Resonance

Chapter Two

Two years had passed since Mr. Burns had returned to the United States, to Springfield, and procured a coal plant that drove his grandfather's atom smashing venture out of business by ruthlessly underselling him. To think he dared deride my business acumen all those times, and now it is I who have, in a mere two years, supplanted him as Springfield's resident energy mogul. He snickered with a superior smirk. Just you wait, son, his grandfather had admonished, and you'll see! Atom smashing is the future of energy.

Monty Burns narrowed his eyes. "In a pig's eye!" He walked the steps up Springfield University, where he was to do his community service for crippling an Irishman by running over him with his car, which he'd talked down – with what else but money? – from a year in jail to volunteering at a soup kitchen, which he'd then talked down with a few hundred more dollars to tutoring at the university. He would tutor the students in business and elementary chemistry.

Most students sought him for business tutoring, as that was clearly his area of expertise, whereas he had done very little with chemistry in the last fourteen years. As the weeks passed, more students came to him for help, and despite his tendency to lose his temper and insult them, students kept coming back for his skill and the hope of developing a personal connection that would prove useful in getting a foot in the door later.

As he dismissed his last student of the day and prepared his bag to head home, a young man knocked at his door. "Oh, for heaven's sake, it's 6:45!" Perhaps I should have stuck to ladling soup for the dregs of society, after all. He twisted the knob sharply and threw the door open. "Your beleaguered teacher is done for the day; go home!" He then saw that it wasn't one of his imbecilic pupils, but rather a boy he'd never seen before, and a rather striking one at that. His chestnut hair curled beautifully, elegantly, around his forehead and the side of his head, a long lock of wavy hair kissing the upper rim of the young man's spectacles, which he pushed up his nose, the frame meeting his thick, inviting eyebrows.

"Sorry, sir; I don't mean to keep you, I just –"

"No, no, it's quite all right, my boy; I didn't mean to yell at you – I mean, had I known it was you, I wouldn't have – who are you, by the way?"

"My name is Waylon. Waylon Smithers."

"Waylon. A rather unusual name, yes?" As Waylon opened his mouth, unsure how to reply, Burns added, "I like it."

"Oh – thank you, sir. In any event, I know you're on your way out, but I didn't come here for a last minute study session. I came here to schedule one a week or two from now."

"No, it's no trouble. Ask me now."

"I wouldn't want to be an imposition."

"You aren't here to ingratiate yourself with me like those shameless social-climbers, are you?"

"No, not at all."

"I didn't think so. Now, what is your question?"

"Well..." He opened his chemistry book where he'd placed a bookmark. "I'm having a little trouble with this reaction." He showed the book to Mr. Burns. "I don't understand how or why it will proceed."

He scrutinized the text, then said, "Aha! Recall that zinc forms amphoteric oxides, and you have your answer."

His eyes brightened. "Oh! Of course!" He took out a paper from the folder in his hand and wrote down a chemical equation, then showed it to him. "Is this correct, sir?"

Smiling, he said, "Indeed, it is."

"Thank you very much for your help, Mr. Burns."

"You've a quick wit, Waylon. Tell me, what career do you intend to pursue?"

"Well, I haven't committed myself yet, but I want to go into chemistry or physics."

"You certainly have the brains for it, provided you continue to apply yourself."

"I guess you'll want to get going," he said, turning toward the door.

"No, don't go!"

"That's right, you still have my textbook. That would have been foolish of me," he said, reaching for his textbook, but Burns brought it up to his face and looked again at the book, flipping through the pages as he walked away from Waylon and toward his desk. "Which course did you say you were taking?"

"General Chemistry."

"This is material your class won't be covering for months."

"Yes, well, I like to work ahead so I know I'm prepared."

He slowly shut the book and handed it back to him. "You have done something rare. Do you know what that thing is?"

"Uh, I suppose I –"

"You have impressed me." He grabbed his sweater off the back of his chair and lifted his bag to his shoulder. "Come with me. We'll dine together."

"Excuse me?"

"You have a rare combination of talent and character, and I wish to cultivate it."

"Thank you, sir. They're serving fish fry tonight at the cafeteria, and that's my favorite."

"Oh, no," said Mr. Burns, chortling. "We're not dining in that flea-infested peasant trough, my dear boy. I'm taking you somewhere nice." He led Waylon to his limousine, letting him in first, then sitting beside him in the passenger seat. "Have you dined on fine French cuisine?"

"No, sir, I haven't."

"Well, you're about to. Warren, take us to Décadence." Once they arrived, the host seated them at Burns' favorite table, and the waiter handed them two menus written entirely in French. They looked over the menus, and Mr. Burns said, "I'll have escargots de bourgogne with a glass of pinot gris, and he'll have canard à l'orange with a glass of pinot noir."

"Mr. Burns, that's very generous, but I can't have wine."

"What the devil do you mean, you can't have wine?"

"I'm sixteen, sir."

