The Understanding, by An Cailín Rúa

In which the full gruesome and painful details of Charlie’s condition of coming to live in the factory are explained, and dear Mr. Wonka is taken down a few notches.

The second time the Great Glass Elevator came crashing through the roof of the Bucket house, the reaction wasn’t so much of surprise and alarm but of annoyance and, for the less affable members of the family, downright anger. It was hardly within their means to go out and buy nails and find surplus wood yet again, and after all, Mr. Wonka had hardly lifted a finger to fix the damage or sent any kind of financial compensation, or even a note of apology. Yet, once again, here he seemed to be, Charlie in tow, and this time with an even more flummoxed look on his face. At the very least, they carried with them as well the answer to Mrs. Bucket’s query- “What are Oompa Loompas?” The door to the elevator opened with a ding and about a dozen of the determined little buggers, all bundled up in defense of the cold, sprung forth and immediately began sizing up the house, ignoring the Buckets completely as they set about their work. Charlie looked at his parents, optimistic, if a little somber. Mr. Wonka seemed to think the floor a much more personable thing to stare at.

“Charlie,” said his mother, trying not to sound to irate (and not exactly knowing what to say, anyway), “Ah, where have you been?”

“I’ve been talking with Mr. Wonka,” said Charlie, his disposition steadily brightening, and Mr. Wonka’s, Mr. Bucket noting with a small amount of amusement, becoming steadily less so. The man’s skin was a more deathly sick pallor than the last time he had been here, and he looked simply miserable. He stepped out of the elevator, but still refused to lay his eyes on anything but the cracks in the floor. Really, didn’t these people know how to take care of their wood? It could hardly be expected to last if it didn’t have the proper-

“He wants to talk to you,” said Charlie brightly. Mr. Wonka winced. Actually, considering the improper care the floor had received, it really wasn’t a bad floor at all.

Charlie turned around and looked at the man, who still was keeping his gaze transfixed upon the floor, or was trying to, as Charlie seemed to keep getting in the way. One benefit of being short, he supposed, was the ability to thwart staring at the floor. But Mr. Wonka was one smart cookie, and Charlie hadn’t taken into account that there was a perfectly good ceiling to stare at, as well. His eyes roved up, and sure enough, there was the ceiling, and Charlie could do nothing, nothing, to obstruct any view in this case. Haha! He should have stared at the ceiling in the first place, it was much easier to avert gazes in this manner.

The Buckets stared at Mr. Wonka expectantly, clearly getting very annoyed. At the very least, the pack of Oompa Loompas running around the house, testing stability and measuring things with tape measures, did some small measure to relieve the silence and awkwardness, if only because it annoyed the Buckets even more. What were the little creatures doing, anyway?

“Mr. Wonka?” Mr. Bucket said civilly.

“Yeah?” replied the man absently. The ceiling was, he had to admit, in considerably less good shape than the floor. Aside from the gaping hole in it, another section looked like it had suffered a very recent and unprofessional patch job.

They all looked at each other, and then at Charlie, who still continued to look at Mr. Wonka, his optimism waning. “Mr. Wonka?” said Charlie, pulling out a meek and sad little voice. Mr. Wonka winced at this. Uncomfortable as they made him, he really could have cared less what the parents thought, but any implication that he had displeased the boy caused a very unpleasant aching sensation in his heart. Even still, though he had a much better grasp as to why he felt so miserable, it still didn’t make a whole lot of sense. Surely his lack of rotten-ness didn’t really warrant the affection he already felt for the child, and therefore the sad sort of empathy he felt for him. That didn’t really make sense, did it? This whole situation just kept getting far messier than he had ever intended it to.

“Yes, my dear boy, of course,” Mr. Wonka said in a quiet, barely conscious voice. At this point all of the Buckets were getting not so much annoyed as frightened. Mr. Wonka’s gaze was cloudy and hardly focused on anything.

“He’s completely off his rocker,” said Grandpa George, finally, stating out loud what everyone else had been thinking.

“Pops!” snapped Mr. Bucket, not because he was afraid of his father seeming rude, but because he quite genuinely agreed with him and was more than a little afraid of what Wonka was about. Fortunately, if Mr. Wonka had heard him, he gave no indication. His gaze wandered a little and finally fell upon Charlie’s parents, and the two found themselves shrinking a little, Wonka’s gaze a place they didn’t particularly like. His cunning half-smile was more than a little unsettling.

“I…” he began, confidence faltering, but Charlie’s optimism returning. “He… I… ah…”

Twelve eyebrows lifted at him expectantly. Expectant eyebrows always made him nervous.

“Well, ah,” he continued, “I… repeated my offer to Charlie,” he finally got out. “Having decided…” Boy, what he wouldn’t have given for some cue cards right about now, “that there is… no child more deserving… or capable! … than your… Charlie, here. So…” he attempted a determined smile, “wanting what is best for my factory, after all, I’ll have nothing… er, no one less.” An uncomfortable, plastic smile spread across his face.

Mr. and Mrs. Bucket looked at each other, not really sure what was different about his offer this time. Mr. Wonka’s smile faded, a little sadness creeping onto his face. “We’ve… come to something of an understanding.” He looked at the floor again. Nice grain, nice indeed. He could feel eyebrows being raised at him again. Had he bothered to look, he might have seen that the eyebrows weren’t being raised at him in so much a skeptical way as a hopeful, curious one. Floors were a rather comforting presence, he decided. He had never come to appreciate the value of staring at a good, solid floor. But then again, he never really had to deal with people that weren't the far more amiable and preferable Oompa Loompas. He was supposed to be saying something, wasn't he? What was the understanding, again?

What a day.

I haven’t published anything on this site in a loooong time, but yay for me, I spose! Well, this came about interestingly- I was supposed to be signing leases on an apartment today, but instead my roommate seems to have gone to Canada and I seem to have been left to my own devices, and my own devices have produced a fanfic. Since the day is young and my own devices are few, this will be finished probably quite soon.