Moving quickly though he was, already on the sidewalk, Willy heard the sharp intake of breath behind him. Ignoring it with a squaring of his shoulders, he took another stride, thought, relaxed his shoulders, slowed with the next stride, and on the third stride, stopped … and made an about-face, retracing his way to the curb.

Zingers are darn scrumdumptious on first utterance; like spoken fireworks they are: bright; ear-catching; heart-stopping … Blazing brilliantly they do, for the few seconds it takes for the effect to burn away, and then… And then one is left with the ashes: the ashes of what once had been a useful bridge, now falling apart, burning for no good reason. Mrs. Stemple had done nothing wrong in the past—except do nothing wrong, where the wrong in this instance would have helped, not harmed—and in the present past she had kept quiet. She might have turned the last few days into a circus, had she wanted to, and she didn't do it. Willy, stood, saying nothing, as the thoughts flew in his head.

Surprised, Mrs. Stemple stared. In a moment, the recluse would be off again, she knew it, but Mrs. Stemple wanted him to know. Should she shout? There was a lull in the stream of cars. She dared.

"I was for it. The school refused to allow it. They didn't listen to me."

She got no response. Perhaps he hadn't heard. Then she heard that distinctive voice of his come wafting over the whine of the cars.

"The trees are gone."

The trees? The trees! She remembered Willy spending a lot of time under those old trees in the back, no matter the weather. It wasn't a popular spot. Only one other student had joined Willy there: Terry; Terry James. Whatever had become of him? She'd heard a rumor he was back in town.

Seizing her sign, Mrs. Stemple made her way across the street. There was something incongruous about holding a conversation across a busy street, and she wouldn't have it. Willy had always been a serious little boy, saying little, but she remembered his delight in the whimsical and amusing. It wasn't that he smiled; with the braces he wore, he always smiled, but he eyes would soften, and his face would light up. How hideous those braces had been! It was an image she'd not thought of for years. Now she remembered how frightening they'd been, best not looked at, and the effect of that habit was with her still. Averting her eyes, she slowed as she neared, and put forth her arm.

"May I offer you a lollipop?"

With a wan smile, Mrs. Stemple held up her stop sign, pointing to it. It did look like a lollipop, with its round top, attached to a stick. Willy glanced at it, and back at her. He'd appreciated her slowing, whatever had made her decide to do it.

"May I offer you one?"

He had stepped away, keeping better than an arm's length distance apart, an off-putting habit he'd always had, but there was the hint of a smile at the corners of his lips. Swapping his walking-stick to his left hand, his right hand fished around at the back of his coat. After a minute Willy made a slight bow, and with a smaller flourish, offered her … nothing.

"Sorry, I left them in my other coat."

Pulling her sign back, Mrs. Stemple nodded, making what she hoped was eye-contact. It was hard to tell with the dark glasses. "That's all right. Mine would taste metallic."

They smiled at the thin joke, the sign was made out of metal, but the silence that followed quickly grew awkward.

"I tried to stop them from cutting down the trees. What a silly idea that was! I was in the minority there, too." She paused, eyes on the sidewalk, and in the ensuing silence, looked up. "Say, do you ever hear from Terry these days? I heard he—"

"Can't imagine that I would."

As clipped as the answer lobbed back at her was, cutting her off, Mrs. Stemple began to think this not worth the effort. She was trying only to be friendly; Willy was standing as stiffly as one of the departed trees.

"I'd best let you be on your way, Mr. Wonka." With a small shake of her head, she turned.

It didn't take a genius to see the bridge was still burning. Willy made another attempt to relax, something he found not the easiest to do out here. Willy would like to keep her on their side, as she'd been, until he'd messed with the recipe, and sassed her with his not-so-smart smart remarks. In future, Charlie would need the ally.

"Mrs. Stemple? Do you have a favorite charity?"

