This Is Your Strife

Chapter Twenty-Six

AUTHOR NOTE: Somehow, I made an error uploading and omitted chapter 24, putting chapter 26 where 25 was supposed to go. I have since corrected this, and everything is here and in sequence now.

Burns and Smithers sat on a blanket on the grassy hill of Springfield Bowl for the Bicentennial celebration. A performance of Stars and Stripes, a play about the founding of Springfield, a tribute to veterans, the Star-Spangled Banner, and then a spectacular fireworks show to rival all others the town had previously seen. Smithers adjusted Mr. Burns' cushion and said, "Looking forward to the festivities, sir?"

"Indeed, I am. I love music and fireworks. And as a decorated veteran, I consider myself something of a patriot."

"You are a true American hero."

They sat and watched the band play, then the town founding play. Mayor Hans Moleman stood before the podium and said, "Springfielders, I have assembled a group of Springfield's most distinguished veterans for a special tribute for their service in World War I and its sequel, the Korean War, and the Vietnam War. Bow your head and give a round of applause to these fine men who served," he said, ushering a group onto the stage.

Mr. Burns looked on, agape. "Why – I should be on that stage!"

"It is an appalling omission, sir."

"I should be on that stage, and I shall. Come with me," he said, pulling Smithers along as he barged through the crowd to the stage as the first veteran spoke. He stole the microphone from the man speaking and said, "What is the meaning of this? Who was in charge of this committee?

Whose incompetent boobery is responsible for me not being contacted about this?"

"Those are my boobs you're talking about," said Agnes Skinner, stepping up from the back of the stage.

Mr. Burns shuddered. "It's you."

"You didn't call the next day like you promised, you reap the consequences."

"Good God, woman, that was forty years ago!"

"Forty long years to grow increasingly bitter."

"Give it up, already!"

"What did you want to say, Monty?" she said, handing him a microphone.

"I just wanted to say, eh..."

"How articulate."

"Shut your trap and let me speak! On such a joyous day of celebration, we must also solemnly remember the lives of those who fell. And thank heavens, I'm not one of them, and most of them were moronic peasants, anyway. Happy fourth! Ta!" He began to walk off-stage as the next veteran began to speak.

"Burnsie," said a man of medium build in his sixties with short gray hair. "Abe just started talking, so we have quite a bit of time to talk."

Mr. Burns gasped. "It's you." His posture visibly tensed, and he took the man aside, just out of earshot of Smithers.

"What do you want, Asa?"

"I want your key."

"Forget it."

"There's one I kept."

His eyes widened in fear, then narrowed menacingly. "I want proof."

Pulling a photograph halfway out of his jacket, he gestured to Smithers and said, "You want him to see?"

"He wouldn't care."

"Oh, so your relationship is like that."

"No, it's not, not at all."

"Come on, Burnsie. It's patently obvious, the way you dote on him, the way you grant him privileges you never would grant your other employees. It's only a matter of time before you slip."

"What makes you think I would take the risk when between my millions of dollars and my rugged good looks, there are plenty of women who would be interested in me?"

"The same reason you took the risk with me."

"What the devil do you do with all that money, anyway?"

"I bought myself a nice house, unlimited meals and beers, art, stock, all the latest gadgets – plus a hefty savings for my family when I pass on."

"What a foolish waste of wealth."

He turned Burns by his shoulder and said, "If you don't comply, I'll just start tailing your little kiss-ass, there," gesturing to Smithers with a snicker. "He's sure to be quite the golden goose."

Seeing the mischievous grin materializing on his face, he said, "You leave him out of this."

"You must really like him. Ordinarily, you'd be happy to throw an underling to the wolves to save your own hide."

"What I feel is of no consequence to you. You are to leave him alone."

"I don't think you're in a position to be ordering me around, Private Burns."

"What do you have on me?"

"A certain someone putting the moves on another certain someone's father."

"How did you get a picture of that?"

"You forget – since my stint in the army, I've been an expert at planting hidden cameras." He smirked. "Hand over the key."

