If the day were packed with adventure, the night promised more. Willy wondered that he was going through with this, but here he was, and the light was low, and, if one ignored the nurses' pen scratchings; the occasional ringing phone; the hushed exchanges between staff; the snoring and other noises the patients made that made one think they had reason to be incarcerated here; not to mention the assorted blips, and blurbs, and blups, and hisses of the requisite machines, the place was quiet. His pater was in one of these rooms, hooked up, betcha, to some of those machines. But this hour was more subdued than it would be at noon, and really, if you were going to pay a visit to a hospital, isn't three in the morning the time to do it? Willy thought so.

Strolling idly down the corridor behind his purloined cleaning trolley, his face vacant, Willy drew little attention, but at this hour, dressed as he was, he wouldn't. At this hour, the underlings were doing cleaning, and he, as far as the disinterested overlings knew, was one of those. The tiny quirk at the corner of his mouth gave away his satisfaction at his ploy: cleaning crew was almost as good a gambit as was homeless on the streets: nobody saw those guys. This routine wasn't quite as good, but with his research, and Oompa-Loompa ingenuity with needle and thread, photos and plastic, he made a passable janitor—the equivalent of homeless in this joint—and the powers-that-be spared him nary a glance. But resisting the giggles—they were a great stress reliever—Willy spared glances aplenty for them, and for his surroundings.

His study of its blueprints had given Willy the hospital's layout, and Libby had filled him in with certain particulars, with one being the pater's room number—very useful—and another being that the patients' charts were not kept in their rooms. They were kept at the head nurse's station on each floor, on the desk, under the counter, in a slotted metal stand that kept them easily on hand for staff to use, and at the same time safely out of other's hands. Loitering with the shaft of a mop in his hand—and feeling at home thereby—Willy was itching for a gander at Wilbur's chart, and in this door, with this view of his prey, the station, if he had his way—and he would—that security would soon be so much sweetened-condensed spilt milk.

Presently, the opportunity presented itself. The warden, that would be the nurse, left the station to attend to something, the course she charted likely making that something a physiological something, and with her retreating steps adding themselves to the low hum of the hall's dimmed fluorescence lights, Willy slid himself and his camouflaging accouterments behind the desk. Not much time with such a mission as she was on: best to not waste any. Taking out a cloth, Willy pretended to dust, while checking his flanks. It had been years since he'd done anything like this; decades, actually: not since his days in Europe. Such doings had been a rush for him then, but then he'd been a non-entity, with less to lose if he got caught. His dignity had never been on the line. Here, it was. Still, the old thrill was stirring. The hall was empty. Confident the coast was clear, as if he owned it, Willy took the chair. He may as well be comfy! Eager eyes scanned the rack. Alphabetized! Wonderful! 'W's were at the end. Wilbur was wast! Willy grinned: wite wher Wilbur bewonged!

Flexing nitrile sheathed fingers, Willy extracted the folder as if it were a rotten tooth, laying the keeper of the hidden facts before him, his grin fading. Adrenaline's nausea replaced it. Willy hesitated, suspecting it was anticipatory dread causing the ruckus in his stomach, and that made him sick, for he wished not to own that cause at all. It meant he cared a whit about what he was about to read, and he didn't. Really; he didn't. He'd chalk the gut-churning up to caution, the dread of being caught, but even as he said that to himself, he knew it was a lie. May as well make it a good lie: he checked again for incoming interlopers he knew weren't there, and with the charade satisfied, took the plunge. Being caught would be bad, but resisting the wish to find out what lay therein was worse. Greedy fingers opened the folder. He flipped to the meat of it, and ducked his head, reading hungrily, translating the scratchings: Gall bladder removal: spectacular success; pancreatic cancer: stage four; dementia: abated; prognosis: discharge to die at home, soonest.

To die at home.
Soonest.

Willy stopped reading, drifting with the prognosis. It was as Libby had said. Strange, really … weird was much too favorite a word to think here, but… The pater was so... no… commanding wasn't the right word. He was so… unyielding. Yeah, that: unyielding. Would he yield to death? Had he a choice? Willy's fingers dropped to the righthand pocket of his overalls. Might, if it worked on stuff like this, and Dede didn't persist in persisting he have his way. If not, it was weeks for a life to end, or maybe days: a bitter life; unkind; and long. Highlights of their shared years—lowlights?—formed images in Willy's mind. Distancing himself, Willy thought in the language of his mother.

Pas bon, ça.

Resting his elbow on the desk, his chin and jaw supported by his palm and fingers, Willy contemplated the meeting of the ceiling tiles and wall on the far side of the corridor, his mind going blank. The scenes dispersed. The thought that bubbled up in the quiet surprised him. Dede serait très mécontent s'il pouvait voir Willy maintenant. Dede would be very unhappy if he could see Willy now. Chin nestled on palm, elbow resting on desk … This position he was in—this comfortable, relaxed position—was not a position the braces allowed; not easily, anyway. How apt, as it was ever thus: His pater had always wished for him a world where Willy would never be comfortable.