He stared blank-faced for a moment, then said, "He's with Monty Burns. Bring the wine."

"Yes, sir," said the waiter, taking their menus and leaving them.

"'Can't have any wine,' honestly. You're more a man than a boy, and sixteen-year-olds in France take wine with their every meal, and besides, there's no point in me paying for you to indulge in fine French cuisine if you're not going to have any wine with it." The waiter set glasses of water upon the table. "So, sixteen, eh? And already a college man."

"When I was laid up with polio last year, I studied the high school curriculum. By the time I'd recovered, I was able to pass the high school examination, so I didn't see the point in waiting to start college."

"Smart lad. What would be the point, indeed? That was my thought as well. You see, I started at Yale when I was sixteen."

"You went to Yale?"

"Yes."

"My father went to Yale."

"He did? What's his first name?"

"Ellsworth. Ellsworth Rolla Smithers."

"You mean, you're Elzy's son?"

"You knew him?"

"Not very well, but our paths did cross. He was a very serious, studious man. Entirely self-taught prior to Yale, apart from his parents teaching him how to read. He didn't even have one private tutor!" He was nowhere near as striking as yourself, though. "Tell me more about yourself."

Waylon began talking about the books he liked, the games he played, the music he enjoyed, and Burns attended as carefully as he could past the roaring of his own intruding thoughts. I can't take my eyes off of him. He's like Michelangelo's David. So stunningly beautiful, as if a sculptor set out to mold the ideal male form. Yet, like a priceless vase – or a conflagration – I fear to touch him. He felt a profound urge to tell the young man how eye-catching he was, but such words simply weren't exchanged between men.

Their food arrived, and Waylon said, "But enough about me, sir. I'm sure you've led a fascinating life."

"Well, having such wealth as I do does afford one many opportunities for adventure. Have you ever been on safari?" Waylon shook his head. "It's a great thrill, but you must watch out for those hippopotami. They are deadlier than the ferocious lion." He took a few bites, then, inspecting his nails in a haughty gesture, said, "Yes, I've brought down a lion or two in my day."

"I like hunting," he said, then sipped his wine. "But I've never hunted anything so exotic. Just rabbits and deer."

"Then I must take you sometime."

"I'd like that." Perhaps it should've felt stranger that this man he'd only known for an hour was already planning to invite him hunting, but nothing felt more natural. It was as if they were old friends. "My father taught me to shoot when I was ten."

And his father had learned to shoot, as he would remind the family every Thanksgiving dinner, from his uncle Wayland's war buddy, Deforest Buck McCoy. Both men had fought for the Union, met during the war, and remained the best of friends, sharing a cabin together. You were named after your great-uncle, said Ellsworth Smithers. He is a true American patriot, won a Congressional Medal of Honor, even, and I have great hope that you'll live up to his name. Wayland had objected to naming the boy after him instead of giving him a unique name, and so Ellsworth had struck a compromise: he'd name his son Waylon.

"Yes, I've hunted creatures of all kinds," said Mr. Burns, neglecting to mention that he left most of the actual hunting to men he'd hired. "But there is one great beast I have yet to slay – the fierce and mighty polar bear. I have yet to mount an expedition to the Arctic, but it is my intention to do so someday."

"Why haven't you?"

"I've simply gotten caught up in matters of commerce." This last word he meant both in the economic sense and the archaic sense of sexual intercourse, though he would adamantly deny the latter interpretation should Waylon raise the question. "Such an expedition will cost me dearly, so I must ensure my assets are in order."

"That's prudent." As he swallowed a few more bites of his duck, Waylon said, "You should meet my great-uncle Wayland. He's a Civil War veteran and was an avid hunter, and he's visiting us this week. Why don't you join us for dinner Saturday?"

"My dear boy, I'd love to, but this Saturday is my thirty-fifth birthday party. Why don't you two stop by? And bring Elzy, too, and your mother if she is so inclined."

"Thank you, I appreciate the invitation. May my brother come along, too?"

"But of course, provided they comport themselves appropriately. Many families attend my annual birthday celebrations. They rival the extravagance of the parties of Jay Gatsby."

"I look forward to it. But you'll have to tell me where you live."

"It's atop the hill on Mammon and Croesus. It's the largest home in all of Springfield. You cannot miss it." He wrote on a memo pad, then handed a sheet of paper to Waylon. "Should you need – or want – to contact me, this is where you can reach me." Waylon looked at the paper. It gave three telephone numbers: one for his office at the coal plant, one for his office at Springfield University, and one for his home. "I hope to hear from you soon."

He arrived back to his cavernous mansion after dropping Waylon off in front of his home and poured himself some brandy in a snifter, and he almost thought he saw Waylon's face in the reflections rippling off the surface. Damn it... He missed the young man already. Waylon was so terribly earnest, wise beyond his years, yet still youthfully innocent, and he yearned to learn everything about him. Damn it...

He crawled into bed and dreamt futile dreams.