The swish of the swudge beneath his feet marked his steps like a metronome. Should he worry about the sound rushing out ahead of him, alerting the predators that the prey was approaching? Terror in the Chocolate Room, Willy mused wryly. Film at eleven. Adding to the swish with his walking-stick—it was calming—Willy reproached himself for his hyperbole, and his doubts—the blame was all his: he'd put them there—but with parens in the periphery, it was hard not to let his imagination run wild: his mother had left him; Dede was dastardly; Terence's father had left him; Terence's mother was easily the worst of them all; and Thea and Libby—God bless them—weren't his parens, so they didn't count.
Didn't count. Willy sped up, refusing to consider why he considered they didn't. Count. Willy began counting his steps, the swish resulting from his slowed-again stride as steady as ever. On the thirty-seventh, he stopped. The Bucket house loomed large amongst the confectionary, two-thirds of the distance to it covered. Willy held his candy-filled walking-stick planted before him, considering the sight. How demure it looked! Charlie gave every appearance of liking his parens, and they seemed non-toxic, but appearances—can anyone say Dede?—can be deceiving. These Buckets may be jackals, ready to turn at a moment's notice, with ooey gooey gluey saliva dripping from hitherto hidden hungry fangs, and wasn't that a lovely image to begin the day with!
It wasn't. Willy felt himself wavering. He'd come to share a part of the plan he'd decided on, but doubt was growing in him like a vine in the jungle. Did he need to?
As they always did, Willy was aware of the Oompa-Loompas in the room observing him. There weren't many, due to the earliness of the hour, but the room was filling as the day began, and, Willy knew, anything that happened to him here Bucket-wise would be up and down the Factory before you could say, 'Say, did you hear?' Considering that, Willy considered that the Oompa-Loompas had best not be saying to each other that the Bucket parens had told him 'no'. The fabric of the velvet coat across his shoulders rose and fell in a subtle sigh. Deciding that asking for forgiveness—in the unlikely event it was needed—was better than asking for permission, Willy turned on his heel and left.
That, he knew, would make the rounds, too.
The spoon twirled itself in the mush, the cream not yet so throughly mixed that it was a part of the paste, and riveted, Charlie studied the rivulets he was causing in this world in miniature. With a flick of his spoon he moved aside a particularly large lump, clearing the mouth of a channel, his eyes following the cream that overran the little valley. Eyaaa!, he could hear the tiny inhabitants screaming, cursing the unseen culprit who had caused their plight. If they had claws, Charlie knew they'd be clawing their way to safety.
"Are you going to eat that porridge, dear, or worry it to death?"
Caught, Charlie looked up, wondering how long his mother had been watching him. Her face had a sharpness about it that made him think the answer was for longer than he'd like. Not losing a second, Charlie scooped up the cream drenched oatmeal and raisins, and took the bite. Everyone knew there was no talking with one's mouth full. Narrowing her eyes at the ploy, his mother looked away.
His cataclysmic distraction thus rendered a victim of desultory chewing, Charlie's thoughts circled back to what he'd wanted to avoid, and that was this: Mr. Wonka. Willy, having confessed to having a worry yesterday, hadn't said what it was. But it was something, for sure: something big. It wasn't just the flashback that made Charlie think so. It was the tears. They'd remained as unexplained as they'd remained unmentioned: by either of them. And Willy's claim of not caring a fig for Charlie's homework! The way that had turned out! When they'd reached the Great Glass Elevator, Doris had hurried off down the corridor, Willy waving her on her way.
'Push that one, Charlie,' Willy had said, when they'd stepped inside the big glass box.
The button indicated was marked 'Literary Allusions' and after the slight hesitation that earned him a nodded 'go ahead', Charlie pushed it. With a jolt, the Great Glass Elevator whisked them away to the Factory's library. His head on a swivel as he stepped from the Elevator, Charlie found the room was as grand as he'd imagine it would be, were he to have imagined that the Factory had a library. He hadn't. It had never occurred to him. But the smell of the shelves upon shelves of books that welcomed him was, in its own way, as lovely as candy: paper and leather, with that hint of mustiness that a library with old books in it can never escape.
'I didn't know you have your own library.'
