Treat.

Actually, as unpleasant as Dr. Wonka can be, this may be the trick. You've been warned. *Ghoulish laughter*


"Oh, Willy," called his father, in dulcet tones, from the interior of his surgery. "Please, come here. I want to talk to you."

Like flashes of fireworks, young Willy let his mind run over what the transgression might be this time, even as he gently lowered his foot to the stair he'd thought he'd been climbing so silently. Not silently enough it would seem, but as he reversed course, he could think of nothing he'd done so heinous as to warrant his father using his given name. That just didn't happen, unless… he had a patient in the surgery. Outsiders were, without fail, given the 'happy family' treatment, but if there were a patient, they must have materialized, like a ghost, because it was late in the day, past time for appointments, and Willy hadn't heard anyone come in.

There was no patient. Only his father, grinning in that macabre way he had; grinning the grin that made your skin crawl, because you knew that whatever was making him so joyful, was soon going to make you feel the opposite.

"My practice is going very well. So well, I need to make a change. Take a seat."

Pretending not to see the hand pointing to the examination chair, Willy made for the stool by the work table.

"The examination chair, Boy. Don't behave more stupidly than you already do."

Willy felt relief flood through him. At least now, reverting to his habitual scolding, his father was being honest with him. Willy sidled his way over to the examination chair, and eased onto it, sitting on it as if it were a bench.

"That'll do; for the moment. Now, where were we? Oh, yes, my practice is going very well."

That was true. The almost invisible braces were a big draw. Willy watched his father pick up a particularly nasty looking dental probe, looking as if he were tempted to test the point of it on his finger. He didn't, of course. That would have punctured the glove he wore. Resigned, Willy waited for the more he knew was coming. His father returned the probe to the tray, but he was checking the tray, making sure it was ready. Willy couldn't imagine for what. This wasn't about his teeth. His teeth were perfect. His father checked them every week, at least once; sometimes more than once. He'd checked them two days ago.

"What that means to you, Boy, is that I'll no longer be able to homeschool you. I haven't the time."

No longer be able to… Willy heard the words, and let them sink in. The impossible was possible. The world as he knew it was ending. A brand new world was opening up. Willy willed the muscles of his face not to move, lest his father see. His father had homeschooled Willy since the dawn of time; well, the dawn of the time that Willy was supposed to go to school, anyway. Beneath the surface, Willy's smile struggled for the upper hand. His father, when Willy had seen and commented on the other children going to school in the mornings, had told him that schools of any sort, in the light of the education that he, Wilbur, could impart, were shoddy, substandard, subpar, subversive, and substantially, useless. Willy's education would be attended to by Wilbur, himself, the only person qualified to see that it was done properly. And that's the way it had been, for years; for all the years of Willy's short life. It was more than Willy could resist. Anticipation turned up the corners of his mouth, ever so slightly.

"You'll start at the local school on Monday. I've arranged everything."

A current that might be electricity, but that felt like freedom, coursed through Willy's body. Away from this house, away from this garden, at last, at last! Confined as he was, Willy sometimes wondered what he'd done to earn himself this prison. But here was his father the warden, talking parole! He'd finally be able to go out, like the other kids, and do things, and see things—not just in pictures—and he'd have friends! Friends how would come over, and they'd hang out, and talk, about something, or nothing, or, or… or they'd… Willy was at a loss. What did you do with friends? Aside from his mother, who he barely remembered, and his father, who said he was the only friend Willy would ever need, Willy had never had one. It didn't matter! His palms flat against the leather, Willy wanted to push himself off the chair, and dance around the room shouting 'yippee, yippee', but he dared not. He dug his fingers into the piped edge instead. His father hated outbursts. An outburst expressing joy at the jailbreak wouldn't go over well.

"Stop your twitching, Boy. I know what you're thinking. But there's a step I need to take before I let you go to school. I haven't changed my mind about the low-lifes you'll meet there. What I have in mind will take care of that problem nicely. I'll still be checking your work, supplementing it when I think it warranted, and when you're not at school, you'll return here promptly. They'll be no loitering about town for you. And if you think you'll be dragging any of those urchins you meet at school back here, think again. I won't have it!"

Ushered in with the help of his frowning father's wagging finger held before his face, clouds formed on Willy's idyllic vision of freedom, but he didn't give up hope. He'd still be outside the walls of this house; beyond its small garden. That was something. And not a nothing something; it was a definite something something. Willy frowned. His father had said something about a step that needed taking. Aside from a buying a book bag, Willy couldn't think of any.

"What step?"

