Chapter Ten

Waylon Junior awoke to the comforting pressure of Monty's slumbering body draped over his. Sunlight had filled the room through translucent curtains and the criss-cross of window bars. He closed his arms over Monty, prompting a sleeping smile from him. "Monty? It's morning."

His eyes eased open, unfocused for a moment before latching onto Waylon's gaze. "I'm not used to seeing you without your glasses."

"And I can't see you without my glasses." He reached for the nightstand and replaced his spectacles. "That's better."

"What do you want for breakfast? Some form of meal? Eggs Benedict? Crepes? My servants will make absolutely anything."

"Eggs Benedict sounds good. And some coffee."

Monty picked up a bedside phone and dialed an extension. "Coffee and Eggs Benedict for the Sunshine Room. Serving two." He hung up the phone and turned to Waylon. "They'll be here shortly with our breakfast." He stood and sat on a burgundy chair at the bedside. "I enjoyed holding you last night. If only we could have shared the night under more felicitous circumstances."

"We were together for seven years, and that's not counting high school. I thought we would grow old together."

"I'm so sorry. I thought so, too. I've never been in such a long relationship, myself." He clenched his jaw and fist and said in anger, "How could he do this to you? How could anyone hurt you like this?" He stroked Waylon's cheek.

"I guess I just couldn't make him happy. We had some problems... in bed."

"I fail to see how he wouldn't be satisfied by you."

"Well, he wasn't."

"You satisfied me."

Waylon smiled inwardly. "I'm glad."

He paused in stroking his cheek. "You found me satisfactory, yes?"

"Definitely. You were the best I've had in ages."

"Good, good. I aim to excel." He began to stroke behind his ear, nudging his glasses slightly off-kilter. "So, he didn't do enough for you, either?"

"No, he was good. But you were better."

A few minutes later, the servants arrived with a breakfast cart, and Monty withdrew his hand. The servants set a breakfast tray over Waylon's lap and another over the arms of the chair Monty sat in, then left, shutting the door behind them. Monty stood with his tray and sat on the bed beside him, and there they enjoyed breakfast, talking together about the recent events of their lives, primarily the success of their businesses and the failure of their relationships.

"You're still young," said Monty. "You have plenty of time to find a new man. Given your success and your good looks, you might want to invest in a stick to beat them off with."

"About that... I think I've already found him."

"What? That quickly? Who?"

"You, Monty," he said, nudging his cheek with his nose.

"You don't know what you're saying," he said, sitting up.

"But I know what I'm feeling," he said, grabbing his wrist. "Come on, Monty. If we had listened to our feelings four years ago, that's four years we would've had together. Let's not waste any more time."

"I won't be able to grow old with you."

"We're not getting married. We can just have fun together, for however long it lasts."

"Are you sure it doesn't bother you? Knowing I might drop dead tomorrow?"

"Of course it doesn't bother me." Realizing how insensitive it sounded, he hastened to add, "I mean, that's all the more reason I should get to know you while I still can." Waylon stacked their breakfast trays on the cart, then sat back in the bed with him, putting an arm around his shoulders. "So, what should we do today?"

"Well, I have some wonderful stereopticon images of the Crimean War."

"You'll have to show me." They went to the media room, where Monty showed him his collections of war pictures and a collection of pictures of natural scenes.

While rummaging through his collections of pictures and films, he came across a 16 mm reel and said, "Join me at the projector," pointing to the 16 mm film projector circa 1950. While he loaded the film in, Waylon sat in a comfortable movie theater chair, and once the film was running, Monty sat beside him.

On the screen played scenes of Smithers Senior at Springfield University working on plans for the plant, of him at the site and demonstrating operation of the reactor. Then the picture cut to his office, where Smithers Senior held in his arms his infant son, who reached out and grabbed Burns' nose, provoking irritation before he smiled warmly at the camera. Then it cut to a family event at the power plant, where Waylon Junior was about five years old, playing with his Malibu Stacy doll. The camera panned over to Smithers Senior, who waved at the camera and kissed his wife's cheek as his son ran up to him and hugged his leg and saying without sound, "I love you, Daddy."

The film cut out. "I hadn't seen that in decades." He closed his hand around Waylon's wrist and looked into his placid, happy face. Should I tell him what happened – or almost happened – thirty-nine years ago? Or would he only think I'm a lunatic? He gave a slight squeeze and smiled when he met his eyes.

"Do you have any more old home movies?"

"Yes, I do. Mostly from when your father was designing the plant."

"I gather you don't have any home movies from your childhood."

"No, and I have no reason to revisit my childhood."

"You must have some good memories from then."

He stopped to think. There was that time I crippled that Irishman. He chuckled. And I was happy before I lost Bobo. His eyelids lowered. "Some, yes."

"Tell me one."

"All right. I had recently turned four and was at the county fair. Oh, I engaged in some mirth-making that day, feeding goats and chasing pigs. Then, I saw a ring toss stand. There were harmonicas and hair-bows, dolls, and teddy bears. I wanted the teddy bear the moment I laid eyes on it, more than anything. I tried time and again until I ran through the money my parents had given me. I spent five whole dollars trying to win it. When I saw my parents, I asked them for more money so I could keep trying to win it, but instead they chastised me for spending so much money so quickly on a single game. Back then, five dollars was worth much more than it is now. I burst into tears, but they showed no sympathy. The man operating the game, however, took pity on me, and he gave me the bear."

"Bobo."

"Yes, Bobo."

"You really loved that bear, didn't you?"

Monty nodded slowly, and Waylon stroked the back of his hand. "I did. The day I lost him... something in me died." He laid his other hand on top of Waylon's. "Do you still have your first Malibu Stacy?"

"Yes."

"Good. Hold onto her. Don't make the same mistake I did."

"I won't."

After a minute of silence, Monty said, "So, when do you plan to tell your parents?"

"About... us? Or..."

"You and John. They will console you as only loving parents can."

"You're more than enough consolation."

"No. He hurt you, and spending all your time with me will only delay your confronting that fact."

"I guess you're right. I have been avoiding telling anyone because it forces me to accept that it's really... over." He fought back a tear. "I'll tell them tonight."

"Do you intend to tell them about us, as well?"

"I don't see why I should. Who knows if things will even work out between us long-term? Why should we complicate our fun?"

"I like the way you think," he said, eyes brightened. "But perhaps you should tell them this afternoon. It's bad for your health to bottle up such a secret about the breaking of such a deep bond."

"It can wait," he said, intertwining their fingers.

"It's already waited a week. Go to them now."

"All right," he said, withdrawing his hand and standing up. "Oh, and if you're up for giving me another back-stage 'pep talk' tonight..."

"I'll be at your dressing room at six."

Adopting a commanding presence, he firmly laid the palm of his hand against Monty's cheek and said, "See that you are," then took leave of him.