'How, or why, would, or could you? I'm glad you didn't have your own library,' Willy had confided, before he strode deeper into the generous room. 'I've fiction here, mostly, though I've heaps on history and a bunch of biographies. Gee, there's geography, too; I have a map of Loompaland the Oompa-Loompas made, and a lot on the sciences, and, well, I've got a lot. Why reinvent the wheel, when you can read about how they did it? They're first editions, when I can find 'em, just because I like 'em, and personal accounts, because they have flavor. You can read whatever you want, just, um, not with sticky hands, and put whatever it is back where you found it. If you don't remember, put it on that desk, and Makila will take care of it.
The desk was empty, but Makila must be the librarian. Charlie decided she was in the stacks, returning books to shelves. There'd be reason to. The room had its share of Oompa-Loompas, reading, with not-sticky hands, in overstuffed chairs, in alcoves made and hidden by the arrangements of the shelves. A few looked up, but off-duty is off-duty, and they went back to their worlds. Willy, keeping to himself, made that easy for them.
'This is where most of the reference books are. What's known changes so fast these days, I use the internet for the latest. If you can trust it, that is, which ya can't. Ya gotta research for yourself, but it points you towards the source material you want. I've got all the standbys on hand here: dictionary; thesaurus; spell-checker; How to Win Friends and Influence People.' And Willy had snickered at his own joke.
'Why are you glad I didn't have my own library?'
'My dear Charlie! Isn't that how I met you? Weren't you wending your way homeward, après la bibliotèque? Via a small detour?
Charlie nodded. So much had happened, he'd forgotten that.
Willy hefted his shoulders with the confidence of one who knows he is right. 'Libraries are very useful things, and not just for reading! Where else can you sleep in peace, while everyone else thinks you're working?' With a smile, Willy took a seat at a secluded computer terminal whose location he liked, which, by tacit agreement among his workers, was left free for him. An armchair sat near it, and Charlie took that.
'Um... What are we doing here?' This was nice enough, but it wasn't the tour Charlie had imagined they'd take. It sure wasn't the caramel lake he'd seen on Saturday, or the dessert island he'd seen on Sunday.
'Um... What?' Willy's eyes refocused. 'Oh! We're gonna do your homework. Well, you're gonna do your homework, and I'm gonna do my homework.'
'My books are at my house.'
'Not for law-oong,' came the sing-song response. Willy held up his hands, wriggling his fingers. That wave to Doris had been more than a wave.
And Willy was right. Not ten minutes later, two Oompa-Loompas appeared with Charlie's backpack loaded on a stretcher between them. Its sad little shape looked for all the world like an unconscious patient, with Charlie the doctor destined to operate on it. Triage and delivery complete, with a salute to the two that both returned—Charlie confirming the action with a look to Willy—the obliging Oompa-Loompas left with the stretcher.
'This minute,' Willy had then said, 'I am doing thinking, because a thing that shoulda left me alone by now, hasn't, and I can't have that. It discombobulates me. Indecision is not my thing. This thing shouldn't bother me, as not a part of my life as it is, and as behind as I thought I'd left it, but it does, and as it does, I need to figure out why. If my thinking pans out to a path I might take, I've planning to do, and plans to look up. That's my homework, and if my plan doesn't suit your plan, I can have an Oompa-Loompa take you back to the Chocolate Room.'
Charlie shook his head. He'd rather be here.
''Kay, then; you do your thing, and I'll do mine.'
And they did. Willy had begun by staring at the ceiling, but after a while he'd taken off his hat and started writing: two columns, with a list in each, and a while after that, colors and lines filled the monitor. It looked to Charlie as if Willy were looking at maps, or maybe it was building blueprints, or maybe it was both. The paper with the columns was too far away to read, but not too far away to see. In the right column, in tiny, precise, block lettering, the list filled the page; the left column had but one word, with not many letters in it. Not wanting to pry, and thinking he'd get no where if he did, Charlie went back to his work. It absorbed him to the point that the bouncy, 'So what's yer homework?' coming from over his shoulder, startled him.
'Oh!' Charlie was pleased to hear Willy sounding more like his chipper self, with no faking. 'We're studying the history of the American West. I have to write about what it was like on the Oregon Trail.'