The saccharin voice and macabre smile were back. "Why, braces, my dear boy, braces! We need to put you in braces. Surely you see that."

Willy didn't see that.

"Why?"

His father chuckled. "Why? Why, because your teeth are perfect!" He began to busy himself, making preparations for the procedure. "If I don't put braces on you, they'll want you to participant in sports. They'll insist. Sports are dangerous, Boy, dangerous! Heavens! Why, you might be hit in the mouth. You might chip a tooth. Worse, you might dislodge one."

His father leaned over Willy's shoulder, grinning like a ghoul. Willy could feel his breath against his cheek. It was damp, and smelled like he needed to brush.

"Worse yet, Boy, you might have one knocked out!"

Willy thought about that. Teeth or no, if it involved running around, he wouldn't be good at sports. When it came to running around, his lungs didn't work as well as they should. He ran out of breath quickly. His father told him it was because he was a runt. Willy wasn't in a position to dispute that, but the assessment stung. This would sting. "Maybe it'd be more than one tooth that got knocked out."

The statement had the wished for effect. His father shuddered.

"Then we agree. Why take a chance? Sit back, and we'll get started."

Though he didn't see how his father thought braces would save him from playing sports, Willy did agree in principle. He sat back in the chair. Braces were no big deal; with the next to invisible braces his father had invented, unless he bared his teeth at them directly, no one would know he was wearing them. At the thought of the reactions of the unsuspecting, a giggle bubbled up.

"You think this is funny, do you, Boy?"

His father chuckled, though Willy could think of no reason for it. The cleaning was over, a formality more than anything else, and his teeth had been dried.

"You're always going on about flavors. Tell me how you like the taste of this glue."

Willy didn't say. He didn't like it. It tasted revolting. He wasn't keen on the rubber form his father had inserted into his mouth, to keep his lips away from his teeth for these next steps, either. But that would be okay. Not being able to close his lips would be only temporary.

His father, still grinning, with a chuckle every now and then, applied the brackets, positioning each one, just so, using a probe. Next came the wires, and they'd be done. They weren't done. Leaving the form in Willy's mouth, his father excused himself from the room. That was odd. Willy squirmed in the chair. With his father gone, his senses could turn to other items in the room. As he waited, he wondered if he could take out the form. It was uncomfortable, and he felt ridiculous. He'd better not; his father would kill him.

To distract himself, Willy began to sort through the odors. As antiseptic and stinging as they were, he avoided this room, but today, along with the usual disinfectants, and the smell of leather that he liked, he thought he detected a faint sweetness. The adjustable lamp illuminating the chair put the rest of the room in shadows; he couldn't tell where this sweet smell might be coming from. Willy shrugged. No matter. He ran his tongue over the brackets, disliking the roughness. He doubted the insides of his cheeks would appreciate them, either. These brackets would rub them raw.

Willy squirmed again. Where was his father? Willy sat further forward, examining the utensils on the tray beside the chair. He picked up the angled mirror, holding it so that he might see for himself the brackets and wires on his teeth. Tricky, the mirror was small, but it was doable. Hey! Here was a shock. This didn't look right; these brackets were metal, and of a color easily seen. No way these were invisible—

At that moment, his father returned to the room, taking a minute to close the door. It took a minute, because when he turned around again, Willy could see his father's hands held a cage, one and a half times the size of Willy's head. It was awkward. The mirror drooped in Willy's hand, his artificially held back lips curling further. Croaking sounds came from his throat: "Wha tha?"

His father understood at once. "The rest of the apparatus for your braces, of course." The tones he was using were as sickly as the sweet smell. "We must be very careful your teeth don't move at all. I'll have to adjust this everyday."

"Ha ul ah et? Ha ul ah sep?" Willy's eyes were wide, panic sparked, but held at bay. That cage was hideous! No way his father was serious about putting that monstrosity on him.

"Willy, how can I understand you if you mumble like that? I designed this myself, especially for you. Isn't it perfect?" His father was admiring his handiwork as if it were a Fabergé egg.

Using his name again! Dad was serious! In one swift motion, Willy was up, swinging his legs to the edge of the chair, removing the form from his mouth, preparing to stand up. "How can I eat in that? How can I sleep? Why do I need that? I don't need that!" As he spoke, the brackets were raw against his lips. "Why are you doing this?"

His father nailed him with a look that stopped Willy in his tracks. He stayed put on the chair. His father relaxed; smiled at him.

"I told you, Boy. So they don't make you play sports. Is your mind that much of a sieve, that you don't remember what I just said, not forty minutes ago? You're not so stupid that you thought the garden variety of braces would get that done, are you?" His father cocked his head. "Perhaps you are. Now, calm down, and sit back. Once you get used to this, you won't even know you're wearing it."

