Chapter Four

"He's broken some of the metacarpals in his right hand, and he has a few broken ribs. The good news is that his language skills are mostly intact, apart from some word-finding difficulties," said Dr. Hibbert outside Smithers' hospital room with Mr. Burns and Mrs. Smithers. "However, he has sustained nerve damage. We don't know yet how much will be permanent. He might be able to walk again, since some nerve function has been preserved in his lower spine and legs, but it will take time."

Burns said, "What about his memory?"

"It's difficult to say. Most of his memories seem intact except for those about you. There is the possibility that his amnesia is primarily psychological instead of neurological. Is there a reason he might want to forget you?"

"You mean to say he... doesn't want to remember me?" Burns choked up, his eyes big and sad.

Mrs. Smithers said, "Dr. Hibbert, why would you say such a thing?" and put a comforting arm around Burns' shoulder.

"I'm merely advancing a theory," said Dr. Hibbert, jovially, then clearing his throat to speak seriously. "I only suggest it because this type of selective amnesia usually has a psychological root."

"There is no way Waylon would want to forget Mr. Burns. For the last two decades, he's wanted nothing more than to be with him. He risked his life for him. I am firmly convinced there is nothing he would want more than to remember Mr. Burns."

"He's going to need significant help in his recovery. He'll need assistance getting around, bathing, fixing meals, doing laundry... At first, he'll spend most of his time lying in bed and sleeping a lot, as he's been doing. For the next few weeks, his ability to think will be significantly impaired. It'll be months before he's regained a semblance of normality. Do you think you can handle that, Mr. Burns?" said Dr. Hibbert as he prepared the discharge papers.

Burns nodded. Mrs. Smithers looked taken aback that Dr. Hibbert had assumed Burns would take care of him when she was standing right there. As Dr. Hibbert handed the post-surgical instructions to Mr. Burns and opened the door to Smithers' room, he gestured to Mrs. Smithers and said, "If I could have a word alone with Mrs. Smithers?" Burns nodded and entered Smithers' room. Once he'd shut the door, Dr. Hibbert said, "I hope you weren't offended that I'm tasking Mr. Burns with his recovery."

"Oh, no, I just..."

"He has nursed him through a thyroid storm and some other serious injuries. And with his servants at the manor, changing the linens and preparing food for him are all much more easily accomplished, not to mention that he can hire nurses to attend to him."

"I understand."

"In addition, it will probably help him remember Mr. Burns if he's around him each day. Clearly, that would've been his top priority before his accident."

"That's true."

"Well, I have to go see other patients. Good luck, and don't let him get his hands on any Chinese finger traps in the next few weeks. The aftermath is hilarious but tragic," he said, chuckling.

She went back into her son's room and saw Burns with his hand over the back of Smithers'. She approached him from behind and placed the palm of her hand over Burns' wrist, startling him. "Take good care of my son."

"Yes, I will." To Smithers, he said, "I brought the Pontiac Astrowagon I won at that ballgame to transport your wheelchair. It's parked in front of the entrance." He rolled a wheelchair up to Smithers' bed.

"Waylon," she said, turning to him, "call me when you get there. If there's anything you need, let me know."

"I will, Mom."

Burns pulled the Astrowagon up to the front entrance of the manor. He brought the wheelchair out the back, rolling the wheels over the ramp extending from the spacious trunk, then wheeled it to the passenger seat where Smithers was sitting. He helped support Smithers on his way from the seat to the wheelchair. "I had my contractors add a wheelchair ramp while you were in the hospital. You will, however, be limited in where you can go inside, since there are many staircases, and I didn't have them put ramps every which way." Smithers began to wheel himself up the ramp that had been added over part of the steps to the entrance, but he was unable to muster the strength to push himself up the steep slope, so he stalled at the bottom as Burns made his way up.

"Um, Monty?"

Irritated, Burns turned back and said, "What is it?"

"I can't push my wheelchair up this ramp; it's too steep."