'Dusty?' Willy had laughed. 'Trailing a lot of tails?' Charlie's text was open, and Willy could see a picture of oxen, pulling a cart laden with belongings. 'Two-thousand-one-hundred-seventy miles spent contemplating the asshole in front of you?' He pointed. 'I'll bet that piano didn't make it.'
Charlie grinned. Just as well the oxen travelled with their tails down. 'I think the teacher wants more than that.'
'So let's find out what it was like. Told ya I have personal accounts of stuff.'
Together, they found a book of transcribed dairies written on, and about, the Oregon Trail. Charlie leafed through it, while Willy found other amusement. What Charlie read there removed all the glamor his textbook had shellacked the undertaking with. Closing his new-found book, Charlie stared despondently at the cover. Willy put the yo-yo he'd been playing with while Charlie read back in his pocket. His cat's cradle was deplorably rusty.
'What'd ya find out?'
'It wasn't easy. The men write about how far they get, and the wagons that break, and the animals that are sick, and the game they see. The women write about all that, and the number of graves they pass every day. It's always more than one. Sometimes it's more than ten. They didn't get more than about fifteen miles in a day. I don't know why they needed guides. It seems to me you could follow the trail by following the graves.'
'Yeah,' said Willy. 'Graves … like breadcrumbs.' And his eyes had glazed over again.
And that had been that, as his Grandpa Joe would say. In a few moments only, Willy had shaken himself back from wherever it was he had gone, and then he'd brought Charlie back to the door of the Chocolate Room, leaving him to walk to his house by himself. No chance of Willy's company at dinner doing it that way! His mother, on hearing how he'd spent his time, was as happy as could be, humming around the house as she prepared the dinner, but it didn't make a dent in the disappointment Charlie felt. He'd consoled himself by deciding he couldn't expect Willy to eat with them every day, or even most days.
Charlie finished chewing, wondering, what with wondering what was up with Willy, if he'd make it through the day. He couldn't confide his concerns to his family: they'd worry, and Charlie was the one who had gotten them into this. Charlie knew he was being quiet, but before his watchful mother could make good her opportunity to ask straight-out what was bothering him, Charlie shoved another spoonful of porridge into his mouth. It was almost time to head for school, and if he timed this right, there'd be no more time for questions. His mother must have thought the same thing. Checking the clock, she sighed.
"Get your things, dear. I'll walk with you to school."
Charlie dropped his spoon into the bowl, and hastily swallowed his food. That would be more opportunity! "Aw, mum! You did that yesterday! Willy said on Sunday we didn't need to worry about that anymore, and he was right! Nothing happened! I can walk by myself! I always have!"
"Don't whine, Charlie," cautioned Grandma Josephine. "But the boy is right, daughter-in-law. Mr. Wonka did say that." Josephine was warming to the chocolatier, now that he knocked and waited for an invitation before he entered their house.
"He did," agreed Grandpa Joe. "He said: 'The watcher we were watching hasn't been back, and no one's replaced him.'"
Noah lowered the maintenance manual he was reading. "He did, dear, sure, and yesterday was fine. You said if nothing happened yesterday, Charlie could—"
Nora tapped her foot. "I know what Willy said, and I know what I said, but I have the luxury to do it now, everyone's feeling so much better, and—"
"Blue bells!" sang out Georgina. All eyes turned to her; the conversation halted. She gazed sweetly back into the face of each, her eyes bright, like a bird's. "Buttercups turned into blue bells."
"—it'd be so much safer…" Her eye on her mother, Nora let her voice trail off. Maybe she shouldn't go.
George put his hand on his wife's. "You don't know what we're talking about."
He said it gently, hoping she did. Turning to him, she put her own hand over his, and gave it a squeeze.
"Walks," she answered, as gently.
Tears sprang into George's eyes. This answer, so close to the truth, chased away George's happy mood. He'd normally be at Terence's shop by this time, but with the family reporting that sightings of Mr. Wonka at mealtimes were scare now that the house was moved, he'd decided to take a chance on staying for breakfast. But even absent, the candyman, with his false hopes, had managed to intrude.