His father brought it closer, and Willy eyed it. Up close, it was worse. Well-made, his father was no slouch when it came to making gizmos, but that still left this awful. A fabric strap around the crown of his head would take the weight of it, and good thing, because there were fat metal wires all over it. Curved like a bell, his father was loosening the strap that would hold it, adjusting a headpiece that would center on Willy's forehead. There was another such in the back, and a cup to hold the chin. Uck! Springs and butterfly fasteners abounded. Four small hooks, attached to thick rubber strips, dangled at the sides. Two metal hooks encased in rubber kept them company. Willy had never seen a thing so diabolical.

"What are those for?" Willy asked carefully, doing his best to speak without abrading his lips.

"And spoil the surprise, Boy? Why spoil your fun! You'll find out soon enough."

His father was making adjustments, but Willy wasn't watching anymore. He'd seen enough. No way he was gonna wear this. His heart pounding, Willy saw no option but to do the unthinkable: defy his father. With a gulp meant to reassure, Willy crossed his arms across his chest. He'd need the protection.

"I'd rather play sports than wear that. I won't wear that. Nothing will happen to my teeth."

His father stopped his fiddling, his attention on the pip-squeak before him, talking like a lion. How wonderful! How drôle! With an attitude like that, spewing from the mouse, maybe he'd have more fun today than he'd hoped. At the thought, Dr. Wonka threw back his head and laughed, and laughed some more, the sound of it, deep and melodious, filling the room, echoing back from the corners. He'd come prepared! Dr. Wonka's eyes darted to the table behind his stool; ah, yes! All set! When he looked back, his eyes were merry.

"I've no doubt of that, Boy. Injuries of that kind are rare. But as I said, why take a chance? And these braces will be so useful in other ways…"

Other ways? The words confused, but who cared? This had gone far enough. Willy made to rise. With a sliding step, his father anticipated the action, blocking Willy's escape with his body, while he dropped a hand to Willy's shoulder. He felt Willy flinch, and if that stung, Dr. Wonka kept it to himself. His touch was gentle, and it stayed so. He laughed again, but this time softly.

"Willy, my dear boy, calm yourself. This isn't so bad. We must protect ourselves, you and I, and this will do that. There's no other way; surely you can see that?"

Willy, tearing his eyes away from his father's version of the rack, looked up. What he saw in his father's eyes was concern, and kindness. He felt his guard beginning to slip.

"It does look a fright, I know," continued his father, "but you'll thank me. Do you want those hooligans talking to you? Filling your head with foolishness? I'm the one who knows what's best for you; the only one who does. Here… take it. Hold it."

His father was offering the device, and Willy dare not decline. Taking it, his first thought was that it hadn't burned his fingers. It must surely come from Hell, but maybe Hell wasn't as hot as they said it was. It was heavy; and cumbersome. But his father was smiling at him, and speaking as if they were equals. It was a strange sensation, but pleasant. Wordlessly, Willy handed it back. He wanted no part of it.

"You still don't like it?" Annoyance was in the undertones, but Dr. Wonka filtered it out. "I put a lot of work into it, Boy." He paused, as if he thought they were at an impasse. "I know… I'll put it on, and if you don't like it then, I'll take it off. How does that sound? That's fair, wouldn't you agree? I'm only doing what's best for you son; only what's best for you." Taking the helmet, Dr. Wonka walked around the foot of the examination chair, to his work location.

Everything in Willy's head screamed, "No!", but his father was being so reasonable, and so… nice… and his father said he'd take it off again, if he didn't like it, and how could he say no to that? His father was waiting, he wanted an answer, but Willy couldn't move; couldn't bring himself to say a word, or nod his head. He couldn't bring himself to be a party to saying yes to this. His breathing shallowed; he lowered his eyes; this sweetness wasn't going to last, Willy knew it, and this would end it. Surprising him, the tone in his father's voice at the reluctance Willy was showing, might have been saccharin.

"Don't say anything. Just sit back in the chair, while I make the adjustments."

