The hope was hopeless, of course, and the trip had been figurative. For the sake of silence, Willy was feeling his way forward on sliding feet, but the nurse had left not four minutes before, and how could the pater possibly play possum through such an intrusion? The gold lining? Dede was a confirmed snob. Once in the room, 'underling' would have to suffice to give Willy the time to get his bearings. If his luck held, Dede, were he awake, would look right through him. The murky interior loomed. This wasn't about tripidation, it was about trepidation.

Crossing the threshold, a trolley wheel sighed out a squeak, drat it, but inside the room, the strangest thing happened. The air left for elsewhere. The light left, too. This was about a trip: a trip through time. The room was a time machine, stripping Willy of his years. The worst of the betrayal was its unexpectedness. Increasingly, the cleaning cart was too heavy to push. It was already impossible to maneuver, but then it would be, for a four and a-half, going on five year-old, and that's the age Willy felt: distraught, as then, not knowing what was coming next, with his father leering over him, and his mother vanished. From nowhere, cloying bandages began to enfold Willy, the mesh of their gauze crisscrossing his body in the style of a mummy, their gossamer web encasing him, covering his eyes, his nose, his mouth, pinning his legs and arms. He could feel them, roll upon roll, working rapidly, simultaneously, the constrictions growing tighter and tighter, until even were there air in the room, it would do him no good. Caught in these etherial windings, Willy was but a puny morsel for the spider who was his sire, the spider orchestrating this casing, the spider lying in wait.

Defeated, Willy stood. Exhaled. Let his shoulders droop, arms hang limp. He'd succumb to this cocoon; this extinction.

Silence reigned. With surrender, Willy felt free. His mind settled, and re-engaged. In bygone days, he'd danced on this web his daddy longlegs spun, forever dodging one step ahead of the sticky strands, holding on to who he was, even as his pater did all he could to ensnare Willy's spirit, and suck it dry. And the dance had ended. He'd been spared. But not by any move he'd made. It was papa's move, a miscalculation, that had lost the fight. Papa was fallible.

Air returned, the cool rush of it filling Willy's lungs. Blips reached Willy's ears. Rhythmic they were: his father's heartbeat, expressed in machine-speak. The one cancelling the other, Willy timed his breathing with the blips. Daddy dear wouldn't know he was here. Willy's eyes adjusted. No gauze covered them! Bandages don't apply themselves! It was his imagination, messing with him, but Willy felt them still.

His father lay in a bed before him, in a dim pool of light: the reflections cast by the monitoring machine at its head. Upper lashes meeting lower lashes, he lay quiet, unmoving but for the rise and fall of his chest. Willy counted. They were the slow respirations of sleep. Fascination set in. Willy thought to take a step, to approach the menace, and found his feet rooted, the shroud that engulfed him holding him in its grip. Countering, Willy imagined his spiders: the spiders that wrapped his chocolate bars. What wrapped could unwrap. Willy closed his eyes, conjuring them. Hieing to their creator eagerly, his spiders surrounded him, their delicate metal legs picking at the bandages, stripping them away. Partially freed, Willy took a step. Strands of gauze hung from his limbs. He was six. He took another step. Ribbons of gauze fell to the floor. He was seven. Another step, and he was eight, the distance to the bed cut in half, his spiders finishing their work, the time machine losing its grip, reversing itself. He was nine, and he held his head further back, the braces that adorned him effecting his balance. Ten, eleven, twelve, and Willy altered course for the foot of the bed. There were shadows at the foot of the bed. He remembered his camouflage; retrieved the cleaning cart, maneuvering it behind him, closer to the wall.

The braces were heavy, his father's breathing steady. This wasn't allowed. He'd get in trouble. His eyes darted sideways. Through that door lately entered, lay his life. Take it! But fascination's fingers plucked at his brain, keeping him from fleeing. Willy crept forward, plucking up his courage and a duster, its plastic handle succor in his hand. Still in shadow, nearly to the foot of the bed, the hand not holding the duster reaching for the railing. Thinking at the last second of the vibration touching it would cause, Willy flinched, and hastily snatched it back.

Still not too late. There was the door. Right over there. Go for it!