"Very well," he said with a sigh. He walked back to Smithers and drew in a breath before cracking his knuckles and pushing him up the ramp. Burns opened the door and input the security code, then led him through the main hall.

"Wow, you weren't kidding when you said you were a billionaire," said Smithers, craning his neck around to examine the architecture and furnishings as Burns closed the doors to Burns Manor behind them. "This place is breathtaking. Do I really live here?"

"Yes, you'll be living here." Burns sat on a burgundy chair facing the windows near the door, and Smithers wheeled himself up beside him. "My servants will be at your beck and call. This pager will summon them," he said, handing Smithers a small, red disk with speaker holes and a brighter red button that fit in the palm of his hand. "Simply hold down this button to speak to them and release it when you are through or to allow them to ask any questions. If you want more pills, they will get them for you. If you want a live performance of a Mozart concerto to lull you to sleep, they will arrange that. If you want –"

"Thanks, I've got it. What I really want right now is a sandwich."

Burns pressed and held down the button. "Smithers is going to make a request. Remember my instructions to do exactly what he says."

He released the button, and a man's voice came through the speakers. "Yes, Mr. Burns." Burns looked to Smithers expectantly.

Smithers pressed the button with an index finger. "I want a sandwich, please."

"Right away, sir," came back the servant's voice. "What kind of sandwich would you like, Mr. Smithers?"

Burns pried Smithers' finger off the button and said, "What is this 'please' nonsense? You should be giving a command. They are my employees, and they are yours to do with as you please. That's their job. Now, give them an order like you're in charge." He released Smithers' hand.

Clearing his throat, Smithers pressed down again on the button and said, "I'll have a Monte Cristo. Deep fried. With french fries. And truffle grated over the fries," he said, his voice increasingly authoritative. "And a side of bacon!"

"Coming right up, Mr. Smithers. Anything you'd like to drink with that?"

"Lemonade."

"And where would you like me to bring it when it's ready?"

"Here. In the...um..." He looked around the room, searching for the word for it.

"In the main hall," Burns said. "I suppose you're tired of hospital fare. Still, it's not like you."

"What's not like me?"

"You're normally such a healthy eater."

"The doctor did say the steroids could increase my... my... make me hungry."

Almost half an hour later, a man in a chef's outfit brought a tray on wheels carrying the Monte Cristo, fries, and lemonade. "Here is your food, sir. I hope it's to your liking."

"Thanks, that'll be all."

As the servant left, Burns shook his head disapprovingly. "It's that man's job to serve me, and now you. You don't need to thank him for simply doing his job."

"Did you never thank me when I worked for you?"

"There might have been an occasion..." He searched back through his thoughts, trying to think of such an occasion. "Well, what are you waiting for? Dig in."

"I can't lift my arms enough," he said, struggling to reach the tray, which was about the height of his lips while he was seated in his chair.

"Oh," said Burns, activating a lever on one side of the cart, and the tray swung out to lower in front of him. "There you are." Smithers put his hands around one half of the sandwich and lifted it up, but his hands gave out and plopped onto the tray. "What the devil is the matter now?"

"My arms are tired. I can't hold the sandwich up long enough to take a bite."

"Well, don't look at me. I'm not about to help you stuff your face with that greasy monstrosity."

"I guess I should've asked for something that would be easier to eat."

Burns' eyes softened. He did save my life. I suppose I wouldn't suffer terribly if I helped him take a few bites. "Here," he said, tucking a napkin embroidered with his own initials behind the collar of Smithers' shirt. "Let me help you." He grabbed half of the Monte Cristo and held it up to Smithers' lips, steadying it so he could take a bite, then pulling it back to give him room to chew, and repeating. "How do you like it?" he asked after a few bites. Smithers nodded and smiled in approval. "Excellent," said Burns, feeding him another bite.

After he finished half the sandwich, Burns helping him sip lemonade between bites, Smithers said, "I'd like to try the fries and bacon now."