"I'd sooner see a photograph of me buck naked plastered on the front page of the Springfield Shopper than give you the key! This is about more than treasure, Asa – this is personal. You made it personal."

"No. You made it personal. I made it business."

"Go ahead and disseminate the photograph. See what I care. It's not as though I'm a stranger to scandal."

"Do you really want your latest squeeze to know you were canoodling with his father? You think of his father when you're fucking him, don't you? Wouldn't he love to know that?"

"We have never –"

"Right. And I'm the merry queen of England."

"No, not a merry queen – you're a backstabbing, bitter old queen."

"The key, Burnsie."

Looking down with a heavy sigh, he reached into his coat and pulled a key out by its chain. "What do you even want with it? Simpson, Wiggum, Skinner, and Gumble are all alive, as are Griff and Etch."

"Alive, but that doesn't mean they have their keys."

"You stole them?"

"No. I didn't steal them. I persuaded them to give them to me."

"You thieving scoundrel. What have you got on them?"

"Ah, ah – that wouldn't be very good for business, betraying my clients' trust by blabbing after they paid me off, now would it? But it's not the kind of trouble you've gotten wrapped up in. We'll leave it at that. And I haven't got every man's key. Yet."

"What if I gave you dirt on one of the men whose key you haven't gotten? Something you can use to blackmail him."

"It would have to be compelling."

"Who do you need to know about?"

"There are two I haven't managed to get keys from: Skinner and Simpson."

"You're in luck. I happen to have some photographs of Abe in a rather compromising position."

"Oh, Monty. You and him? I thought you at least had standards."

He shuddered. "Not that kind of position. I mean I saw him traipsing through Düsseldorf in drag after the war. And I have photographic evidence," he said, pulling the photographs out of his jacket.

"You carry them with you?"

"Well, they always lift my spirits when I'm feeling down. You should see how he fills a dirndl."

Looking at them and giving a chuckle, he said, "Okay. You have a deal. I'll take these, and you can have your photo back."

"Agreed." As if I'd let you win, Asa. Your folly is in thinking Abe Simpson has sufficient shame to surrender his key. He handed Asa the photographs of Abe as Asa handed him the photograph he had concealed in his clothes, negative attached by paperclip. There, in black and white, was him, twenty-five years earlier, kissing Waylon Smithers, Sr. and fondling his thigh in his mansion that night he had attempted to seduce him.

"One of these days, I'm going to catch you and him going at it, and I'll squeeze your last penny out of you."

He stared at the photograph for a few seconds before stuffing it into his jacket and walking to where Smithers stood. This one I won't burn.

A man in a trench coat knocked on Mrs. Smithers' house, slipped a large manilla envelope through the mail slot in the door, and sped away. She interrupted her cleaning of a spotless, sparkling counter to retrieve the envelope. Unmarked, no stamp. It was highly suspicious, but of what?

She opened it, took out the photograph, and fell to the sofa, sick in her stomach. No, not her stomach. Her heart. All her worst fears, all but confirmed.

It was lonely in the apartment without Morris. He still had some things there – little things he would probably never ask for, like a pulp detective novel, an essay he'd written in college on pre-Raphaelite painting, half-empty tubes of paint, the manual to his old Porsche 914. Less than a month before the lease ran out, and he'd be moving to his next apartment. It was a little cheaper. He could afford something much nicer, but he wanted to save up money early on so he could live even more comfortably in the years to come.

The phone rang. He hoped it was Morris. Or Mr. Burns. He ached for the company of either. "Hello?"

"Waylon?"

"Mother?"

"I need to talk to you."

"I'm listening."

"I mean, in person." He didn't respond. "Honey, I love you. I miss you."

"You can come here. I'm not going back there."

She arrived about ten minutes later, and he opened the door for her and couldn't help but smile a bit. He welcomed her with a hug, and she said, "It's good to see you, son."

"It's good to see you, too." He looked around at the space, barren save for stacks of boxes. Much of the furniture had been moved out, so they sat on the edge of his bed. Well, his and Morris' bed. "I broke up with Morris last year."

