Yeah, you thought you'd seen the last of this, but, ya know, that last chapter was kinda long, and it really wanted to be longer, so I thought, hey! Why not do the rewrite? Make it two chapters, and then there'd be 23 chapters, and I could post the rewrite on the 23rd, and that's the anniversary of Mr. Dahl's passing, and wouldn't that be fitting! Plus, it lends symmetry to the story: beginning with Mr. Wilder's anniversary, and ending with Mr. Dahl's. So there ya have it, and here it is, chapters 22 and 23, the same, but different.

By the way, Grandpa Joe says he might have said Veruca needed a swift kick in the pants, because in the book, he did say Veruca needed a swift kick in the pants. For you other than US of A folks out there, he meant 'trousers', but he was speaking American. Please enjoy, and fare well.


"Hmm." Mr. Wonka had hit pause as the next movie cued up. He studied his slippered feet, rolling them to and fro to let the cursive 'W's on their toes play in the light. "Hmm," he said again. "Not-Me's accuracy score rose towards the end. The Television Chocolate Room—I'm not calling it that other name—scene was close to mine. His description of the workings of the Great Glass Elevator were close to mine. What he says about his reasons for having the Golden Ticket Contest were close to mine."

"His terrifying me with his up-and-out insinuations was close to what you did on the day," said Grandpa Joe.

With narrowed eyes, and tilted head, Mr. Wonka rolled his walking-stick in his hands. "Don't you think that was pay-back for You-Up-There calling him an inhuman monster?"

"I didn't call you a monster!"

Mr. Wonka set his jaw, staring at a spot on the far wall. "You used to work at the Factory."

Grandpa Joe sighed. He understood immediately. "I didn't tell you about the spies." Grandpa Joe could see Mr. Wonka's jaw flex, as if he was grinding his back teeth. "I didn't know about the spies!"

"Now I know you didn't know, but then, on that day, I didn't know you didn't know."

"What about me?" piped-up Charlie. "I was in that Elevator, too."

"Well, I knew you didn't know to tell me about the spies, you weren't around then, but if you don't enjoy adventure, you won't enjoy this Factory, and if you don't trust me, that too precludes you from enjoying this Factory. I confess you were a victim of proximity, but it was also another way of taking your measure." Mr. Wonka let his eyes measure Charlie from the soles of his feet to the top of his head, and having done so, turned his attention back to that spot on the far wall. "You weren't found wanting."

The silence built again, and Grandpa Joe wondered the best way to make his exit. Mr. Wonka showed no signs of rising. Neither did Charlie. If they wouldn't, he would. Creaking to his feet, he surveyed the tops of their heads. "Charlie, it's good to have you home. I hope you're planning on staying. Mr. Wonka, the family is going to want a report on your reaction. What should I tell them?"

"That I stayed to the end," beamed Mr. Wonka. "That should eat them alive."

"It will, but then they'll want to know more; a detail or two."

"A detail or two..." A smile played about Mr. Wonka's lips. "Well..." He laid his walking-stick back on the floor. "Tell them, I'm convinced the pattern on the vest would make a lovely wallpaper. Tell them, only a mad-man would wear beige trousers. Tell them, I'd go for a deep bottle-green, but really, that outfit was unsalvageable. Take the bowtie: please!" He laughed, and with a genuine smile, got to his feet. "Shall I walk you home? That would solve the problem. You could beg off, and I could be inscrutable, verbally and otherwise."

Grandpa Joe eyed the walking-stick Mr. Wonka had placed on the floor before he'd stood. "Thank you, but I can find my way. You can be inscrutable tomorrow, and I can claim I'm tired tonight."

"Shall Charlie walk you home?" asked Mr. Wonka, his hand graciously extended towards Charlie. "He can field questions."

Before he met Grandpa Joe's eyes, which he did finally do, Charlie steadfastly focused on that same spot that had so interested Mr. Wonka.

"No need a-tall for that. I'd rather… Well, I'd rather mosey on my way, my way, and when I get there, I'll remind them that you don't like playing telephone."

With a smile and a laugh, Mr. Wonka bowed from the waist. "Well said, sir, and well, sir, I'll say goodnight. Thank you for the courage you displayed by accompanying me in this endeavor."

Grandpa Joe shuffled his way to the door, but turned back. "You know, Mr. Wonka, I do think I'd have thought Veruca needed a swift kick in the pants, and I might have said so out loud, after all the sugar I ate in the Chocolate Room, but for the rest of it... that ending... I'd not think it, or say it."