Licking his upper lip, tasting a hint of blood on his tongue where the brackets he'd forgotten nicked it, Willy had never felt so trapped. He could hear the blood in his ears. What choice had he? He sat back, but sat up, as his father bid. He watched his father lift his creation as if it were the grail, and though it was an airy contraption, to Willy it seemed the lid of a coffin. He averted his eyes, and held his breath as he felt it brush against his hair. He felt the weight of it settling, and in that moment, he knew what it was; knew what his father meant: it wasn't the lid of the coffin; it was the coffin itself. Wearing this, there'd be no friends for him. This thing was too horrific; too obvious; too much something that might rub off on them. They'd keep clear of it by miles, lest their moms and dads think it a good idea for them; guilt by association… his father's voice rang in his head, saying what the other children would say: "Why take a chance?" If he were lucky, wearing this, Willy knew he'd be shunned, but more likely he'd be ridiculed; humiliated in every way his scared-by-this-monstrosity classmates could think of, every chance they got. This was the 'useful in other ways' his father was talking about! Courtesy of this, he'd be a freak! The hatred embodied in this… precaution… made Willy sick. Unable to stop himself, like the nausea rising from his stomach to his throat, Willy sprang to his feet.

"No!" His hand was on the headpiece, ripped from his father's grasp. "No!" He threw the abomination onto the leather of the chair. "No! I won't! You won't! You won't make me wear this, you won't! You won't!" Breathless, Willy was streaking across the floor, the door knob in his hand, escape seconds away. "I won't wear that! You can't make me!"

His father watched the outburst with amusement; little Willy: so predictable. Dr. Wonka turned to the table behind him, and opened a bottle. The faint sweetness that had escaped its stopper strengthened; Dr. Wonka tilted the bottle, wetting a rag with the contents, a rag he then wadded into a mask. So like his mother, Willy was: flighty. Using another rag, Dr. Wonka covered the rag stuffed mask. Evaporation was an issue. Dr. Wonka stepped around the examination chair, and strolled toward his son. The dear boy had discovered what Dr. Wonka had known Willy would discover, if he discovered his backbone: the door was locked. He'd locked it when he'd returned with his masterpiece. Poor boy! He was fighting the door with both hands now, shaking the knob and kicking, as if that would somehow help him!

"Boy, look at me. Boy! You'll look at me when I'm talking to you."

Years of conditioning kicked in. Willy turned, tears of frustration dampening his eyes. His father was advancing on him with the deliberation of lava.

"You will wear it, Boy. You'll wear whatever I say you will wear, and you will do whatever I tell you to do. Nothing's changed. Did you think it had, because I'm going to let you out of the house? Don't you know me better than that? I'm doing this because I love you. Don't you understand that? You're mine; only mine, and I say what happens to you; for always."

"Not for always."

"What was that, son? I didn't catch that. I'm afraid I'm not as up on my lip-reading, as I ought to be. Never mind."

His father had reached him, and Willy knew he was supposed to give in, but this time was different. This time, if he gave in, he'd lose a piece of himself he'd never get back. He'd lose who he was; who he might be. He didn't know how he knew that, or why he felt that way, but he knew that he did, and it was true.

"You can't! I won't let you!"

Still defiant, the tears were falling in earnest now. Dr. Wonka approached with caution, talking as one would to a wounded animal. "There, there, boy, I wouldn't hurt you." Willy wiped at his eyes. In a lighting move, Dr. Wonka lunged forward, his right arm catching and clutching Willy behind his shoulders, drawing his struggling son to him. With his left hand he dropped the covering rag, clamping the mask he held over Willy's nose and mouth.

"No!" screamed Willy. With his next breath, the sweetish odor of the rag in the mask went deep into his lungs, and with it, his ability to fight. Try as he might, his muscles betrayed him. Willing them to resist, they relaxed instead. "No," he murmured. He was sinking; he'd be lost. From the depths of him, he found the pieces of his dissolving will, and used them to resist. However feebly, he kicked and punched at his father, doing his best to claw the mask away from his face. "No…"

Dr. Wonka could afford to be tender. This was one battle his son was guaranteed to lose. "You're just like your mother, aren't you, Boy? She struggled, too. But chloroform is tricky, Boy. It's why it's gone out of fashion. Too much, and… well, you don't want to find out what happens when you get too much. Your mother did… but, tsk tsk, she never would listen…"

Caught on the edge of unconsciousness, in a twilight-land neither real nor imagined, Willy disbelieved the words he was hearing. Like breaking a code, he fought to parse their meaning, syllable by silly-bull. Sill-lee… Willy's tongue felt thick, as if it might choke him. His mother… the cold he felt in his bones turned into the cold of an October night, and before Willy's ability to reason slipped away, he knew he'd never see his mother again. He'd lived in hope, but hearing those words, Willy hoped no more, and along with his ability to stand, his hope died like a firefly's light. He let himself fall, expecting to crack his skull on the linoleum floor, and not caring, but his father's arms scooped him up, strong and supportive beneath him, yet keeping the mask in place.

