Chapter Twenty-Four

Burns opened the passenger door to his limousine, gesturing for Smithers to step inside. As he started the car driving, he said, "I thought we'd dine at Luigi's tonight. How does that sound?"

"Anyplace sounds marvelous if I'm with you."

"I thought you might say that." He pulled in front of the restaurant, then pulled his key out of the ignition and handed it to Smithers. "Park the car while I get us a table."

Burns had already shut the door by the time Smithers said, "Sure thing, sweetheart."

Smithers found a nice spot illuminated by a streetlamp in view of one of the restaurant windows, then went inside and approached the table Burns was sitting at. Looking irritated, Burns said, "What took you so long?"

"I was only gone a minute."

"And where's my seat cushion?"

"I must have left it in the car. I'll go get it."

"Well, hurry up! I want to get this over with."

Smithers' cheek and eye twitched, apprehensive about where Burns' foul mood would lead. "R-right away." He ran for the limousine and retrieved Burns' seat cushion, then ran back inside and slid the cushion between Burns and his chair. "Is that better?"

"Sit down and eat."

Smithers looked down at the table, seeing a plate of chicken almondine and a glass of red wine. "You ordered for me?"

"I won't have you keeping me here waiting for you to finish eating."

"But Monty, I'm severely allergic to almonds."

"You should've thought of that before coming to a restaurant that serves almonds."

"I have the dosing and scheduling of your three dozen medications committed to memory, but you can't bother to remember my one food allergy?"

"Besides, the sooner we're done eating, the sooner I can get you into bed with me."

"So that's really all you want from me."

"Of course I want other things from you. You do prepare my taxes."

"Not anymore!" Smithers stood up, his chair skidding backward as he drew the attention of other diners. "From now on, you can do your own taxes, you can run your own nuclear plant, and you can go fuck yourself!" He marched out of the restaurant and got behind the wheel of the limousine, then peeled out and sped off into the night.

As he turned the corner, he saw Burns step out into the street, flailing his arms in desperation like Popeye's Olive Oyl. He stepped on the brakes. "Waylon, wait!" As Burns ran to the passenger side door, Smithers stepped on the gas, zipping past him. A few blocks up ahead, Burns dove into the street from a mailbox. "Give me another chance!" Smithers accelerated, and Burns grabbed onto the rear bumper of the car, rippling in the wind like a flag in a hurricane. "I love yooou..." wailed Burns as he lost his grip and flew onto the pavement.

Smithers awoke with a start, his heart beating thrice a second and sweat bubbling out of his pores like geysers. He glanced at the clock. Two o'clock in the morning. He let his head fall back onto his pillow. I'd better not have another four hours like that. He looked up at the massive painting of Burns in his room. I still don't know why he rejected this one for the Burns wing. He looks so striking. He closed his eyes in mourning of their closeness. How could you treat me that way for so long? Tears slipped out, giving way to gasping breaths as he grappled with the reality that one he'd loved so much could be so callous to him. How could you...?

He reached for a bottle of whiskey behind his headboard, where he'd kept some during his last alcoholic spiral, but found none. Maybe I moved it and forgot. He put his glasses on and got up, pulling his robe closer to ward off the chilly morning air as he headed for the kitchen in his wheelchair, then looked through the kitchen cabinets. What happened to my liquor? I just bought a few bottles when I moved back in here. I didn't drink it that fast. He looked around his apartment, finding nothing. Halfway toward resignation, he went back to his room and turned the light back on, searching behind the headboard again. This time, he found a paper taped to his bed. He grabbed it and read:

I took your hard liquor with me. I'll give it back, but you have to call me and talk. The last thing you need now honey is to become a drunken wreck.

-Julio

Smithers furrowed his brow in annoyance. At least he cares. Did Monty ever do anything like that for me? Something told him the answer was 'no.' Why did I leave him to hopelessly chase after Monty? How did I get so hung up on a man who usually treated me as a means to an end?

In lieu of whiskey, he went back into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of a Napa Valley Merlot, which he drank in bed while staring up at Burns' portrait. Am I cursed to love you for the rest of my life?

Homer, Lenny, and Carl stood outside of Burns' hospital room along with an assortment of other people from the plant, as well as some others who were in some way connected, sometimes tangentially at best, with Burns or Smithers.

Homer turned to Carl and said, "Do you know why Burns ordered us all to come here?"

Carl said, "I told you, none of us know."