Exhaling, Willy reached to close the folder, intending to replace it. Instead, he turned to page one. Name, address, age, date of birth, insurance … He skipped down, to next of kin: Willy Wonka. Yup, that's me … For all he doesn't want me notified, he admits it. In case of emergency notify: Same Name.

Except it wasn't.

The name Willy read wasn't his. It was Felix Ficklegruber's. WHAT! The little color Willy had drained from his face. He might have been poleaxed. The Blob! The Son of SPY! Is that… Is he kidding? Bending the folder back, Willy lifted the offending page to the level of his grey-tinted glasses, as if closer inspection would rearrange the letters of the name into some other; some name that didn't bring stinging bile to the back of his throat. Revolting! Willy could spit, in one color or seven, it didn't matter! Why, that little— Words he didn't use fought for expression, hard, and Willy fought back. His pater was always pushing his buttons!

"See here! What are you doing? Get away from there! You can't read that!"

The nurse had returned, and Willy, in his disbelief at finding yet another knife in his ribs, had missed it. He turned towards her, transfixed, the fire of anger flashing in his eyes at the absurdity of her words: he WAS reading it, he was WILLY WONKA, NEXT OF KIN, he had every right to do what he liked with this folder, but before he let the anger he felt for his pater wash over her, he checked himself, because it pleased him now more than ever to see his pater, and he wouldn't be doing that, if she guessed. Underneath the emergency notification line had been the special instructions section, and that had specified that under any circumstances—any at all—Willy not be allowed visitation. Twist.

"They fall." A trembling hand indicated the line of folders. "I straighten." Willy rose from the chair, as if sitting had made that task easier.

The fear in the man's voice was obvious, as obvious as the fact that English was not his first language. The accent was Eastern European, but the nurse couldn't place it. He'd dropped the folder face down, and stepped away, hiding behind his cleaning cart as if it were a shield. Listening to him, she wasn't convinced he could read English. This might be nothing. Patients' privacy was paramount, but it didn't seem to have been compromised. She picked up the folder. Read the name on it. Pursed her lips. That man's son gave Dr. Wonka interest. His personality didn't.

"How did they fall?"

Willy held up the dust rag he'd snatched when he'd fled the desk, his expression apologetic. "Too much, I think, but not again, please."

Those were the words, but the nurse knew he was really saying he didn't want to lose his job. She gave a quick check to the other folders. They were in order. As pale as he was, this fellow looked like he needed the job. And maybe some chicken soup; something to put more meat on those bones. She could see he took the hospital's cleanliness standards seriously: gloves, as required, but often shed, and every strand of hair tucked into a purple patterned surgical cap … overkill, in her opinion, but, janitorial staff were out-sourced, you never knew who was going to turn up, or what their background might be, so…

"I didn't mean to snap. This information is confidential. Don't dust here unless hospital staff is present."

With a small smile, he looked uncertain. She wondered at the tinted lenses, and pointed to her own eyes, wincing, and then to his.

"Does light hurt your eyes?"

Confusion for a moment while he thought about the words and the gestures, and then understanding. He nodded.

"Yes, light."

She nodded. He stood. After a minute or two, she realized he was waiting for a verdict, and probably hadn't understood much of what she'd said before. "Go back to work. It's okay. Don't dust here."

"'Kay?"

She smiled. He seemed happy now, and coming from him, the feeling was contagious. She felt happy. She smiled. "Yeah, it's all okay. Go back to work. So will I."

She watched his cart and he trundle off in the direction opposite Dr. Wonka's room, and finding her seat, that made her happy, too.


That had been close. And reason to flee. His cover nearly blown; hateful instructions read: Dede pushing buttons, using reverse psychology, no doubt, and why, reconsidering to consider what his racing heart was telling him, play into Dede's hands? Willy stood at the crossroads of the lift and the waiting room, considering his options; letting his heart, and the blood pounding in his ears, settle.

He ought to stay. He was here. He wanted to stay. He wanted to see his pater, and see what his pater knew. Driving him was what Charlie had said, as they'd walked home from school; the thing that had brought Willy here in the first place.


'Did you like school, Willy?'

He had smiled. The question had been a change of subject from what he knew of the goings on at the hospital. The brouhaha with the crossing guard had brought that up. It was a disruption. The hospital had been right.

'I did. Despite everything. It got me out of my house.'

Charlie's reply had been quick.

'I liked school for that. Because it got me out of my house, to a place where it was warm, and in Summer, when you don't need that, school is out.' Charlie had sighed. 'School is perfect.'

They'd walked along, both of them thinking over the former drafty deficiencies of Charlie's house. The silence grew, awkward blooming. Willy cut the stalk.

'Do you still like school? The Factory's warm all year round; most of it, anyway. Heh. The Factory, not the year.'

Charlie had grinned at the pavement at Willy's clarification, hoping Willy hadn't noticed. He knew what Willy had meant. It wasn't Willy's fault Charlie's home had been cold.

'Yeah. No. Sometimes.'

'Odd maths they teach you,' Willy had drawled, a laugh in his voice. ''Yeah' plus 'no' equals 'sometimes'. Is it plus because 'no' is a negative? What's the 'yeah' part?'