"What does that confounded Wonka know?" George grumbled. "He's a loon. Walk Charlie to school, if you've a mind to, daughter."
Charlie, listening the ping-pong of his family's conversation, had already resigned himself to the inevitable. The mood too glum for further argument, he collected his backpack from his loft, and with his mother, left the house.
Leaving his room, his preparations made, Willy changed his mind for the nth to the tenth time. He still had time, if he used the Great Glass Elevator! Parens or no parens, he was goin' in there: the Bucket house, that is! Charlie was in there! Willy shook with silent laughter. Gosh darn, but the Wizard of Oz was one great movie for quotes! And the Cowardly Lion was by far the best dresser of the adventurers in that film! He wore fur! But Willy was no cowardly lion, and this was exactly the kinda thing he was worried about when he invited the Buckets to live here: segregation, between him and them. They might have their turf, but it was surrounded by his turf and that was what mattered. Squaring his shoulders, Willy made for the Chocolate Room, humming under his breath. "I'm off to see the Buckets…"
An Oompa-Loompa in the hall kept his head down as Willy passed, but when he heard the ding of the Elevator, he turned to watch it zing! out of sight. The Boss was in a mood, and Eshle should be told.
In the Chocolate Room, the Oompa-Loompa who had seen Willy earlier turn on his heel, intercepted him. It wasn't easy, as single-mindedly as his employer was striding toward the new house, but diving to become an anchor on the black cane Willy carried did the trick. Willy looked down.
"Are you looking for Charlie?"
Willy nodded.
"He's there."
"Where?"
Still prone at ground level, the Oompa-Loompa pointed, glad for the swudge on his chin that was preventing his jaw from gaping as if it were unhinged. The Boss was not himself. Willy, oblivious to his worker's consternation, could just see bobbing heads making their way up the slope to the door.
"Is that the Mater with him?" Willy's brows arched towards the ceiling.
The Oompa-Loompa nodded.
"Didn't I say that wasn't necessary? Don't they listen?"
Deciding no answer was the best answer, the Oompa-Loompa kept silent. Willy could see the position he'd put him in, and laughed.
"No matter; it pares the paren population down to a manageable level." He shook a fist at the Bucket house. "Later, passel of other parens! But there's not a moment to lose! I must get ahead of the two! Unhand my broomstick, good man! And see if you can't arrange a bit of a sticky gate to slow them down. It's to the side entrance for me—in this case, exit—as fast as lightning!" Willy was gripped by the giggles. My gosh, that movie was classic for quotes! It was never-ending! So, a little paraphrasing here and there... who cared? It worked. Willy took off for the Great Glass Elevator.
Watching him hasten away, a hand holding his unusual hat on, the Oompa-Loompa listened to Willy's fading laughter. The Boss was in a mood, and Eshle should be told.
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.
Gosh, Linkwonka88, that sounds horrific! I do hope the treatment was a success though, and that you are well now. Thanks for sharing. Squirrela, Thanks for your reviews. These chapters do take me a while to write, for many reasons, so thanks for the thanks, but as long as they take, they are never work. At the same time, in Dr. Wonka's head is indeed a wretched, chilling place to be, best avoided. Sonny April, it's an astute observation you make that the two have their similarities; how much is DNA, and how much is environment? Hard to know. Your second observation is a poser as well: is it the event itself, or the perception of it, that makes it harsh or not harsh? I can't answer that, but I hope I never have to find out for myself. Thanks for your review. Celeste K. Raven, if reading this makes you want to write something about CATCF, then it is a good day indeed! I hope you will! I was unfamiliar with the song you mention, so I listened to it on YouTube. It is remarkable. That first half is exactly the tone Dr. Wonka is trying to set. Thanks for your review, and for introducing me to something new. Dionne Dance, Nah, it's not that the anesthesia doesn't work—mores the pity in Dr. Wonka's case—it's that it works so well, it's hard for your octogenarian to return from it: a pitfall of painkillers for the very elderly. Stay tuned for the answers to your questions; your observation about the hat is one that made me say, "Hey! She may be on to something there." As far as the homework attitude goes, I'm afraid this chapter showed it didn't go far, but really, it's more likely that Charlie was a victim of unfortunate timing. :-) Thanks for your reviews.