Mr. Wonka nodded. "I know, dear sir. Don't give it another thought, and if you do, please think the best of all of us. I will, when I do, cuz I know I will."

With a thin smile and friendly wave, Grandpa Joe was gone.

"What about you, Charlie? You can leave, and still leave your Grandpa Joe to reflect in peace. There's more than one way back to your house from here."

Charlie jumped to his feet. "NO!" He bit his tongue. "I mean, no, I'm not tired, I slept on the plane, and the train, and—"

Mr. Wonka smiled. "The automobile?" Charlie nodded. "I'm not tired, either. Shall we watch Mr. Wonka and his Chocolate Factory again?"

"NO!" said Charlie, "I mean, if you want—"

"To," said Mr. Wonka grinning. "Always thinking of what others want … Nah, I don't want to. I was serious about that wallpaper, er, vest, and those trousers, and that bowtie; I don't think I can face them again." He bent down and picked up his bean bag chair, dropping it in such a way that the chair so lately vacated by Grandpa Joe would serve as a backrest to it. With an expressive hand, he invited Charlie to do the same. As Charlie did, Mr. Wonka sank into his, and Charlie followed suit. "Charlie!" exclaimed Mr. Wonka, as if surprised to see him. "Where'd you come from?"

"Ahhh, London."

"Ahhh, London!" Mr. Wonka pushed out his lower lip. "Not Florence, or Venice?"

Charlie made to speak, but Mr. Wonka held up a hand. "The big take-away is: you're back. Why?"

Charlie found himself remarkably uncomfortable on his bean bag chair. Should he sit up, lie back, stand up, curl up? Cross his ankles, fold his hands, look at Mr. Wonka, look away from Mr. Wonka? He decided to stand. Mr. Wonka rose with him, the bean bag chairs between them, as they stood on the far side of each arm of the solid chair. Charlie's lips moved, he was ready to speak, but, running through all he wanted to say, what he did say surprised him. "You brought two bean bag chairs!"

Mr. Wonka grinned, poking his with the tip of his walking-stick. "So you noticed that."

"My family told me only you and Grandpa Joe were going to watch the end."

"That was the plan."

"But you brought seats for three!"

"If I hadn't, where would you sit? Comfortably, that is."

"How did you know I was coming back? I didn't know I was coming back, until I was on my way."

"I didn't."

"But—"

"I brought two chairs. Do you remember what I told Violet in the entrance hall?"

"Sure. You don't care."

Mr. Wonka giggled. Charlie had a knack for dispelling shadows in unconventional ways that Mr. Wonka endlessly appreciated. "After that."

Charlie grinned. "Confidence is key."

"Confidence is key, so in the same way that Sherlock Holmes is confident, I am. If you came back, I'm a genius, and if you didn't come back, I had a nice, big, comfy chair for myself. I'm a winner either way, wouldn't you say?"

Mr. Wonka's eyes were so mischievous, Charlie had to laugh, which only served to make Mr. Wonka all the happier.

"I was hoping you'd come back. I did my best to make it happen. I hoped you wouldn't leave, but you did. At least it was in a huff. That gave me hope."

Huff? Hope? Charlie's brows knit together. Mr. Wonka hadn't wanted him to go? "What did you do?"

"I left the best chocolate I can make on your dining table for you to taste."

"Ohhh," said Charlie, a light dawning. "Can we sit down?"

Mr. Wonka obliged before Charlie could finish his question. Feet flat, knees raised, his arms around them, Mr. Wonka faced Charlie at an angle. Charlie mirrored him.

"I didn't want to go. I thought you wanted me to go."

"I've told you that caring about doing what others want, when that doing does you no good, harm even, is your Achilles' heel."

"Yeah, tonight, for the first time!"

"Mimicking my psychotic, on-screen self, I'll quote Glinda, the Witch of the North: you had to learn it for yourself. You're back. You must have learned it. Who put you on the right track? Aside—useful signpost that it is—your justified huffiness?"

"Justified?"

"I am supposed to be teaching you my secrets. As fabulous as my instruction has been, we both know that hasn't been happening."

Charlie was at a loss for words. Mr. Wonka was never this ... not blunt, he could be blunt, and often was, but this ... transparent.

"Quit stalling."

