Resonance

Chapter Three

1922 – Springfield, USA

Ten-year-old Waylon always enjoyed visiting his Aunt Constance at her cabin on the wooded base of Mount Springfield. She was a spinster, as was her dear friend Maybelle Jean Cahill who resided with her, but they were not bitter and unpleasant, dwelling miserably on how men had scorned them, as spinsters were rumored to be. Neither of them were. If anything, they were the gayest women they had ever known. They would dote on Waylon and his younger brother Clayton as if they were their own children, then talk late into the night with their parents, Elzy and Verna.

Waylon was not the rough-and-tumble sort like most boys his age seemed to be. Like his twelve-year-old brother Clayton was. Where Clayton would delight in wading through muddy creeks and catching salamanders, Waylon would prefer to stay inside and read a book or help his aunt bake cookies. He was a thoughtful child, not prone to get into rows, though he would not be easily intimidated when an older boy tried to rough him up.

Ellsworth Smithers walked inside after chopping wood in the back. "Waylon, why aren't you out playing with your brother?"

"He's catching salamanders."

"And? Why don't you go join him?"

"I don't like catching salamanders. I like reading."

"That's great, son, but a well-rounded young man must do more than read. He should venture outdoors, engage with the wilderness." He put his hand on Waylon's shoulder. "I have it. Today, you're going to learn to shoot." He got his Winchester, and Waylon wordlessly followed him outside. His father showed him how to steady the rifle, aim it, and fire it. He practiced shooting at a target his father had affixed to a tree and after awhile could almost hit the center. "Very good, Waylon! I daresay you'll become as skilled with a rifle as your great-uncle Wayland. I knew you had it in you," he said, patting his shoulder.

"Now may I go bake cookies with Aunt Constance?"

"You may."

He ran back inside, eagerly telling his aunt about his shooting and how well he had done as they mixed a batter for cookies and Waylon patted them into cookie shapes. As they were baking, a knock came at the door. Aunt Constance said to Waylon, "Now, stay away from that stove," and answered the door. "Uncle Wayland! Deforest! Come right in. Cookies will be ready soon," she said, ushering the old men inside.

"Thank you, Constance. And who's that I see in the kitchen?" Waylon turned his head. "Waylon! How have you been?"

Waylon ran up to them and said, "Today, I learned how to shoot a rifle!"

His eyes brightened. "You did?" Waylon nodded. "And I bet you hit the target every time."

"Well... not every time. But close!"

"Atta boy!" He mussed Waylon's hair.

Clayton came inside, hands muddied. "I smell cookies. Are they ready yet?"

"Almost," said Aunt Constance.

Wayland said, "Say, Deforest and I are going deer hunting tomorrow morning. How would you and Clayton like to come along?"

"Boy, would I!" said Clayton.

"How about you, Waylon?"

"That'd be great!"

Deforest said, "You boys will have to be very quiet and patient and do exactly what we tell you. Think you boys can handle that?"

They nodded vigorously. They both loved their Uncle Deforest, as they called him. A surprisingly spritely and sturdy man for his 82 years, he had scraggly gray hair and a full, grizzled beard, standing at five foot nine to Wayland's five foot seven. Wayland, on the other hand, kept his face shaven with short, rough stubble speckled on his chin and neck, and he wore small, round spectacles. Both men were perpetually clad in jeans and plaid flannel, a rifle sure to be within arm's reach. They hunted off the land and shared a vegetable garden with Constance and Maybelle, and what they didn't eat, they sold to the townspeople to purchase tools and other goods. They were never inclined to city living like Wayland's brother Joshua Ellsworth Smithers, and they found the company of family and friends to be all the human contact they desired.

"We'll have to get up nice and early," said Deforest, "before daybreak. Think you boys can handle that?"

"Yes, sir!" said Waylon, simultaneous to his brother's enthusiastic, "Absolutely!"

September 15, 1928.

The Smithers family arrived at the gate of Burns Manor. "This is certainly an ostentatious affair for a birthday celebration," said Ellsworth as they left their Brewster Green Ford Model A to the care of a valet as they walked up the steps to the large doors into an expansive room adorned with massive chandeliers, antique furniture, masterpieces of art, and all the gaudy, gilded pleasures of decadent wealth.