Or go for the goal! The reason you came. Look. Beard the lion. Taking a baby step forwards, Willy held his breath; peered at the sleeping form, and let his breath slowly escape. The lion-spider was a stranger. This person was old; frail; thin; wasted. His pater was robust. The Van Dyke he had always favored—the beard? That was familiar—was neatly barbered, as always, but grey. So was his hair, with that wave still in it—more of the familiar—that Willy hadn't inherited at all. Crows feet bracketed the closed eyes, wrinkles etched his cheeks and forehead. Willy stared down. This shell might be his pater, and if that were the case, what was there to fear? A puff of wind would fell this creature. The braces dissolved, the rictus smile that came with them lingering like the Cheshire Cat's.

His father's nose twitched. Gnarled fingers reached for it: an itch, that needed scratching. Groaning, his eyes opened. Willy flowed backward into the deeper shadows like moonlight over water. He wasn't ready to speak. His father felt no such reluctance.

"Who's there? Is that you, nursey-whersey? It can't be you … you were just here. Are you here again? Is it time for more morphine? Some chloroform? Morphine is lovely. Don't you agree? Lovely, lovely morphine! Better than chlor-o-clor. Speak up! Who are you? Who-dee-who-dee-who-dee-do?" He flapped his elbows like a chicken, or an owl. "Hooo?"

Rambling! His father was rambling! Rambling ridiculously! There was no mistaking that voice. It was weak, but him. Bizarre! There he was, peering into the gloom at the foot of the bed with rheumy eyes, picking at the coverlet with his hands, as if he saw something on it that needed removing. There was nothing on the coverlet. Wandering from the foot of the bed, his father's attention went to what he was doing, his fingers flicking away what might have been imaginary lice. The time machine gave way a little more, and Willy felt sixteen. He might be able to do this, after all. If there were anything to do. His father seemed incoherent.

"Fie, fi, foe, fum, I smell the blood of an Eng-ish… No… No I don't. I don't, I don't, I don't. I smell the blood of… chocolate!" In a panic, Wilbur scrambled into a sitting position, pressing himself into the pillows at the head of the bed, the coverlet held up to his chin. "Nurse! Chocolate! Nurse! Chocolate!"

Willy stepped from the shadows, and into the light at the foot of the bed, the duster in his hand making a calming motion, like a baton quieting an orchestra, while he held a finger to his lips with the other. In his pure terror, his father was whispering, or maybe in his dementia, but his movement had shaken the bed, and Willy waited with bated breath to see if that would bring reinforcements. So far, it hadn't.

"Janitor! Chocolate! Janitor! Choco…"

His father squinted toward the end of the bed. A light sparked in his eyes. They began to gleam, and Willy took a step back. He knew that look: it had never boded well.

"Filthy chocolate."

His father's voice was as calm and clear as the day he'd told Willy he wouldn't co-sign the note that would allow Willy to lease his first candy shop, his stated reason being that he didn't want to be a part of Willy's failure. 'Because, boy, it's a foregone conclusion that you will fail. I can guarantee you that.' Standing at the foot of the bed, Willy remembered the day well. Such a sweet sentiment for a father to express; so encouraging. Back in the car, Libby had gladly co-signed the note. That day had been the last time he'd spoken to his father, and Willy suddenly didn't want to speak to him now. This had been a mistake. He'd leave, with no harm done, except, perhaps, to himself. Tucking the duster baton under his arm like a colonel's riding crop, he turned towards the cleaning cart.

"Stop right there, boy," came his pater's voice, cutting like barbed wire. "You can't fool me. I know it's you. You positively reek of chocolate."

I do not, thought Willy, next to the cart, and you don't know it's me, you're bluffing, these clothes are new, and chocolate is only filthy if Augustus Gloop is in it—so there!—and what Willy really wanted to do was turn back, and say all of that out loud, and stick out his tongue at the end—and who knows, maybe add a raspberry into the mix for good measure—but Charlie had said anyone hearing Willy's voice who had heard Willy's voice, would know Willy's voice, so Willy kept quiet, to keep the pater guessing.

"You can do something for me, boy," came his father's snake like hiss. "Get the pillow off that empty bed. Bring it over here, and smother me with it."

Now that was not your everyday request. Willy pivoted on his toes, facing the pater once more. He raised a brow, disbelief written on his face.

"Shocked, boy? Interested?"