"Of course." He fed Smithers fries and bacon piece by piece. Sometimes, especially when feeding him small pieces, the tip of Burns' index finger would slip between Smithers' lips, and they would lock eyes for a moment, then Burns would withdraw his fingers to pick up more food. After Smithers had eaten most of the fries on the platter, Burns held up the other half of the Monte Cristo until Smithers finished it.

"Mmm..." Smithers patted his stomach. "With cooks like that, I can't believe you're so thin."

"Yes, well not everyone would choose to have a deep-fried sandwich on the daily." He looked to his watch. "When is that blasted nurse going to get here? He's already twenty minutes late!"

"Maybe it's not the best time, but I really have to use the bathroom."

"There's one by the ballroom. Third door on the left."

"I'm going to need some help getting out of this chair and onto the toilet."

"Oh. Yes, yes," said Burns, getting up and behind Smithers and pushing him into the bathroom. He closed the door and said, "So, how do you want to do this?"

"Let's start with the... the... the round things you...tie?" In frustration, Smithers pointed to his button fly.

"You mean the buttons?"

"Yes. Buttons."

"Okay," he said, getting on his knees and unfastening the buttons. "Now I'll just..." He tugged at Smithers' slacks from the knees, but they didn't slip past his hips. "I'll have to try something else." He tucked his fingers between the pants and Smithers' waist, then began to roll them down his sides until they were halfway to his knees. He took the same approach to roll his underwear down.

When raising his eyes from Smithers' knees to his face, Burns caught a glimpse of Smithers' crotch, and it struck him suddenly that he'd never seen Smithers naked before. Smithers had seen him nude more times than he could count, but he'd never been privileged with even a passing glance of his assistant unclothed below the waist. Do I really consider it a privilege that I get to see his nether region? He looked down again, and he could feel his cheeks rouge and that slight nervous twitch he got at the corner of his eye when he didn't know what to say. A slight, fleeting hum of satisfaction buzzed past his lips. "Come on, Monty, don't be so shy."

"I wasn't!"

"Then can you help me onto the toilet? I really need to go."

"Yes, let's get your chair positioned better." He moved the chair so Smithers was closer to the toilet seat. "When I tell you to, push yourself up off the chair as much as you can, and I'll try to hoist you onto the seat. Ready?" Smithers nodded. "Now!" Smithers strained to lift himself up, and Burns grabbed him around his torso and shifted him a few inches onto the toilet seat.

When Smithers tried to clean himself, he found that he couldn't maintain his grasp of the toilet paper Burns handed to him, and they simply fell into the bowl before they could be used. "I'm sorry, I can't seem to hold on to it."

"Don't apologize," said Burns, voice tinged with frustration as he took the toilet paper into his own hand and cleaned him. After a quick swipe, he thought to himself, Don't half-ass this, Monty. The man saved your life. Thank heaven he didn't lose his like his father did. He helped roll the underwear back up, then jostled the pants back up to Smithers' waist and buttoned them up. Smithers tried to lift himself, and Burns heaved him back into the chair, then flushed and washed his hands. "You know you're the only person I would ever even consider doing this for."

"I thought I might be." When they left the bathroom, Burns pushing Smithers out into the hall, Smithers said, "I need a nap."

"I'll show you to your room." He brought Smithers to the East Wing of the manor and led him to the room across from his own. "It's the room you would stay in sometimes when working nights here before I had the addition built." The room had a couple of Malibu Stacy dolls, a poster from his Malibu Stacy musical, and a couple of Smithers' sweaters draped over a chair. It was growing darker by the minute in that late afternoon as the world turned Springfield swiftly toward the night. "Would you prefer that I draw the curtains?" asked Burns.

"Yes, please."

He drew the curtains and the room descended into darkness. "I suppose you'll need help getting into bed now." Smithers nodded, and Burns wrapped his arms around Smithers' torso and hoisted him up and onto the bed. Burns pulled the covers over him. "Sleep well, Waylon."