Saturday wasn't Monday. Neither was Sunday. It was Monday now, mid-afternoon, and the way the day was shaping up, Willy doubted Monday would be Monday. There'd been no new messages, and Terence wasn't back. Willy would have sighed, but that would mean moving, and moving would mean facing it: The Bucket Buffer, the secret weapon he'd counted on so heavily to optimize this folly's optimal outcome, was, too bad, so sad, GONE.
That's the way the cookie crumbles.
Easy come, easy go.
Still.
The sun was here, and that was enough. Willy felt the sunlight playing on the skin of his face, warmth for a cold reality. It streamed into his office, the way it did at this time of day: diffuse, and soft, the frosted glass of the towering window making it so. Willy liked the light like that. It almost countered his dark thoughts. Hands folded decorously on its leather surface, Willy sat at attention at his desk. He might be intently listening to someone sitting across from him, but his wasn't: there was no one there. He was alone in the room, making a study of stillness.
It was enjoyable in a way; diverting if nothing else. If he were unmoving, would he be unmoved? If he were stationary, would time stand still? Would it stop? Would he, in this moment, be suspended forever? If he were, could the difficulties he was dithering with, reach him?
The phone rang. Willy flinched to the point of jumping out of his skin. So much for still. Still. Who would interrupt him? The double ring: the outside world. Willy reached for the handset, holding it to his ear. Dithering be dashed, time was moving.
"Willy!"
"Lib—"
"I say, you didn't go to see him, did you?"
"I—"
"I don't blame you," said Libby kindly, knowing Willy hadn't, before Willy felt he had to defend himself. Libby had been to the hospital, and he'd have gotten a report if there'd been a Wonka-the-younger sighting. Libby hadn't meant the question as an accusation; he was asking as a confirmation only—Willy could be devious—but he knew it hadn't sounded that way. Having once laid the blame for the spies at Willy's feet, Libby, having learned his lesson, wasn't fool enough to blame Willy for the failings of his father.
"I—"
"I say, I'm calling to let you know how the surgery wen—"
"Isn't this supposed to go back and forth? Don't I get to talk? At all?"
Libby paused at the exasperation he heard ricocheting along his ear canal. Willy sounded as peeved as he ever had. "Did you want to talk?" queried Libby, surprised.
"Noooooo—"
How long was Willy going to drag out that word? Libby lost patience. "The surgery was a success, the anesthesia wasn't."
"The anesthesia?" Feeling a chill in his veins, Willy dropped his voice to a whisper. "Did he die?"
At the other end of the line, Libby shook his head. "No, you still have a chance, if you decide to go, and as I said, the surgery did what they wanted, it bought him some time, but this time around, I say, he had a reaction to the anesthesia. It's triggered some dementia…"
Filled with sudden mirth, Willy thought of trotting out, "How can you tell?", but his pater had always been cuttingly astute; Libby knew that, and the joke would lay like an egg. Fuhgettaboutit. A flick of his wrist, and the thought was gone.
"…I say, they think he'll recover from that as well, not a lasting effect, don't you know, but it may take a few days."
Willy could think of nothing to say that sounded sincere, and this news changed nothing. He said as much, by saying nothing, and Libby understood.
"He's in a private room, filled with the accoutrements of intensive care. I say, Willy, that's all I have. I'll keep you posted." In the face of Willy's continued silence, Libby gave up. "I say, Willy, goodbye."
With the stimulus provided by the dial tone, Willy robotically replaced the handset, deciding anew to renew his statue imitating endeavor. Charlie would be getting back from school soon. Perhaps if he stayed still enough, a way would catch up with him that would make that occurrence work in his routine. Losing before he started, that thought made him smile. There was a useless endeavor. Willy had no routine. He had routine places he might be found, but like an electron orbiting an atom, that was about it. He'd be somewhere in that orbit, but where? One could never be sure, and anyway, back to the first part, who did he think he was fooling? Worrying about where Charlie fit in was a way of not worrying about…
De..men..tia.
If females got it, was it De..women..tia? Dementia was a form of forgetting. Dede had decades of memories to remember; some of those memories might mean something to him. Were they gone? For good? Willy felt a chuckle. He quashed it. Making his face a thoughtful blank, Willy swiveled in his chair, resuming his statue when his feet were finished. He faced his wall of recipes and designs, hidden in plain sight, in the guise of bookbindings, and contemplated their contents. Without his having to open a one of them, the synapses of his brain gave him access to every nuance of every file up there. What would it be like, to see them, and know not what they were? If you didn't know then, that you'd ever known, then not knowing now might be okay, but if you knew you'd known then, and that you didn't know now: that would be torture.
For six and a half seconds, Willy felt something for his father that might be classified as pity. But musing onward, questions soon sent that packing. Who was this Dee, exactly? Did she know Tia? Was it really that Dee..met..Tia? Or that Dee..meant..Tia? An old chestnut came to mind: 'New York has New Jersey, but what will Delaware?' Willy giggled at the absurdity. Forget Dee and Tia; forget dementia: What were his pater's memories to Willy? But the one or two memories they shared… Meeting Anne..S..Thesia, for example, at Charlie's age… a year or two younger, actually, yeah, younger, an' Annie, an' a new school, an' his father, an', an', the…
The browns and tans and shades of grey in the wall before him began to melt together, swirling into a homogenous morass that coalesced before Willy's vacant eyes into a sea of… brown leather. He could smell it, the soothing odor poking out from the disinfectants competing with it. It was faded brown leather, made dark by the oils of the hundreds of heads, with their greasy, yucky hair, of the patients who had lain there. Those sheets that were supposed to prevent that: they didn't, you know, it was just disgusting…
Trick or...
Hey, guys, interesting FanFiction website trivia: Did you know, that to keep us safe, I know not from what, if I write 'dementia' with a period between the syllables, only the last syllable appears? For that reason, I have put two periods between the syllables. But imagine one. I like that effect better; ditto for 'anesthesia'.
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, and please do share your thoughts.
Squirrela: It's satisfying to read you find this reading satisfying. I hope you'll continue to find it so, and thank you. Sonny April: Never say never, cuz ya never know: Willy might change his mind, though as you say, Wilbur has not been the best of fathers. Thanks for reviewing. Sad to say, the tour they got will stay for the most part in our imaginations, though we may hear about it some. Dionne Dance: After all these years, you have the distinction of contributing this story's 200th review. It's a milestone for me; one that I never imagined I'd reach. Thank you. Stay tuned for more interactions, and I'll stay tuned for your much appreciated comments.