Both, thought Willy, but it seems to me, if I answer you, then we have a conversation going on in this room—very strange, if you're the only person in it—and if I keep quiet, we have you rambling in this room, and, for all I know, that might be what you do, and not strange at all. Let's stick with that.

"Not talking?"

Silence answered.

"You always were a stubborn little shit."

Charming, daddy dearest, your terms of endearment have always been so heartfelt.

"You'd be doing me a favor, boy. I haven't long to live. I'm sure word's got back to you, or you wouldn't be here. You're not supposed to be here. I could call for the nurse, right now, and have you thrown out. Wouldn't that be jolly?"

Not particularly.

"Get the pillow, and I won't."

Willy placed the duster on the cleaning cart, and got the pillow, standing with it at the empty bed that shared the wall with the door.

"Now bring it over here, boy. We can't do this with you over there. Are you thick?"

No, I know, and no.

Wilbur sighed, and began picking at the coverlet again. He lay back in the bed, his head on the pillow, eyes staring at the ceiling. "Why can you never obey? Is that so difficult? I'm not asking you to do anything I wouldn't do, but I do hope you have better luck than I had … I spent the first three weeks of your life trying to kill you, but the incubator proved insurmountable."

Incubator?

"Your mother should have died then, too. All that blood… bloody, bloody, bloody, blood; blood everywhere, and that would have done it, but she'd called the ambulance before I found her collapsed—did you know you can hide a pregnancy? Loose clothing and separate bedrooms … It turns out even a stick like your mother could do it—but she lied to me, the witch, she said she couldn't have children, thinking she couldn't conceive a child—she never had, until you—but she couldn't carry a child—not to term—and they came, the ambulance, and I had to pretend I had just found her, and they found itty-bitty-bitty you, covered in all that blood and gore, before I found you, before I could flush you, because I didn't know to look for you, because I never suspected, never wanted a child, never wanted you—but, you know, I couldn't do it. I couldn't flush you. You were too big, you'd have clogged up the pipes … Have you ever had that problem? Something you didn't want, clogging up the pipes?—Piper, piper, piper, pipes, if I'd seen you sooner I'd have smothered you—now's your chance!—I didn't see you, they wast you to the hospital—this hospital—and wast you to an incubator, and wast her up to blood, and filled her back up, and she nearly died anyway, so they did it all again, and again, or maybe not, I don't remember now. Wast. That means wushed." Exhausted, Wilbur closed his eyes. "Rushed."

"Dr. Wonka? Is everything all right?"

The nurse's head was in the door, but she was looking at her watch.

"Go away, I'm talking over very important matters with my son, Willy Wonka."

The nurse smiled. "Of course, you are. Tell him 'hi' for me," and she ducked out again, continuing her round.

"The nurse says, 'hi'."

Willy hadn't moved, except to clutch the pillow to his chest. If she were paying attention, the cleaning cart would have given his presence away, and hiding would have been the only thing that would give the lie to his insisting that Dede was wrong. Freeing a hand, in a state of shock, Willy waved 'hi'.

"Don't you want to do it now? Smother me?" Wilbur chuckled. "Still not talking? I was a devoted husband and father, those first three weeks; everyone said so. I visited every day, for as long as I could. I wanted your mother to get well. But you? Those incubators are monitored round the clock, and I never had the opportunity I needed. The best I was able to do was to shut off the one-hundred percent oxygen they were giving you. Turns out, I did you a favor doing that. One-hundred percent oxygen caused other problems later, but they didn't know that, then." Wilbur patted the blanket beside his thigh. "Come here, son. Be useful for once. Bring the pillow."

Willy brought the pillow, standing next to where Wilbur had patted the blanket.

"Good boy, but that's the wrong angle. You'll have to move closer." Wilbur closed his eyes, waiting. He'd do it himself, he'd already tried, but when he lost consciousness his grip loosened, allowing the renewed flow of air to revive him. It was maddening. As maddening as the pain he was in; as maddening as that flake Ficklegruber, who had flatly declined the request. "Boy, I don't feel a pillow."

You won't.

"Do I have to tell you the rest of the story? Why you didn't have an 'accident', when we took you home from the hospital? Months later, may I add? That would be because the moment your mother was well enough, she never left your side. Ever. It was most inconvenient."