"Does this mean you're going to try living straight?"

"No, mother. And I know you didn't approve of us, but you're the only person I can really talk to about this. I loved him, and we had a good relationship, but I kept thinking about somebody else. I still have a crush on this other guy, but we aren't getting anywhere. And I keep thinking I shouldn't have left him. But then, I'm with the guy I like, and all that doubt disappears. But still, I feel guilty. I know I would've enjoyed my life if I'd stayed with him. I know that. But I left to pursue something I wanted even more, and I feel really guilty. And... I don't know, I'm rambling. But I really loved him. We were going to move to New York together."

She didn't say anything. Just hugged him, held him tightly, and cried into his shoulder, then backed away a bit. "Honey, there's something I need to ask you, because it's eating at my soul. Waylon, when you were a kid, you saw Mr. Burns a few times. Do you remember that?"

"Yes. He was at my eleventh birthday party."

"At one point I was looking for you, and when I saw you, you were coming out of your room, and Mr. Burns was following you out. When I asked you what he was doing in your room, you got really anxious and said he wasn't doing anything. You can tell me now. What was he doing in there with you?"

"Well, I guess I always knew you'd figure it out eventually." He reached into a nearby box and pulled out a Malibu Stacy. The very one Mr. Burns had given him for his eleventh birthday. "He gave me this."

Her eyes opened wide. "Is that all?" She wasn't thrilled about Burns going behind her back to give him a doll, either, but it was decidedly less gruesome than what she'd imagined he'd say.

"Yes, why? What did you think I was going to say?" Noting the dread in her eyes, he scowled in disgust. "Mr. Burns would never! How could you even think he did something like that?"

"Because he... he's done something like it before."

"When did he molest a child? Where's the evidence?"

"It wasn't a child."

"You're saying he raped a woman?"

"I'm saying he groped a man!"

"What, so if a man touches another, it's assault? Was I assaulting my boyfriend for a year and a half?"

"As far as I'm concerned, he was assaulting you."

"You know, there were plenty of times he was on the receiving end. Am I a rapist in your eyes?"

"No, of course not! I don't blame you, sweetheart, I blame the man who made you this way."

"Who? My father?"

"He had nothing to do with this!" she screamed.

"Nobody 'made' me this way but you and him."

"I did the best that I could!"

"I don't mean you 'did' anything. I mean, it's my genetics. I was born to grow up and love men."

"Just tell me what he did. It's not your fault, honey; none of this is."

"He didn't do anything!"

"It's okay to tell me, Waylon. If you're afraid he'll retaliate, I promise I won't tell anyone."

"I've told you everything! Mother, Mr. Burns has been nothing but a decent man to me."

"Mr. Burns is the man you left Morris for, isn't he?"

"Um..." Just as when she had discovered his beefcake magazines, he knew when not to play dumb. "Yes, mother. That's exactly right."

"Did he ever ply you with alcohol?"

"No!"

"You're lying!"

"Okay, he did, but I wanted him to! I've wanted him since I was a senior in high school. I flirt like crazy, but he never seems to notice, or he brushes me off. That you'd accuse him of molesting me when I've been trying to get into his pants for years and constantly been rebuffed is... I don't even know! Insane!"

"Oh, please, he clearly has a sexual interest in you."

"Really? What makes you think so?"

"For one thing, the possessive, leering way he looks at you."

"I've never seen him look at me like that, and I've tried. You have no idea how much I've looked."

"Honey... he's an eighty-five-year-old man. You can't possibly think this fixation on him can be healthy."

"I don't care! I love him."

"Do you? Or do you just love the idea of him?"

"I do love him."

"That's not love!"

"How could you possibly know whether what I'm feeling is love or not?"

"Because my son can't be in love with the worst human being I've ever met! You're too sweet and sensitive to have fallen in love with such a despicable man! He tore your father from our family, and now he's trying to do the same to you!"

