"Do you see him today?"

Charlie joined Willy at the office window. It was Wednesday morning, and time for the trip to school.

"I don't. I'm hoping I won't." Nevertheless, Willy kept his gaze on the street below. "What's most important is that you don't see him; at least, not by yourself."

"That I don't see him? By myself? Why not?"

"Ahhh..." Flipping up his walking-stick and holding it behind his back, Willy rocked on his heels. He had started, but he stopped. Charlie raised his eye brows. "I expect you expect me to answer that. 'Kay. He's… umm… well…"

The second pause dragged on for more than a minute. Charlie was on tenterhooks, waiting for what would come after 'well'.

What came after 'well' was Willy turning on his heel, the hem of his frock coat flying out behind him. "…for me to know, and you to never find out.
"Boogie down, clown! Let's blow this pop-stand, and bop to your Pop!"

Surprised by Willy's sudden over-the-top gaiety, Charlie scampered to catch up with him, accomplishing the feat at the door. "What does he look like?" Charlie asked, breathless. Willy's glance his way was as sharp as peanut-brittle. "So I'll know him if I see him," Charlie added hastily.

Having closed his eyes, and pursed his lips, Willy, just as suddenly relaxing, smiled. His once again opened eyes were dancing with fun. "Charlie!" he cried. "Really? You don't know what your Pop looks like? I do! He's—"

Charlie grinned. "Not mine, silly, yours!"

"Did you say, 'silly' or 'Willy'? No matter; I suppose it's true you've never seen my sire— that you know of… But two-thirds of this town has. Do you spend a lot of time visiting dentists' offices?" Charlie shook his head. "No, I suppose not… Well, he's tall, even if you're not small; he's older than I am, has white, wavy hair, and a Van Dyke beard. At least, he did the last time I saw him… Maybe the surgeons shaved it off…" His eyes narrowing on that thought, Willy giggled. "That'd be a sight!" It took a minute, but Willy noticed Charlie's silence. "Come on, slow-poke. Time's not standing still, even if we are."

They proceeded into the hall.

"He's a bad influence, Charlie, best seen not alone by you or anyone else."

Charlie opened his mouth, but holding up his hand in a way that meant stop, Willy shook his head. He knew what was coming: Charlie, basing his experience on his own, would defend parens everywhere. "Ya can't contradict me on the first part: a minute ago, Dede dearest had me calling my Factory a pop-stand, which, I assure you, it is not. You'll have to take my word about the first first part, that he's no one to be alone with, but I suggest you do."


Nurse Grimes had brought the Wednesday Morning Gazette with her. Shaking out its folds, Dr. Wonka, dressed in pajamas and a plush smoking robe, perused it on the sofa, pillows supporting him. He was feeling better than he had thought he would, and sooner, though he knew it wouldn't last. Such a shame! But he'd use his time to his advantage, and spend it as normally as he could.

His print procurer was clattering about in the kitchen, and any minute now he'd have himself a cup of tea, with a side of dry toast, cut into points. It would come with inane prattle, but he'd do his best to ignore that; with luck, once he'd had a bite, the toast would come without nausea. The more Dr. Wonka thought about it, the more he thought he'd like to do without Nurse Grimes altogether. Her constant harping on the one subject she wouldn't shut up about, The Boy's impending visit, was enough to make Dr. Wonka want to end it all mid-sentence. Thinking of her forever voiced anticipation, Dr. Wonka rolled his eyes. When it came to coming to the house, The Boy was proving as stubborn as the mule he was. Ah, here was the story she had mentioned to him, in the Society Section. The Society Section! There was a joke! The Boy wasn't fit for society!

Chocolatier's Papers Put Principal In Pickle. Humph! Dr. Wonka gave the pages a shake. It seemed The Boy couldn't keep himself out of the news. Monday's Evening Bulletin had carried a story headlined Chocolatier Turns Chauffeur, but they'd had nothing about The Boy since that blurb. Dr. Wonka had sniffed. He had had a better headline for the rot: Chocolatier Doesn't Rate First Page. The story had run in the About Town section. This latest story had photos. One showed a man surrounded by children, like sharks around chum, their pokey arms and grubby fingers flailing the air. Dr. Wonka studied the picture. It wasn't his son they were harrying, more's the pity: The Boy hated that sort of thing. Dr. Wonka turned to the text. Apparently The Boy, after ridding himself of whatever these papers were, had fled; that sounded like him: a coward, through-and-through. He never faced anything head-on, except for that one time, all those years ago. Dr. Wonka's eyes lost their focus.