The Blue-Haired Lawyer motioned for Lenny to enter Burns' hospital room and stood outside the door while Lenny was inside. To each person who entered, Burns posed the question: "What made Smithers fall in love with me years ago?"

Lenny: "Um... uh..."

Carl: "Frankly, that's always been a mystery to me."

Homer: "Well it can't be your looks! I mean –"

Jack Marley: "If I tell you, will you re-hire me?"

Charlie: "I once heard him say he loved your malevolent smile."

Mindy Simmons (while eating a doughnut): "Hm?"

Lenny (again): "Maybe he's attracted to how powerful you are."

Carl (again): "Maybe cranky old misers are his type."

Homer (again): "I mean, it couldn't be your personality. D'oh!"

Blue-Haired Lawyer: "I decline to answer, as doing so could put me at risk of being sued for spreading gossip in the workplace."

Kent Brockman: "According to my sources, he thinks you're sexy."

Krusty (while smoking a cigar): "Maybe he wants to cash in when you kick the bucket."

Jimbo (candy bars sticking out of his pockets): "I dunno, man... I was just here to steal from the vending machines."

As Jimbo left the hospital room, Marge approached Homer from the other end of the corridor. "Did you find out what Mr. Burns wanted?"

"Yeah," said Homer. "He wanted to know why Smithers is in love with him."

"What did you say?"

Homer shrugged his shoulders. "I'm a nuclear something guy, not a psychologist."

"Maybe I can help."

"What would you know about being in love with a jerk who orders you around?"

"When Waylon and I became friends, we talked about his feelings for Mr. Burns."

"By the way, I left a few clogs in the bathroom and kitchen before I left that you'll want to take care of sooner than later."

Marge murmured in disapproval, then headed for Burns' door. Once inside, she said, "Mr. Burns? I heard why you brought all these people here, and I think I can help."

Eyes revealing he was unconvinced, he said, "Oh, really?"

Marge nodded. "No one but Waylon can say why he's in love with you, but one thing he told me was that he felt you were the only person who truly understood him. He said he felt honored that he was one of the few people you didn't sneer at as beneath your contempt." Burns sneered in contempt of her, but she proceeded anyway. "He's your closest friend, yet for most of the last decade, you've treated him like he has no purpose other than being your own personal Alexa to order around. Still, he felt like he'd earned a special place in your heart. Don't let him down. It's painful when you have to turn down a love that you can't return, but it's downright tragic when you turn away a love you desperately want to share."

Burns bit his lower lip, casting his eyes down to the floor. "Maybe you can convince him of that."

"I don't think that's what he needs convincing of."

"What more can I say or do? I was prepared to sacrifice my life for him. There is no one else I would have done that for."

"I believe you."

"Then what more do I need to prove to him?"

"There's more to a successful relationship than loving someone, Mr. Burns. You need to be able to function together."

"We've functioned well as a team for two decades."

"Mmm... it's different being in an intimate relationship."

"Yes, I see."

"Try to understand what it's like to be him. How it must feel to be in love with someone for half of your life, only for them to treat you like another lowly servant. Think of the good times you two had and how you treated him then. You'll see what attracted him to you."

"How it must feel..." Burns looked at her with a peculiar blend of gratitude and puzzlement that she had actually given him a helpful, thoughtful answer. "Yes, I think I shall." He curled the corner of his lip slightly upward in an attempt to force a smile. "Thank you."

"Good luck, Mr. Burns," said Marge as she left the room. As soon as she had closed the door, she saw Smithers approaching. "Waylon, hello!" She leaned forward for a hug but stopped short when she saw Smithers' expression of unease and lack of recognition. "You look like you're doing so much better."

"Do I know you?" Smithers said, squinting an eye as he searched his memory.

"Yes, Waylon. I'm Marge Simpson, Homer's wife. I visited you in the hospital."

"Huh. I don't remember that, either. But there's a lot I still don't remember."

"I'm the wife of one of your employees at the nuclear plant. We became friends commiserating over the antics of the men we love."

"If your man twists your heart up half as much as mine does, I'm so sorry," said Smithers, putting his hand on Marge's shoulder in sympathy.

"If you'd like, after your visit with Mr. Burns, you could join me for tea at my house, and we can catch up."

Smithers smiled, charmed by her geniality. "That sounds good."

"I'll meet you in the lobby and give you a ride there." She patted his shoulder and said, "Good luck," before heading for the elevator.