"Whoa," said Clayton, his jaw slightly agape. The Smithers family was fairly well-to-do, but nothing like this, and they had worked their way up from fairly humble origins. Ellsworth had seen plenty of this luxury attending social functions with his more moneyed peers at Yale, but the rest of the family had never seen anything like it before.

"What is the matter?" said a young man of twenty-five with ink-black hair neatly slicked back with a liberal helping of Brilliantine. "I would think you're some slack-jawed yokel, but Mr. Burns would never allow the likes of that to set foot on his estate."

Clayton brushed one of his short, dusty brown curls out of his eyes and said, "Well, if I'm a slack-jawed yokel, you're a son of a bitch."

Ellsworth's jaw dropped, and he prepared to smack his hand over his son's mouth but stopped when the young aristocrat chuckled and affably put his hand on Clayton's shoulder. "You have the cheeky tongue of an uppity prole."

Ellsworth clamored to say, "I certainly didn't raise him to speak like that, not to his social superiors, not to anyone!"

"What a shame," he said. "I like it." He smirked, delighted to see the looks of mortification, dismay, and confusion melting together on Ellsworth's face. "What is your name?" he said to Clayton.

"Clayton. Clayton Nash Smithers."

"Stanton. Sterling Hoyt Stanton." They shook hands. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Smithers."

"A pleasure to meet you, Sterling."

"Cheeky bastard. I daresay you ought to be whipped."

"Better a cheeky bastard than a governessy bitch."

"Clayton!" said Ellsworth, smacking his mouth with the back of his glove.

Sterling smiled. "Your father is right. You do need to learn a lesson. But he's not the one to teach it to you." He nodded his head in the direction of a nearby hall. "Come with me. To the conservatory."

Clayton merely nodded and followed him, and as he left, Montgomery Burns drifted from the ballroom into the grand foyer, his posture relaxed as he basked in the gaiety of the occasion. The martini in his hand tilted and almost sloshed out of the glass as he extended his other hand for Waylon's. "Waylon, my dear boy, so glad to see you! And this must be your family," he said, gesturing to his parents and to Wayland and Deforest.

"Yes, sir," said Waylon. "Mr. Burns, these are my parents, Ellsworth and Verna, and this is my great-uncle Wayland and his war buddy Deforest. They're Civil War veterans."

"Oh?" said Burns. "Which side?"

"Union, of course!" said Wayland.

Deforest fixed a suspicious eye on Burns. "Any of your family fight in it?"

"My family? Well..." He thought back to his grandfather, Colonel Wainwright Montgomery Burns, telling him about the time he had been conscripted to fight in the War of Northern Aggression and sent a group of slaves to fight in his stead for the Confederacy, promising to grant them freedom in exchange for their service. It was a history he knew better than to divulge, given Springfield was located in a northern state. "...not as such." Eager to divert attention from himself and the war, he said, "So, Elzy, how has life been since those shortest, gladdest days at Yale?"

"With pleasure rife," he said, running his hand up and down the side of his wife's shoulder and arm. "My coffers may not compare to yours, but my investments have left me a much wealthier man than when I began. Wealth earned is a surer sign of success than that which was fed to you via a silver spoon."

"As much as it may shock you, I'm pleased to hear it. Waylon is a man of enormous potential and promise, and he deserves to have every advantage." He smiled at Waylon and rested his hand on his shoulder. "And I intend to give him whatever advantages you are unable to."

"Mr. Burns, my son doesn't need to rely on your charity. He has a quick wit and a personable comportment, which already puts him at an advantage compared to you."

"True, he doesn't need my help to succeed. But it won't hurt him." He winked none too subtly.

"Where should we put our gift to you, sir?" asked Waylon.

"Oh, just throw it on the pile with the others," he said, gesturing to a line where a series of blue-collar workers trudged in and listlessly set down package after package. As Waylon's parents brought their gift to the pile, Burns pressed his fingertips slightly into his skin, delicately, almost imperceptibly, massaging his shoulder. Waylon smiled yet fixed his eyes warily on Burns' hand. "You looked tense," said Burns in an explanation so quiet as to render the defensive fear in his voice inaudible to the casual listener. Waylon widened his smile, anxieties assuaged, as Burns more overtly began massaging his shoulder. Burns' breath hitched in a muted gasp, and he released his hand. "You had better join your parents, now. Meet in the dining hall in twenty minutes. I have places at the table reserved for you and your kin." Waylon stood there looking at him for a moment, as though his words had just broken a trance. "Well, run along, now, and mingle! You don't get many opportunities to rub elbows with a crowd of this caliber."