'No son of mine is going to be a Chocolatier!'

'Then I'll run away!'

Right, Boy. Run away. I have a plan for that; a big plan! One you'll never forget! The paper forgotten in his lap, Dr. Wonka's eyes regained his living room. He frowned, grinding his teeth. The memory of those two busybodies from down the block, foiling his design to break his son's will, was bitter to this day. But for them…

"Now don't you frown, Dr. Wonka!" Nurse Grimes balanced the tray she carried on the edge of the side table, transferring tea, and toast, and another item to its surface. "See! Tea and toast, and I've brought you a pair of scissors, so you can cut out the article for your collection! Isn't that wonderful!" Straightening, she beamed at him.

Dr. Wonka picked up the scissors, thinking how wonderful it would be to plunge them into her starched uniform, just slightly to the left of the center of her chest. Then he sighed. He probably hadn't the strength to pierce the fabric, let alone what counted. He smiled as he picked up the scissors, and then dropped them into his lap, the paper's page crackling with the contact.

"Now, Dr. Wonka, I don't want you to tire yourself. I can cut out the article if you don't feel up to it. Shall I get Monday's paper? Shall we cut out that article, too? Wouldn't it be wonderful if your son were to come over, and cut it out for you? When is he coming to see you? I thought he'd be over here by now." Frowning for a moment, seeing Dr. Wonka's eyes close with weary born of sadness, Gertrude felt she had overstepped. She remembered Dr. Wonka telling her he'd like to be at his best when his son saw him. A silly thought, surgeries could be tricky, anything could go wrong, even afterwards—infections could flare up, cause complications—but she'd smooth it over. "Look at that wonderful old car Mr. Wonka has! So classic! And isn't it thoughtful of him to bring his little visitor to school and back with it?" Caught by a thought, she frowned again. Odd that Mr. Wonka would see to this boy, and not to his own father. She took a few steps closer so that she might bend to the page. "Do you see? He's that one." Her finger pointed. "He's that boy, there; Charlie Bucket."

"Don't crowd me, woman!"

Nurse Grimes jumped away. She'd meant no harm; she was only showing the old curmudgeon! Was he this abrupt with his son? If so, no wonder he stayed away!

Dr. Wonka brought the page closer to his face. Charlie Bucket: Not much to look at, and no connections. This excuse for a lad must be The Boy's attempt at acquiring an heir. Grimes was watching, or he'd have rolled his eyes with contempt. How round-about; The Boy couldn't even do that right! There was the Bucket boy's father, standing on the other side of the car: more nothing to look at. Mrs. Bucket wasn't there. No matter; Dr. Wonka had seen Mrs. Bucket when they'd been moving that excuse for a shack. She'd looked so much like… like… He felt his throat constrict. Dare he think of her? She looked so much like... Mina… Tears sprang to his eyes. He turned his head in the direction his house had once stood. Such a waste, such a… He dropped the paper and that line of thought at the same time. He couldn't do this: dwell in the past. Here and now he'd done damage he didn't know he could afford. "I'm sorry I snapped at you. You startled me."

Nurse Grimes saw the tears that filled the old dentist's eyes, and wondered at them, but she didn't want to know. Enough was enough. "I'll let you enjoy your paper."

She was leaving the room; so much the better. Dr. Wonka touched the back of his hand to his eyes, lest the tears fall. This photo she was gushing over was a terrible photo of everyone in it. Obviously taken with a telephoto lens—and by the look of it, a cheap one—the photo was nothing but grainy. Ficklegruber's boy had taken better pictures of this pauper and his parents for him; much better pictures. "Wait!"

Nurse Grimes stopped, pivoting on her heel as if she were pivoting to face oncoming broken glass.

"Have you had any messages from Felix Ficklegruber? I was expecting him yesterday, at the latest."

"I haven't, and there are no messages on the machine."

