he had more than two or three, he couldn't find the one? Don't answer that, it's nothing to do with you, or me; answer this: Why are you here at this hour? Isn't it a little early? Do you not like your house? Do you not like my Factory? Do you not like your people? Can't you sleep?"

George grinned. Willy said the damnedest things. "I like my people just fine, and your Factory is dandy, but I'm not," George winked, "that interested in setting up house. Let the others do it. They like it. I like retail. I'm running Terence's shop, until he gets back. You gave me the job, and they understand. My wife was the one who shooed me out the door. And whatever you gave me in that candy makes—"

"La, la, la, la," broke in Willy, sticking a finger in each ear. This looked like it was heading for a 'thank you', and that Willy could do without, especially if the man were after an explanation as well. George shut his trap, and pleased, Willy continued with his steering. "I ran a shop once; on Cherry Street. Joe can tell you. He was there. I spent every second I could in the back, making the candy. Bleh. Customers. I admire you for working out front."

George grinned again. This was so much like a conversation. "Customers are the best part."

"Unseen-by-me customers are the best part, ya mean," laughed Willy. "Nah," he added, "that's not true. The best part is the candy I make making them happy."

"You're missing the best part then, if you're not seeing the customers happy," asserted George, meaning it.

"I don't have to see them to know the candy makes them happy; they buy more. And I make new kinds, to surprise them… The best kind of prize is a sur— Ya knowwww," Willy dragged out the word, as if struck by a thought, "surprisingly, I thought I killed you Wednesday night."

"Me? You thought you killed me?" George's eyes were like moons.

"Yeah, me, killed you, with the exertion, in the shop. Charlie woulda been pretty mad at me, I thought. But it wasn't you, it was some other old guy… There was an ambulance. What'd that guy look like?"

George had told this story to his family, in minute detail. He told it again. This was where Willy had been going, and having got here, to hear the tale, Willy stood up almost right away. It were as if sitting made him feel too easy a target; that he must be able to easily move in any direction, on short notice. George's penchant to let himself be carried away by what irked him was on fine display; Willy stood in rapture, listening to the contempt in George's tone as he described the other man's arrogance. George could see it, and didn't hold back. Willy said nothing, only smiling around the corners of his mouth. Red-faced, George ran out of words.

"Did you think he was he in a lot of pain?"

George pulled himself back, and studied Willy. The question had been quietly asked, but had there been a note of hope in the asking? George was honest. "Yes, I think he was. I think it was excruciating."

Willy held himself still. "Did he say anything, after the attack began?"

At that, George knit his brow. "That's hard to say. He was clutching his side, and falling, and I was trying to break his fall, and a lot was happening all at once. I had to get to the phone, and call for help… When I got back to his side, his breathing was very labored. For a minute, I thought he thought he was you."

"Me?" squeaked Willy.

My God, that's a high note that man can reach! George shook his head. "Yes, you; I thought, before he lost consciousness he said, 'I'm Wil… Wonka. Don't tell…'"

"Don't tell who? Don't tell what?"

"I don't know," harrumphed George, wishing he did know. He hated mysteries. "The man was delirious. It seems to me, he was reading the name off the chocolate bars there. What's it to you, anyway? Why all the interest?"

"Making my point," answered Willy, with a shrug. "Customers are weird. Thanks for the intel on Terence. I'd best be going. I never leave my Factory."

"Or let anyone into it." George grinned. With Willy around, it was becoming a habit.

"That, too," nodded Willy. Disappearing through the door to the backroom, Willy turned. "George."

"Mr. Wonka?"

Willy sighed to himself. They were not friends, or George wasn't perceptive. It didn't matter. He'd ask. "If your father were dying, and you knew it, would you go and see him?"

George turned away. "My father died of lead poisoning, in the Great War. I'd have been by his side, if I'd been able. I was two. Thanks for bringing up the memory, Mr. Chocolate Maker."

Lead poisoning... Poison, or a bullet? Which didn't matter; both were awful. "I'm sorry," whispered Willy, melting into the shadows. And then he was gone.


"Doris."

"Willy."

Doris rolled the pencil she held in her hands. Willy avoided Administration like the plague, and here he was, standing before her desk, as if he were applying for a job. The sign on her desk might read 'Taste Accounting', but there was no accounting for Willy.

"Dede is in hospital—"

"Dede?" Confusion marred her brow.

Willy narrowed his eyes, shifting his weight. Right. New. "The Dentist. Libby is a dentist. I'm calling The Dentist 'Dede' now. Dede is in hospital. I want you to call the hospital. Tell them Dede, when it comes to legitimate hospital expenses—I don't want them building a new wing, or anything—has a blank check. That includes 'round the clock nursing care when it's time for him to return to his lair… erm, house. Tell them the first thing that I expect, is that he be moved to a private room. Got it?"

Doris had been scribbling away. "Got it."

"Good. I'm off to the Buckets. Did they survive the night?"

"They did. George is—"

"I know where George is."

Doris paused. There was quite a snap in that. "Are you going to go and see him?"

"George?"

Doris swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. "No, I mean your father." It must be serious if Willy were here with these instructions. "Are you going to go and see your father?"

Willy looked her in the eye, raising a brow.

Doris hastened to answer. "My father is alive and well. He lives in the Elder's village. I see him almost every day."

"Peachy keen, then," said Willy, turning on his heel.

The candy coated pencil she held was mighty appealing. It would be so easy to chew on that, and hold her tongue. Instead, Doris chewed on her curiosity, and asked again, as Willy strode away. "Are you going to go and see him?"

Willy didn't turn back, but the top hat tilted up, as he raised his chin, the better for her to hear him.

"Ya never can tell. The jury's still out."


Thank you readers, reviewers, and all of you who fav and/or follow. Your kind expressions make this all worthwhile. I do not own "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory" in any of its many forms, and there is no copyright infringement intended.

Squirrela: Tis true some re-negotiation of rôles must append upon the introduction of the new, and the Buckets are new indeed. I give the Oompa-Loompas points for being pro-active about it; but perhaps it is only that they know Willy so well. Thanks for reviewing. Linkwonka88: I'm afraid this chapter answers not the question, but only hints at what that answer might be. I hope you'll continue to enjoy the story. Thanks for your review. Sonny April: I personally agree with you and Libby, but at the same time, the wisdom of a fridge magnet dances in my head: "Before you criticize someone, you should walk a mile in their shoes. That way, when you criticize them you're a mile away and you have their shoes." Willy must operate from his own perspective. Thank you for reviewing. Celeste K. Raven: Welcome, and thank you for your kind words regarding the previous chapters. Going forwards, your conjectures are spot on. What will Willy, left to his own devices, decide? I hope you'll stay tuned to find out. Thank you for reviewing.