The message seemed to register with Waylon, and he said, "Yes, sir," before leaving to mix with the crowd.

Deforest turned a critical eye to Mr. Burns and said quietly, "What exactly is the nature of your interest in young Waylon?"

"As I said, I intend to help make him a great man in his own right."

"And your intentions regarding him are virtuous?"

"My intentions? You speak as if I were courting him."

"Are you?"

"Don't be absurd!"

Wayland shot Deforest a stern look. "Why should we doubt him when he says it's innocent?"

"I've seen that look he gave him in the eyes of men before," said Deforest.

Mr. Burns said, "I've looked at him as any man might look at another. Unless we're going to pathologize the sense of sight..."

"Nobody needs to stare at a man that long to know his mood and features."

"There is nothing impure about our relationship."

"Make certain it stays that way."

"It will require no effort on my part. Now, this discussion has ended. Good day to you." He curtly turned around and walked away, telling a servant to bring him some punch sans alcohol as he took his seat at the end of the great dining hall table.

About an hour later, after dinner had ended and Burns had begun opening presents, Clayton stole into his place at the table, panting with a tremor of terror and elation. "What took you so long?" said Waylon in a whisper.

Clayton bit his lip, then said as discreetly as possible, "I was using the facilities."

Waylon nodded, then turned his attention back to Mr. Burns, who was about to open his gift. The first item in the box was a poster rolled up. Burns unfolded it, revealing a periodic table. "It's updated, with all 91 elements on it," said Waylon. Burns smiled and reached into the box, pulling out a pair of rabbit fur gloves. "Uncle Deforest made them for me, but I've outgrown them. I think they'll be perfect for your hands, though."

Mr. Burns tried on the gloves. Indeed, they fit... like a glove. Or rather, like two gloves. "Yes, a fine present." With that, he resumed opening the other gifts.

The festivities came to a close, and the Smithers family, one of the last groups to leave, stood outside the entrance as the valet brought their car up. Once they were inside, they spoke excitedly about what they had seen, but also – more importantly – who they had seen. Clayton was the exception, uncharacteristically silent and withdrawn. Ellsworth looked back briefly to check Clayton's expression and said, "Normally, you won't stop talking. Don't you have anything to say about your ill-mannered behavior tonight?"

"Sterling thought I was charming."

"Where did you two get off to, anyway? You embarrassed us with your tardiness."

"I'm sorry, Dad, I just got carried away. I mean –"

"He was sick in the lavatory," said Waylon.

"Who is this Mr. Stanton? And why do you think you can get away with addressing him by his given name?"

"He asked me to call him Sterling." His father made a grunt of disbelief. "He invited me to play polo with him at the country club next Saturday."

"I never pegged you as a social climber," said Wayland. "I thought you were more like me – a woodsman in the making."

"That's what I always thought, too. But then, there's a lot I've reconsidered lately."

He and Waylon, 18 and 16, respectively, were of the age when their great-uncle Wayland had fought for the preservation of the Union, and their father never let them forget it. Rather, he never let Clayton forget it. Waylon, always the golden boy, had gone the academic route, making a name for himself in an honorable pursuit. Clayton, on the other hand, would putter in his aunt's garden and go on hunting trips with Wayland and Deforest, sketching wildlife in his spare time. Ellsworth had often pushed him to get a steady job with an income, but Clayton knew exactly how to shut down such suggestions. Each time the subject came up, he volunteered to become a coal miner or garbage collector, and the way the hairs in his father's mustache would bristle told him exactly what he wanted to hear.

When they got home, they went to their respective rooms. After changing into his pajamas, Waylon decided to call Mr. Burns. He held the receiver to his ear and prepared to dial Burns' home number when he heard Clayton's voice.

"I can't wait to see you again," said Clayton.

"Come after we play the sixth chukker – my room is the place you will pucker your lips both for me, and no one will see the look in your eyes while we –"

Waylon slammed the receiver down. No, it probably wasn't as it sounded. Sterling must have been cracking a joke of some sort. He seemed the type to be into bawdy humor. After all, his brother was tough and manly as they come. Surely he had misconstrued the talk. They would never be so indiscreet if there were anything more to it than innocent banter.

He shut the light out and curled into bed, and soon the unsettling phone exchange receded into the back of his unconscious with fragments of half-remembered dreams.