"Would you bring me the phone, please? I must see him." The frown hadn't left her face. "I'll call The, um, Willy, too. Thanks to you, I'm feeling as chipper as can be, and it's about time that boy of mine came to see his old Dad." He had taken a bite of the toast. He didn't know if it were that, or making nice to this nurse that was giving him that nauseous feeling, but it was probably both. Nurse Grimes' face was now wreathed in a smile. Dr. Wonka closed his eyes. Silly cow! Thinking The Boy was much of anything… But his effort had worked. He was on her good side again.

"I'll bring it, right away."

"Thank you. And would you please bring my sketch pad and pencils? There's something I'd like to design for my son; for this new protégé he's found for himself."

"Of course! How lovely! I'm sure Mr. Wonka will be thrilled with whatever you have in mind!"


"Won't the children be thrilled when they give you those permission slips you had the Principal hand out yesterday?"

In the back seat, Willy squirmed. It wasn't Noah asking the question, it was Nora. They'd surprised him this morning with this change of the guard, or, more properly, this change of the guardian. 'You'd know this, Willy, had you come to breakfast,' she'd told him, as she held the car door open for him, her smile as sweet and dry as the crust on meringue.

Ensconced in the Rolls' rear seat, Willy had passed Charlie a note. 'Did you know about this?'

Charlie shook his head. Willy held out his hand. Charlie passed back the piece of paper. Willy had ridden in silence for a block, and then written, 'You weren't at breakfast?'

Charlie held out his hand, and Willy handed him the paper and pencil. 'I was, but when I left to get you, they hadn't made up their minds. Mum wants to ask you something, and she says this is the only way she can be sure of seeing you.'

Reading what Charlie had written, Willy had to chuckle. She had a point. These trips to the school were more social than he really wanted, and he made up for it by keeping to himself in the Factory. It was irking Doris and Eshle as much as it was apparently irking the distaff Bucket. He held out his hand for the pencil. Charlie obliged. 'Clever thinker, your mater.'

Charlie smiled when he read the note. Willy made ripping motions with his hands, and Charlie, as Willy had done on the day before, made the confetti. As they turned into the school's driveway, with a grin at Willy, Charlie threw it into the air.


Children waving papers greeted them. "Here they are," they cried. "We have them, just like you asked!"

"This isn't going to be as pretty as the papers they are holding in their hands, Charlie," said Willy. "Have they not looked at them? Is it taking too long? Whatever; I'll get out, and you scoot around me. Get inside the school as quick as you can. Mrs. Bucket, you be ready to drive when I get back in."

"Sure thing! Your wish is my command, Mr. Wonka."

Was she kidding? Could one ever tell with parens? "'Kay," said Willy, with a dubious glance at Charlie. Charlie smiled and nodded in return, and Willy decided he had no choice but to believe the best of them. Putting his doubts behind him, and like the celebrity he was, Willy stepped from the car, waving to the crowd as if he wanted their votes. "Wonderful, wonderful, you slip-fisted tykes! Hang on to them tight, and I'll slip them into the hopper on the return trip. Bye!"

There was hardly any need for Nora to use the accelerator: the wave of disappointment alone would have been enough to propel the Rolls from the school grounds. This was the third day, and so far the children had gotten nothing from this man except delay and promises of maybe. Delay and maybe didn't cut it.

"Did he call us tykes?" asked one.

"Slip-fisted tykes," said another.

"I'm not a tyke," said a third. "Does he think we're two?"

"He's not collecting the slips now?" asked a fourth.

"This afternoon," said a fifth.

"What does he mean by 'hopper'?" said a sixth. "Don't we all get to go? Is it a lottery?"

The buzz of voices parsing the Chocolatier's meaning rose and fell, even as the students made their way to their classes. A seventh speaker summed it up for all of them: "He's a jerk."

Had he heard the lad say that, Willy would have smiled.


As was his habit when returning to the Factory, Willy had sat himself in the front passenger seat. Keeping his eye out for tall, old, white-haired men with Van Dykes, Willy expected, as Nora drove, that any second, he'd be barraged with questions or comments. Fearing it worse than the barrages at the school, it was hard not to cringe, but he managed to keep his chin up and shoulders square. The barrage didn't happen. She was as quiet as he. By the time they were through the opened Factory gates, his curiosity had him on the tenterhooks so lately abandoned by Charlie. By the time the car had lowered to its underground shelter, the two in it, he had to ask.