Charity? Had she a favorite charity? Mrs. Stemple turned back. She could think of a hundred worthy causes. Mrs. Stemple spent her days of retirement volunteering. It gave her a reason to get up in the morning; to get out of bed; a way to give back. It felt good. Her life had been rewarding to her, and she duplicated it as best she could, for the continuity it gave her. She was here morning and afternoon, seeing to the children in her own small way, and at the homeless shelter otherwise, making use of her culinary skills. She hadn't taught cooking and other life skills all her life to give that up now. Should she mention the school? The children? The shelter? What about the trees? Willy had mentioned those trees… Why was he asking her this? Did he feel the loss of continuity he'd taken for granted? That would be troubling, but…

"Did you think you offended me earlier?"

Silence met the question, and she hurried to reassure him. "You didn't. What you said was true. The truth shouldn't offend. I tried to get you in. You didn't know that. I didn't want to tell you and get your hopes up. Now you do know, and we're square."

"We're not square. I find there's a good deal of harsh reality out here. Far more than I'm used to. Far more than what I want to become used to."

Mrs. Stemple thought of the trees again. "Do you mean that the things you're fond of disappear?"

Willy couldn't help but smile at the understatement, though he hid it by looking away. "They do … Without a warning."

Mrs. Stemple frowned. There was the ominous in those last three words, and something else. She shifted where she stood, uncomfortable. "Are you worried about Charlie?"

Getting somewhere; how 'ahhh!' that is! Willy gripped the top of his walking-stick with both hands to keep from raising a finger to underscore the point … just anybody, I am, standing here talking, anybody at all… But the tilt of his head, like his smile earlier, he couldn't stop. "I do."

"Then I'll be sure to keep an eye on him for you!" Espionage! How exciting! "If I see anything suspicious, how shall I let you know, Mr. Wonka?"

"You'll do that? Why, thank you," came Willy's happy, silky, reply. "In that case, I consider that we shall be working together, so please call me 'Willy'. You can call this number. Can you remember it?" Seeing her nod, Willy recited Terence's shop's number. It was so useful having George take up residence there! Such benefits, and another safe place for Charlie! "'Kay, then, call that. Going now… Oh, yeah… what was the name of your charity?"

"I didn't say. I could name a hundred. You pick one, if you insist, but you needn't do this."

"I do need do this. The donation'll be in your name."

Mrs. Stemple grinned, thrilled to be on a first name basis with Willy Wonka, for a reason other than convention. She wondered if the number he'd given her was his private number. Probably not, but… "Then I insist you choose, Willy." She said the name timidly. "I'll call you with a list of three or four non-profits that send children from abusive backgrounds to learn survival skills in the wilderness. How does that sound?"

"Like Red Oak and Maple to my ears … If you call with the list this morning, I'll answer, cuz I'll be near the phone." Making a half turn, for the second time, Willy tipped his hat. "You have customers."

Nodding at her co-conspirator, Mrs. Stemple made ready to perform her duty. Willy left in the direction opposite to his Factory, thinking of trees, and wilderness, and jungles, and laced through all of it, about the jungle that was his past.


Taking his time, enjoying what he knew were his last hours of freedom, Willy took a look at the convenient-to-his-winding-route-home parts of the town. Reality after reality greeted him, some eye-opening. The town he'd left behind ten years ago in flavor—and yes, it's flavor that makes life come alive, so it's flavor that I mean—so there!—Willy chided the voices of his otherwise forgotten teachers, who, like static undertones, sounded in his head to correct him—of escape into a world of his own making, was gone. His Cherry Street shop was a shoe store. Willy whistled softly to himself as he passed it by, as if it were a graveyard, peering sidelong at the display window. There was nothing wrong with shoes, he concluded, but if not candy, a hat store would have been better, or a fabric store ... rich velvets! Silks! What about a leather store? Gloves! That ghost fading behind him, Willy let it go. It was his fault, after all: the price of selling the shop when he moved out … selling it to an earnest-talking, trusted employee, who had crossed his heart and hoped to die, vowing with the gesture that the shop would always stay a confectionary store.