"He is not despicable! He's a gentleman, and he's so cunning, and endearing, and beautiful, and his voice cuts straight to your soul, and his touch... I crave the touch of his hands like nothing else, so light, so delicate, so fierce..."

"I can't sit here while you wax lyrical about the man responsible for your father's death," she said, getting up and heading for the door. "Please, honey, get back together with Morris. I'll even invite him to Christmas dinner; just stay away from Mr. Burns."

"Mr. Burns! Get the hell out here and face me!"

Through the intercom, finger hovering over the "release the hounds" button, he said, "Leave my property before I release the hounds."

"Have it your way. I guess I'll just get this picture posted in the paper." She removed a photograph from a large envelope and displayed it to the security camera.

The gates opened, and she entered the estate. He met her at the door. "Come in." He got himself a glass of brandy, and they sat by the fire. "I feared this day would come since Asa showed me this picture. Evidently, he made prints before he gave me my copy last week."

"Who is Asa?"

"The man who took this picture. The man who's attempting to blackmail your son as he did to me for decades." He took a long, slow sip. "I suppose now it's obvious why I've felt so bitterly resentful toward you all these years. You were lucky to have Waylon's love."

"He's trying to blackmail Waylon? With what?"

"By taking a covert photograph of him with a man. I've been trying to warn Waylon away from Asa, but it's difficult without letting him know I know he's... like that."

"And now you're trying to seduce my son?"

"No, Hattie. After Waylon Senior died, I couldn't bear to take another man, least of all his son. The day he rejected me, a part of me died. I couldn't go through that again."

"I've seen the way you look at him, eyeing him up like you're going to take him home and have your way with him."

"It's true. I do love your son. But I could never have an affair with him. I've done all I can to discourage myself."

"Not all you can; I've seen you flirt with him."

"I am not flirting with him; I'm merely being friendly. If he confuses that with flirting..."

"You're counting on that! You're trying to manipulate him, aren't you? Get him around your little finger so you can do whatever you want with him, that's right, isn't it?"

"Mrs. Smithers, please! That's enough speculation on your part."

"It's not speculation; it's who you are!"

"I'm on his side. Asa is who we have to be concerned about."

"Why Waylon, though? There must be many men around here more powerful than he is to blackmail."

"Because he knows I care enough about him to pay any – well, almost any – price he asks, and Waylon is young, so he is bound to take more lovers in a year than I would in the rest of my life."

"I don't see how this is a problem, then. If you're going to pay to keep him quiet, there is no problem. You have more than enough money to cover it." She fixed her eyes on his and matched the menace in his gaze. "I don't believe a damn word you've said about you not pursuing him. You've been grooming him from the start, haven't you?" Her firm resolve crumbled as she broke into tears. "You touched him, didn't you? Didn't you! You sick, fucking bastard! You screwed him up, and now he'll never enjoy a normal life. That's why you coerced us to stop sending him to a therapist, so the truth wouldn't get out!"

"Hattie, that is enough! I've done many questionable things in my life, but fondling a child is not one of them!"

"You're not angry to have a false accusation leveled at you. This angers you because I hit a nerve, didn't I?"

"Leave."

She flicked his glass up, splashing the brandy on his face, then pushed him headfirst to the fireplace. Before his face could burst into flame, though, the photograph slid out of her grasp and into the fire as he hit a button on the brick by the fireplace that threw down an iron gate over the fire and opened a trap door just beside where Hattie had been standing.

"Leave."

She dove down and attempted to strangle him, and he pressed another button, summoning the hounds, who quickly set upon her. They attacked her, and once he got to a safe room, he called off the hounds and said over a loudspeaker:

"Leave."

She hobbled out of the mansion, crying. Once she had gotten outside the gates, she collapsed by her car. Waylon... how could I have failed you this badly? Your father must hate me for letting this happen to you. I know I hate myself for it. She crawled into the driver's seat, shut the door, and banged her head repeatedly against the steering wheel. "I've failed, failed, failed, failed, failed! Failed you..."