"So… What?"

Nora wasn't the Principal. Nora was on it. "I want a job in this Factory."

Noah had said that. Willy raised a brow. Ignoring the request wasn't going to make it go away. He'd try an obstacle. "I'm fully staffed."

"I know that, and I don't care. I want a job in this Factory."

Willy had to smile, and he really wanted to giggle. When pushed, 'I don't care' was one of his favorite phrases. "Why?"

"Because you've made me obsolete." With a tilt of his head, Willy conveyed his puzzlement. Nora went on. "My parents have moved into Terence's shop, and as opulent as you've made it, we'll be lucky to see them on weekends."

Willy raised a finger. "Nah-a, that wasn't me! They wanted to go, and you helped!" Willy missed Georgina, more than Nora needed to know. Composing himself, he lowered his hand. "You can always visit them there. Hey! There's an idea! You could spend your time helping them! That's a job!"

"That's not a job I want. Would you like a job working for your parents?"

The answer was no, but the question was a knife. Willy flinched. "How sweet of you to ask me. My mother, if she isn't dead, is as good as dead, and my father soon will be, so, no, I don't think I'd like a job working for them: I don't see much of a future in it."

Nora's eyes widened, her hand flying to cover her mouth. She'd been thinking out loud, and not until she'd heard the steel in the answer had she recognized it. She'd been thoughtless, when she hadn't meant to be. Frustration with her newfound feeling of uselessness had led her to say what she hadn't meant. She fastened on a detail, knowing anything else would end this exchange. Willy had his hand on the door handle, about to open it. "You didn't use Latin!"

"For emphasis only, dear lady."

Soft and silky; this was going the wrong way. At least he'd answered. Nora leaned away, lest she reach out her hand to touch Willy's forearm, tactile proof that she hadn't thought before she'd spoken. "I'm sorry, Willy, I only meant that no one wants to work for their parents: their parents see them only as the children they once were, and boss them about accordingly."

With narrowed eyes, and lips straight, Willy crossed his arms against his chest. "You'd instead like me to boss you about?"

Nora felt the heat rising in her neck. Being bossed about wasn't what she was after, but if the Oompa-Loompas were any indication, Willy wasn't that sort of boss. Before the heat she felt reached her cheeks, and made this more awkward than it already was, she said more. "You didn't know me when I was ten. You wouldn't treat me as if I were ten. That's all I'm saying."

"Peachy-keen. All I'm saying is that I'm fully staffed."

The click of the door handle acted as punctuation, and Willy left the car. Nora was out seconds behind him, leaning across the roof. Her words spilled over themselves, like a Slinky spilling down stairs.

"Charlie is in school all day, and when he's not in school he spends his time with you; Noah has his new job fixing your machines, and Joe can take care of Josephine, and that was my job: I took care of all of them, with next to nothing to work with, and now we have everything we could ever imagine, and there's almost nothing for me to do!" She made her hand on the roof a fist. "You owe me a job!"

The last sentence rang in the air between them, and Willy, his back to Nora as he went on his way, stopped, a smile playing on his face. He admired gumption, and she had it.

"I owe you a job?" he murmured.

"Yes!"

Defiance was nice; when it meant a backbone. Removing the goggles that he wore, Willy turned to face her, his eyes soft, his lips in a half-smile. "Getting Josephine out of bed, for longer than it takes her to scarf a meal, would be a worthy job."

She'd hit on something. Something that had reached him. In his overly encouraging tone, Nora sensed surrender. But there was a trick in what he was saying, Nora was sure of it. If she figured it out—got this next part right—he'd give in. She thought. She thought about the task Willy had suggested. She imagined getting that done. In her mind's eye, she imagined Josephine getting out of bed, and then the screen was dark. She imagined Joe trying to do it. In her mind's eye, the screen was dark. She ran through the others, maybe Charlie, but with the same result. She couldn't see it happening. Coming to her conclusion, she gave it voice. "No one and nothing is going to get Josephine out of that bed for any significant length of time."

Willy's eyes crinkled at the corners, his smile broad. His laughter might be silent, but it shook him. That was his conclusion, too. "What sort of job would you like?"


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 for any faves, follows, or reviews you would like to add.