"Keep breathing, Boy, you haven't had enough yet; I know you hear me, but you will have enough, not too much, and you'll do as I say, from now on, without a fight, because even though you're getting bigger, now you know what I hold in reserve, and that I won't hesitate to do what I have to, if you drive me to it."

Hearing this through a cottony fog, Willy embraced the oblivion he'd a moment before been fighting; anything to escape this monster who called himself his father.

Dr. Wonka carried his son to the examination chair, tenderly lowering his limp body to the worn leather. "I love you, son," he murmured, knowing Willy was out cold. "You'll thank me, one day, just wait and see. I'm doing this for you. You're mine, son; forever. I love you."

Those were the last words Willy heard, before he lost his last vestige of consciousness, and his father finished his work.


"Mr. Wonka… Mr. Wonka… Can you hear me?"

Who, on God's sweet earth, is Mr. Wonka? For the life of him, Willy couldn't figure it out. There was 'Boy', and sometimes 'son', and very rarely 'Willy', and the ever-present Dr. Wonka, but this mister… who in blazes was he? And who was asking?

The leather of the oily examination chair swirled away like dreams forgotten on waking, and Willy found himself once again staring at the wall that represented his accomplishments, codified and quantified, housed in row upon row of file boxes, that looked like ancient, musty tomes. Balanced in his office chair, his legs were drawn up, his arms clamped around his shins, his cheek resting on his knees. It was a precarious position to find one's self in, in a chair that swiveled, and Willy took a minute to give himself a mental compliment on his balance, all the more deserved, as he hadn't been aware he'd taken up the pose. That his cheek was wet, was another matter.

The good news was, the cheek resting on his knee was the one that allowed him to see the door of his office without moving, and without moving, he could see that the asker was Charlie, and Charlie was not his father. Small miracles: the best kind; Willy exhaled, his breath a slow and steady stream. The next problem to solve, was, where was his hat? It should be on his desk, but that was behind him, and he didn't want to lose his balance, looking for it. He'd wait. The most wonderful thing about flashbacks, was that they came to an end, and without all the side-effects. Willy was spared the pain and headache he'd woken to on that way-back-when-day, when he and his braces had first made their acquaintance.

Charlie, before he had called his name, had advanced half-way to the desk, and he stood there still, waiting for what might come next. Doris, no doubt Charlie's guide, was hovering at the door, doing her best not to wring her hands, but utterly forgetting not to shift her weight from foot to foot. She was practically hopping.

"Why do you do that?"

"Do what?"

A smile played on Willy's lips. Both had answered. He'd been talking to Charlie. Willy lifted his cheek from his knees, and began the careful process of getting his feet back on the floor, without being dumped by his chair.

"Call me Mr. Wonka, when you know I've asked you to call me Willy, and I know you do."

"Because you weren't answering when I called you Willy, Willy."

The repetition struck his funny bone. With a warm smile, Willy laughed. "Making up for lost time, are you? That would be why, then. An excellent choice, for an excellent reason. I take it your being here means you're back from school?"

The grin Willy still wore suggested to Charlie that mischief was in order, and with a grin of his own, Charlie obliged. "Almost; I'm here to tell you that I'm on my way, and I should arrive in twenty minutes. When I get here, have you any plans for the rest of your afternoon?"

Willy had regained his equilibrium, and spinning in his chair, he arrested the spin at the end of the one-eighty he'd tacked on to the initial three-sixty. He was facing his desk, and there was his walking-stick, leaning against it. Charlie had taken the opportunity to hasten over, retrieving the all-important hat. He held it out for Willy to take.

"I don't have much homework tonight. Will you show me more of the Factory?"

Willy took the offered hat and plopped it on his head, giving it an extra tap to settle it more securely: it was so much more lovely than braces. He felt eyes upon him, and turning towards Doris, found her eyes like coals, burning to hear his answer.

"I don't care a fig for the amount of your homework, Charlie," said Willy, taking up his walking-stick, "that's not my department, and other than to show you more of the Factory, a task that is never a chore, I have no plans whatsoever for the remainder of today. Shall we?"

As they passed Doris on the way out, Willy couldn't tell if his answer had pleased her, or not, but it had pleased him, and that was enough.


Happy Halloween, everyone! As we were introduced to the braces in a Halloween flashback, I thought, hey!, why not publish a flashback about the braces on Halloween? Yeah! But the chapter was so long, I thought it best to split it into two, though as long as this section is, who knows if that helped. But it did give me a chance to split saying trick or treat. As you may have guessed, Halloween is one of my favorite holidays.

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.