These trusted employees… Huh. The thin whistle died in a grunt, Willy swinging his walking-stick forwards, his brow creased. When it came to his propensity to misplace trust, this candy-to-shoes transition wasn't the worst example he'd had to live through. There were the recipe spies, and then, like a falling domino striking another, Willy's thoughts turned to another spy: a trusted friend, back in the day, and then that same friend, trusted in these days … And for taking the trouble to think on this thorny matter, Willy, with aching head, concluded that the only thing that he knew for certain, was that for certain he knew he couldn't trust his knowing who to trust. People left. Shops changed hands. Trees got chopped down. The past was a strange thing. It was out of reach, but not out of mind. Formless, it had a grip one could feel. But perhaps all this was only that his hat was too tight; it did feel a bit snug.

Dede had gone home today.

These thoughts were not conducive to constructive candy-making, but Willy shared a smile with the sidewalk. He knew the remedy to that. At the end of his self-directed, one-off tour, Willy kept his eyes on the companion he'd shared his smile with, the one beneath his feet, the more wonderful to make the moment when he raised them up, and filled them with the pièce de résistance he'd been savoring seeing all along: his Factory. The sight of it never failed to cheer him up, and feeling its presence, lifting his eyes to it at last, today was no exception. And yet… Willy had sheathed the Factory with the palest granite he could lay his hands on, as pale as his complexion actually, a trait he'd relished they'd have in common, but today Willy noted that you'd never know that. Today, soot and ashes—courtesy of clean-coal and partially burned carbon particulates—streaked his Factory's skin black, brown, and grey. Ah, this town, and its strange loves: clean-coal, wood fires, and spies! They ruined things.

Where Dede lived, Dede couldn't see the Factory.

Should Willy clean his Factory of its clean-coal coating? The other chemicals it was being subjected to, in all this colorless reality it stood against day after day, weren't doing it any good, either. Approaching his edifice via the wrong side of the street, and from the wrong direction of the school, Willy strolled along, admiring dear Cherry Street's replacement's walls. He loved these walls. They were grand; soaring, even! His spirits lifted with them. He hadn't, as rumor had it, built them that way with a fortress in mind. How easily the rumor-mongers forgot that all was friendly with the townies when these walls went up! The walls had to be as tall as they were, or the Factory would dwarf them! They'd look as meaningless as that token fence built around the back of the school! Yep, that was why his walls were the way they were: proportion.

The gates were even better. They were twice as tall. Proportion again … ken you say, 'Fibonacci numbers'? Willy eyed the pod of people loitering before the bars, and nodded. How about sayin', 'perused, gonna be pursued, by piranhas'? Feeling more himself, Willy smiled in a fiendish way, not at all surprised to see this school formed. One story, nosy neighbors—enough, were they nerds, to fill his cane—all with means of communication at their fingertips, and this is what ya'd get, every time. The fingertips not holding his walking-stick had found his teeth, but this was no time to start gnawing. Joining the piranha pack wouldn't help, as he was the chum they hoped to get chummy with, but where to assess? This bench would do. Willy thought of taking a seat, but knew he wouldn't sit still. He stood beside the bench instead, as if he might sit at any minute, and checked them out.

The school of flesh-eaters was not much. The local television station had sent a van. The two newspapers had shown up, their people lounging against their cars and around the gate. Journalists, photographers, a camera man; assorted gawkers, wondering what was up: the usual crowd for this sort of adventure. But Willy could see the thrill of cornering a confectioner was wearing thin, and glances at watches were the order of the hour. Willy could imagine the conversation.

"Shouldn't they be out by now?"

"The kid is going to be late."

"He's already late."

"Any one hear anything?"

"We've got interns out. No sightings on the way to the school; or on the way back."

"What's his name again?"

"Willy Wonka."

The group's laughter was derisive, their boredom making the poke at their colleague that much more fun. As loud as it was, Willy ambled nearer, his curiosity piqued at the animosity in it, and what he could swear was the mention of his name.