'There are things the teachers know that I don't know, and they tell me. Sometimes they're things I'm really glad to learn, that I couldn't learn on my own, because I didn't know I didn't know them.'


Didn't know he didn't know them. It was phrasing after his own heart, and Charlie was right. Willy was sure his pater knew things Willy knew he didn't know, and his pater might know things that Willy didn't know Willy didn't know, and how would he find out, if he didn't go?

So he'd gone, and here he was, and it was a hare-brained scheme that had almost failed him before he'd fairly gotten started, and if it did fail, the choice he'd made to handle this this way was the path to certain humiliation. The press, in a frenzied feeding, would make a field day of it, but this method had its pluses: it avoided attention and crowds, minimized socializing with boors and bores, and how, with those pluses, depending only on that he not be caught, could he resist? He couldn't.

Couldn't.
Resist.

His equilibrium restored, Willy smiled to himself. This was reminding him of something. Forgetting the lift, he pushed the cart in front of him to the waiting area, and started tidying cushions. This was the flaw in this plan. At this hour, lest the patients be disturbed, the only places he could clean were the public areas, offices, and empty rooms. There were precious few of those he noted, empty rooms that is, and only one in this wing. That was dandy as candy: one was all he needed. After empty had served its purpose, he'd take the risk: he'd duck into his pater's room, and hope to get away with it.

Take the risk.
Get away with it.

It was too much. Willy giggled, spraying cleaner on an end table, and wiping it down. If the brats could only see him now, acting as foolishly as they had. He flipped over the cloth, polishing his work.

Those brats: they weren't so different. There wasn't a one of them he hadn't identified with. If he hadn't, he'd never have let them set foot in his Factory. Take dear gargantuan Augustus, with his craving for sweets. Willy had craved to taste sweets for years. And how about Violet B, with her repulsive mastication machinations, complete with manipulating mater to rival his pater: now there was a girl with a streak of ambition the like to match his!

Willy straightened the well-thumbed magazines, taking a peek at the nurse who was his nemesis. She was consulting a clipboard she held in her hand. Rounds, soon? That would be handy. Willy took a carpet sweeper to the rug.

Mike had been a ball of fire, meriting study. All that intelligence, buried in anger and suburbia, as Willy had been buried in anger and a townhouse. So much talent in that boy, as shackled as it was misdirected, as Willy's pater had shackled him. But that was the end of the similarities. Willy had known his passion: fooling with the mundane to make the fantastic, with food his medium of choice. Mike, not bothering to look for his passion in other than vidiot games, frittered his days away in bright bursts of light and noise, clearing levels. Study concluded. Living like that would make me a sourpuss, too.

Finishing with the waiting area, Willy beamed. The nurse was starting her round, and she had started with the imposer, as in his will, though he'd not gotten far with that with Willy in the end. Splendid. That would give him time before she was back at her station, but he needed her to know why she wouldn't be seeing him in the corridor. When she came out of Dede's room, Willy made a show of tackling the empty room. Luck was with him, as the room was close, only two doors down from the pater's. She nodded, taking note, and disappearing herself. A minute later he danced himself and his cart down to Dede's, where he paused, darkening more the darkened door. Because this was salt in the wound, and that brought to mind Veruca, the girl whose father bent over backwards to give her everything her heart desired. The two of them, so different from himself and his father, who had bent over backwards to see that Willy got nothing that he really wanted. Yeah, father, the 'f' word, and wasn't jealousy an ugly emotion. Terence might be right. He might have had it in for the Salts; both of them.

No time to dwell on that now. Now was the time to distinguish himself from the brats. They'd all been tripped up by their poor choices, caught out, and if he didn't get into this room now, he'd be no better than they, tripped up, and caught out like them, because this was a poor choice. Taking a breath—a deep breath—Willy tripped into the room, hoping by all the chocolate in his chocolate river, now and forever, that he would find his father asleep.


I do not own "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory" in any of its many forms, and there is no copyright infringement intended. I believe the word 'vidiot' was coined by the musical, but don't quote me. Thanks for reading, and please do share your thoughts.

Linkwonka88: Did I fool you? Not the chapter you may have expected, but I hope, like the last chapter, you enjoyed it. Dionne Dance: You have no idea how much I miss Terence in this story. I hope Willy is wrong as well, and, as you can see, your contemplations as to Willy's contemplations, are spot on. Sonny April: It was only a few sentences, but that was one of my favorite points in that chapter, too, and your elaborations on the point were most welcome. Thanks for sharing them. Squirrela: D'ya think so? Compassion is certainly something the world could use more of, and speaking of more, here is the more you asked for. Celeste K. Raven: Thank you for your review, it is extensive indeed. I love maniacal laughter, though like you, I don't really see it as up Willy's alley. ;-) Maybe George's. As for Eshle, I've always seen him as the Oompa-Loompa who stepped into the rôle of chief when the Oompa-Loompas (who wanted to) moved to the Factory. He's many years younger than Willy, I expect, but wise.

Thank you everyone for your reviews. :-)