It was then that Willy felt his heart constrict, and tears sting the backs of his eyes. His mother had cared for him; kept him alive; kept him safe from his… from this man before him, the man asking Willy to kill him, the man asking Willy to commit patricide. This man who never had been his friend. Willy felt the last vestige of his heart turn cold; the tears in his eyes shards of ice, glittering with his resolve. With a hardness that matched anything his father might have in him, Willy moved forward, bringing the pillow, holding it over Wilbur's head, hovering with it, six inches above the ghoul's face.

"You killed my mother."

"You don't know that."

"I do."

"Those stones are pathetic, boy; a joke; like you. I saw them. The day I collapsed."

"Lucky you. Why didn't you kill me after you killed my mother?"

"What if I don't tell you?"

"No pillow."

Willy lifted the pillow higher, and took a step away.

"I will, I will! Because your baby teeth had come in! They promised teeth as perfect as your mother's! I had to see! And I was right!"

Wilbur's beseeching cries were repulsive, and Willy fought the nausea they brought on. Time was running out; there were two voices in this room now, and that wouldn't wash.

"Oh, well then! My teeth!" And bringing them inches from Wilbur's face, Willy smiled the cadaverous grin of the braces. "Like 'em? I hadn't thought those braces put my teeth on display, but they did, didn't they? You miserable voyeur." He pulled away; dug into his pocket. "Well, here's the thanks I came to give you, and I hope you enjoy it."

Cowed by the callousness he saw in Willy's eyes, Wilbur looked suspicious. "Thanks for what?"

"For giving me life, the only item in the plus column, that I know now you tried to take."

"What is it?" Wilbur held up the small shape Willy had taken from his righthand pocket, and dropped on Wilbur's chest.

"It's candy!" said Willy, brightly. "It's the bestest, most tastiest, rootin'-tootin' darn candy in the whole entire world! Made by me! This afternoon! In the shape of my bicuspid; I always knew you had a soft spot for them."

"I despise candy, yours or anyone else's." Opening his hand, Wilbur let the golden candy tooth drop back onto his chest. "Get it off me."

"What if I told you that this candy is life? Life without pain, life without disease—unless you were diseased twenty years ago, and I'm gonna say you were, in the head, ya know—and oh, yes," Willy held up an index finger, "let's not forget that if you eat it, you'll feel twenty years younger. What then? Would ya eat it then?" And Willy smiled with such fakery, the thought of what it must look like, hurt him.

"I'd say you're out of your mind. It's impossible! I wouldn't eat any candy you made, if my life depended on it," spat Wilbur.

"Sure about that? Impossible's what I do for a living! This little sucker is super-duper. Eat it! I recommend it!"

"Get it off me! I refuse to touch it!"

"Okey-dokey, daddy, dear! Hearing and obeying!"

With tender fingers Willy plucked the replica tooth from his father's chest, taking every care not to actually touch his kootie-ridden father. The forced enthusiasm evaporated, and Willy's voice turned cold. "We're done here, you and I, and I'm going. Enjoy Mr. Ficklegruber, Dr. Wonka, I'm sure that slob is the prefect company for you. Ta!"

In a flurry of motion, the tooth found its home in Willy's pocket, the pillow, tossed in a careless arc, found its home on the empty bed, the cleaning cart found itself in the hands of its master, being pushed to the door, and Wilbur found his voice.

"You're not going through with it? You tricked me? NURSE! NURSE!" Wilbur's yell filled the floor.

Too late for a retort, Willy and the nurse nearly collided at the door. Willy, flustered, spoke first.

"I hear noise. Look in. He say I'm Willy Wonka. I try to calm."

"He IS Willy Wonka, he IS Willy Wonka…"

"Yes, Dr. Wonka, he is Willy Wonka, I'm certain he is—"

Even as the nurse talked soothingly to Dr. Wonka, she glared menacingly at Willy, her hands shooing him from the room. Willy obliged, ducking into the hall, but hanging by the door.

"He tried to kill me," Willy heard his father say, as the nurse reached his bedside. "He tired to smother me with a pillow! Arrest him! Incarcerate him! Arrest him!"

"I'm sure the big, bad Willy Wonka did just as you say, and we'll lock him up right this minute," cooed the nurse, giving Dr. Wonka a sedative through the IV in his arm. "Don't you worry about a thing."