"I mean the kid," snapped the victim of the laughter.

Willy took up a post window-shopping in front of the bicycle store.

"Charlie Bucket; try and keep up," came the mild reply from a journalist on the fringe. "No need to lose your cool. I can't wait to hear the honed questions you'll be asking."

"There's only one question to ask," said the TV station's reporter, bouncing the microphone she was holding off her forearm as a distraction. "Why is Wonka doing this?"

"Who cares?" asked the chap with no knowledge of Charlie's name. "Really? The guy makes crap that rots your teeth. Big deal. I don't even like candy."

"Yeah, yeah, a dentist's nightmare, but you better hope your readers care," the reporter from the rival paper scoffed. "You know, your readers… the people who pay your salary? The guy's a candy-making billionaire, and if what those kids on that tour said is true, he's a homicidal maniac."

There was laughter all around.

"Those stories sure sold a lot of newspapers!"

"Get an inch, take a mile!"

"Ain't hyperbole stupendous?"

Someone groaned at the joke.

"Better than chocolate, for getting people hooked!"

There was more laughter.

"C'mon, guys, get serious! Don't you want to meet a billionaire, homicidal manic, with a sweet-tooth?"

Pretty much laughed out, that got a chuckle or two, fading into a silence of appreciation for the gullibility of the public, and the hyperbole that sold newspapers, and livened up newscasts, with snippets of their words brought by the wind Willy's way.

Hey! Willy thought, I've never seen a homicidal maniac in my mirror in the morning! Not a patricidal maniac, either, and if you don't believe me, just ask Dede! And boy, was he miffed at his boy at that! Humph! A chocolatier can't win for losing in this town! A minute of reflection later, and Willy's indignation gave way to joining laughter—stifled with difficulty—because truth-be-told, he'd just come from a place where trees were considered homicidal maniacs, luring children to their deaths by virtue of their existence, and in such a world as that, who could say what shams passed as Truths?

But it was time to leave this party, and Willy ambled on. The interest he was hearing was cursory, barely entertaining them. It was a slow news day … a slow news week, that brought them here. Events with dangerous weapons, and better yet, blood, were more their dish—and the solution he'd thought to handle them with looked a good one. This afternoon would be time enough to spring it on 'em, with Charlie spared the aggro, as he'd not be there. In the meantime, Willy left them to continue cooling their heels in the morning's chill, their visions of hyperbole dancing in their outrageous heads.

As he moved down the hill, Willy hoped their boredom gave them headaches, cuz something he'd heard one of them say was giving him one: a little nip of baby piranha teeth, just behind his ear; an idea that wanted to take hold, but that Willy would rather not entertain. He rubbed the spot, rubbing out the thought before he could think it. That did the trick, but not as well as he'd have liked. Moving slowly, so as not to draw the piranha's, er, Press's attention, it was over to Terence's shop, or George's shop, or whoever's shop it was, because Willy was expecting a call there, any minute, and he'd chosen that location, because that location was where the Bouquet—that's Bucket, thank-you very much—antidote to all of this dog-gone depressing reality out here had hied herself: Georgina! The woman with the unfettered, nonsensical, Technicolor imagination that Willy felt almost rivaled his own.


I do not own Charlie and the Chocolate Factory in any of its many forms, and there is no copyright infringement intended. Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed it, and thank you reviewers, favors and followers, oh, so much.

Linkwonka88: Never mind the mines in Galaxy Quest, with as long as I take to up-date, I hope you remember what happened in the last chapter! ;-) A-Stranger-On-Earth: Yikes is right, and there's more to come. Thanks for your two reviews. Squirrela: Your encouragement is most welcome and appreciated. Thanks for taking the time to review. Sonny April: I agree with your thoughts one-hundred percent, and as you've seen, the last chapter was only the beginning where those thoughts are concerned. I hope you enjoyed this one as well. Thanks for the review.