That was blunt. Charlie found words. "That girl I met in the play I saw. Her name was Matilda. She had a terrible family. They were shallow, and treated her terribly." Mr. Wonka made his face a mask. Charlie hurried on. "At the end of the play she had a new family, a loving family, who loved her the way her own family didn't."

Mr. Wonka, his eyes flicking to the floor and then back to Charlie, made a small noise in his throat, as if having decided on one course, chose another. "So she's like me."

Charlie was glad he was sitting down. "She was like you, a lot like you, and her new family was a lot like us, and the villain of the play was a lot like your father, and if your father was anything like Miss Trunchbull, you're lucky to be alive!"

Mr. Wonka held up his walking-stick, close across his body, as if to ward off a blow, but one that was near to him, perhaps inside of him. A giggle he couldn't stifle cut the air, but he stifled its friends while he still could, and thought of chocolate-milk giving cows jumping over the moon, on their way to populating the Milky Way. The Milky Way, and cows, and it was too funny, and, and, and some trauma is best forgot. The Milky Way went white, like milk, like a fade to white, instead of black, at the end of a movie. Like that grotesque movie so lately ended, that grotesque part of his life was so distantly ended. He lowered his walking-stick, placing it beside him, sorry that although a reflex, what was awful-but-ended still touched him this way. He noted Charlie was waiting for his response, but without much concern. That meant this journey hadn't taken but a second or two. That subject and no flashback; progress. Mr. Wonka sighed. "Ya know what? I've often thought so. But ya know what else? That's over. This is so much better. Let's stay here, body and soul. What a strange play."

Charlie swallowed, relieved. He hadn't thought about the risk he was taking until after the words 'father' and 'lucky to by alive' had left his lips. But he was lucky, the luckiest boy in the world, and all was well. He pressed his luck. "I checked to see who wrote it. His name was Roald Dahl: Roald Dahl's Matilda."

"Didn't we see that name at the beginning of this movie?" Mr. Wonka picked up the remote, to rewind the movie, and check.

"Please don't," said Charlie. "I've seen enough of that movie, and I don't care who Roald Dahl is, but he does seem to think the way we do."

Mr. Wonka let the remote rest in his lap. "Good for him, or bad for him, this Mr. Dahl... It depends, I guess, on why he thinks the way we do. How did his Matilda help you?"

"She had a song. She said only I could change my story. She said sometimes you have to be naughty. I thought you didn't want me here. I thought I'd be naughty if I stayed, so I left, and then I thought I'd be naughty if I came back, but here is where I want to be, and I don't care what you say, I'm not leaving!"

"Golly gee, you naughty, naughty boy!" said Mr. Wonka, but his happiness shone through the words. It must have been the lateness of the hour, or the dimness of the lighting, or the way the movie he'd just seen had unsettled him, but Mr. Wonka kept speaking, as if to himself. "Two years ago, I did want you to leave, because it is a big wonderful world out there, and it shouldn't be missed. I haven't deceived you. But someday, I hoped you'd choose the Chocolate Factory again, because until you did, my most secret secrets would stay mine." He paused, checking to see he had Charlie's attention. "Savvy? I'm sensitive to betrayal. There's no candy that makes that feel better, and if the world held more delights for you than this Factory does, then that would be another one. That movie was one."

"Do you hate Mr. Wilder now?"

"Nah, he's an actor. He says lines, written by a writer. I guess Mr. Wilder has some input, but if, as you say, the same writer was involved in this and Matilda, I can tell you, he sure went off the rails in this one. I haven't seen Matilda, but if it brought you back, I'm for it." Lifting his walking-stick, Mr. Wonka rolled it in his fingers, the light dancing off its swirled ridges, the soft pattern it made falling across their faces. "Mr. Wilder let me down. He betrayed me. He never tried to contact the Factory. He never spoke to me. He screamed. He screamed at Charlie. I'd rather cut out my tongue. He got it almost all wrong."

"What did he get right?"

"The ending."

Neither moved. The moment passed.

"What d'ya say we watch 'Young Frankenstein', Charlie? I love that movie."

Charlie nodded. "I do, too."

THE END


Quoted material in italics are direct quotes from the 1971 and 2005 films. Capitalized lines are song lyrics. Willy's Wizard of Oz quotes are in italics. The Mudville reference is from the ballad Casey At the Bat, by Ernest Thayer. Chitty-Chitty-Bang-Bang is a book by Ian Fleming, a good friend of Roald Dahl. I still do not own either of anything of the Chocolate Factories ... wait; strike that, reverse it ... and there is no copyright infringement intended.