"We're not done. You tell him we're not done. I'm…"

The sedative was taking effect, but Willy could still hear the groggy words.

"…not done… with him."

"Oh, yes we are," Willy whispered. "We are so done."

He'd leave, but if he did, it would lend credence to the pater's claims. That wouldn't matter, but he had a new mission here now, and that meant his cover must remain. Willy stayed put, wringing his hands, and that's how the nurse found him: pale and distraught. Lips pursed to burst a blood vessel, she waved him further from the room. He went, not forgetting the cart.

"You're making me work harder than I should have to, and if you want to keep working here, that's not a good idea. Do you understand me? Not a good idea."

Willy nodded.

"Do not go into patients' rooms. If you think there is a problem, come and get me. Do you understand? Come and get me."

Willy nodded, but looked over her shoulder, his face filled with concern.

"He okay?"

Had he really been a sanitation technician, Willy would have been sorry he'd asked, because the danger to the well-being of the woman's lower lip returned; what a scowl! He covered his mouth with his hand to disguise a titter.

"How he is, is no concern of yours. His condition makes him imagine things, and he imagines you are his son. We won't talk about his son.

We won't?

"He makes…"

It sounds like we are.

"Good candy…"

Nah-uh! I make great candy!

"I'm partial to the chocolates he makes myself…"

Me, too.

"But he knows nothing about family obligations. He hasn't even tried to visit…"

That's what you think.

"Whether it would cause a ruckus or not." It occurred to her that he wasn't understanding her, and that made her bold. "Not that I blame him…"

You don't?

"That father of his is a monster. Sweet as can be, one minute, and then the next…"

Yeah.

She shook her head. "A regular Jekyll and Hyde, he is…

Yeah.

"And not from the dementia, either, which until tonight's episode I thought was clearing up… The way he manipulates that Ficklegruber boy…"

Really?

Her professional ethics pricked her, and she stopped herself before the rant could go further. "You're a bad influence, you are. I can't keep calling you 'you'. What is your name?" Hawkish eyes went to the ID on his coveralls. Mobbed by Mops Cleaning Service. Dimitri Wo-something; with the last name so long, and with so few vowels, and so many consonants, she had no prayer of pronouncing it. Shouldn't he have a hospital ID as well? The picture on it was awful: a blur. "Dimitri?"

Willy nodded. Not even close, but the name was Doris' idea, cuz it sounded like 'demerit', and she thought this plan was, well… heh, anyway…

"Get back to work with you then, Dimitri, and don't cause any more trouble. I can do without these disruptions."

No guarantees, but if there is a next disruption, it won't be on your floor.

His silent conversation finished, looking sheepish, Willy nodded again, and dropping his eyes, pushed the cart midway down the corridor, while she returned to her station. He was done on this floor, and buried in paperwork as she was, she wouldn't notice his exit. But keeping up appearances—pun intended—she was nice, and he'd see she'd find a clean hallway in his wake—no pun intended.


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.

spacetea: Shucks, you're too kind, but thank you for the compliments, and thanks for deciding to read this tome. I hope you continue to enjoy the story. :)

Linkwonka88: Thanks for your continued support; with as much as this story is about family just now, I can't help but think that 'wow' upside down, is 'mom'.

Squirrela: Were Willy on the stage, do you think he'd be as good an actor as Johnny Depp is? ;-) Just kidding. Glad you're enjoying the ride, and hope you enjoyed this latest.

Sonny April: Confucius say: "To know that we know what we know, and that we do not know what we do not know, that is true knowledge." Iterations of that saying have been floating around the public domain for centuries, but I didn't know I didn't know the Colors of the Wind version of it, because I didn't know about Colors of the Wind. Hm, me not knowing I didn't know, and you telling me, makes me think Charlie was on to something with his observation. :)

There's something gratifying about looking at a set of facts, coming to a conclusion about them, and finding you are not alone. It happens all the time. Socrates, who was ten years old when Confucius died, said: "The only true wisdom is in knowing you know nothing". Darn similar, but then they were making observations about the same truths. Terence was deciding way back in The Interview, chapter seven (December, 2012), that Willy must have seen something in the brats, or he wouldn't have bothered with them. You see that, too, and that's one of the things I like about your writing. Thanks for reviewing.