Chapter Nine

Mr. Burns sat in his study, poring over financial reports, scheming ways to cut corners and turn as much of a profit as was possible during the steep dip in the economy, when his telephone rang.

"Mr. Smithers is at the gate, sir," said his butler over the phone.

"Yes, thank you, Winston. Send him in."

Minutes passed, and he half-heartedly reviewed his papers, impatiently awaiting Waylon's arrival. He had found his unexpected visit an intrusion, but since his time had already been interrupted, he found it pointless to focus on his work while knowing he was soon to be interrupted again anyway.

And then he heard a hollow rapping at his door.

"Come in, Smithers," said Burns. "It's open." There was silence and stillness for a few seconds, and then the lustrous brass door knob turned in an irresolute fashion, and the heavy oaken door eased open, Waylon standing at the entryway. "I am rather busy at this moment, so whatever you've come here for, it had better be worth my time."

"Clayton is dead." Burns' eyes widened as Waylon dropped his chin to his chest. "He hanged himself."

"Have a seat," he said, standing and gesturing to a gilded eighteenth century armchair upholstered with red silk positioned beside his desk. As Waylon drifted his way into the chair, Burns picked up his phone's receiver and spoke into it. "Winston, send in some tea."

Wincing, Waylon said, "If I could've talked to him, maybe I could've talked him out – we still had the appeal, why couldn't he hold on just a little while longer...?"

"I'm terribly sorry for your loss," said Burns, brows wrinkling in genuine empathy as he faced him, resting a hand on his shoulder. "May I offer you a peppermint, or some such?" He gestured to the small glass candy bowl on his desk.

"No, thank you." Waylon braced himself to maintain his composure against a cascade of tears only for him to realize there was nothing left to fight against. He had already been drained of the tears he had left to give, all driven out in rivulets across his cheek and his mother's shoulder, their unremitting expulsion enervating and anesthetizing him. How could my fellow countrymen have condemned my brother? Is the world really this awful? Is this godforsaken species completely irredeemable? "Mr. Burns," said Waylon, who only then noticed Burns' hand on his shoulder.

"Yes."

"Do you believe there is a heaven?"

Regardless, I'm sure hell is much more fun. "Yes, Waylon." Burns embraced him. "And I'm sure your brother is at peace, now."

Chest quivering with the tension of feeling as though he needed to cry but being unable to, he shook his head. "What peace is there in extinguishing a loving soul?"

Winston, a stout, balding man, silently entered the room and said, "Your tea, Mr. Burns," and carried the tray of tea to the desk before swiftly leaving the room.

"Have some tea," said Burns, parting from him and grasping a cup of tea and accompanying saucer. "Milk and sugar?" Not getting a response, he spooned a bit of sugar and poured a little milk from the dispenser on the tray and handed the cup to Smithers. "Drink up, friend."

"I don't normally take milk in my tea," he said, taking the slightest of sips. He slurped a bit more of it. "I like it, though."

"He seemed a good man, your brother. Alas, in this world, good men never prosper."

"You are quite prosperous, sir."

"If you take me for a good man, you would be mistaken." He sipped of the other cup of tea.

"How could I have let this happen...?"

Burns set his tea on the tray. "Come, now. You speak as if you were the older brother."

"But I was the one who had the power to get him out of there."

"Clearly, you didn't."

"How does life go from joyous and brimming with endless possibilities to having a family torn apart, dreams and lives ended? My brother, such a lively person – dead. I can't think of anything more absurd." He tapped his fingers against the armrest and looked to Burns' desk. "Do you have any cigarettes?"

"It's a filthy habit."

"A filthy habit for a filthy world."

Burns rummaged through a drawer and pulled out a pair of cigars. "Fine Cuban cigars. I received them as a gift from a fellow who owned a cigarette factory there." He clipped the ends, then struck a match and lit the end of Smithers' cigar, then his own, and each inhaled, drew the cigar away from his lips, then languidly exhaled in unison. They exchanged few glances and fewer words as they smoked in silence.

Burns' telephone rang, and he picked it up. "Ahoy-hoy?"

"Sir, your brother Clifford is here," said Winston.

"That impudent wretch; what does he want?"

"He says he has urgent business with you."

"Very well." He set his cigar on the ash tray on his desk. "I must see what my brother thinks is so urgent. You are welcome to stay here until my return." He headed for the door, stopping for just a moment to turn back and see Waylon still sitting and staring fixedly out the window behind Burns' desk, cigar perched between index and middle finger as he slowly exhaled.

He strode down the great hall, offering a listless, "All right, what is it?" as he neared his brother.

"You'll see in a moment's time," said Cliff. He turned his head to the door and called out, "Bring my trunk in!" A pair of men in overalls carried in his traveler trunk and set it on the floor in the doorway. Cliff looked back to Burns and grinned mischievously. "You know that formula we began work on at Yale?"

Burns rolled his eyes. "Are you still tinkering with that death mimicry potion? How many dead frogs will it take before you give it up?"

"Oh, no, I'm well past experimenting with frogs, dogs, or even hogs. I've hit upon the real McCoy."

"Poppycock. You've said that a dozen times."

"This time it really is true."

"Don't waste my time on your shenanigans."

"All right, I'll prove it. Prepare to be astounded – wait, which way to the facilities?" He clutched at his stomach.

"Down that hall, twenty-third door to the left."

He ran down the hall, muttering, "I knew I shouldn't have had that prison shrimp!"

Burns scoffed. "Imbecile." He walked back to his study, where Waylon still sat, cigar in hand. "Waylon, if you'd like to come downstairs with me, my brother has some heavy baggage. It might take your mind off your troubles to carry them in." He set his cigar on the ashtray and followed Burns down to the entrance of the great hall, where he saw a large trunk and several briefcases sitting on the threshold. He brought the briefcases inside and leaned them against the interior wall, then grabbed the handle of one end.

"Good, you keep busy with that. I'll go see that my brother has reached the lavatory." He walked down the hall, and Waylon began to tug at the trunk, but he found it very heavy and slow to move. He pulled with greater force, only to realize that he was jeopardizing his back. "What does he have in here, gold bricks?" He undid the leather straps and noted the lock. He looked around the room and saw a thin flash of bronze in the hall. He walked down the hall to find it was a key that looked to match the lock. He carried it back to the trunk and turned the key in the lock. He placed the key in his pants pocket, then opened the trunk and promptly fainted.

When he awoke, he saw Clayton looking over him and noted there was some cloth between the back of his head and the cold tile floor. "Clayton! You're not – I thought you killed –" He pulled himself upright and hugged Clayton, tears dripping from his eyes as he pressed them tightly shut.

Clayton brought his arms around Waylon and said, "I almost did. But Mr. Burns' brother saved me."

"Don't try that again."

"It's okay, I won't. Cliff is helping me escape." He took his wool cap from the floor where Waylon's head had been.

Burns walked in with Cliff, who shut the front door. "So," said Cliff, "I see you've met my test subject."

"Test subject?" said Waylon in dismay.

"You're Waylon, aren't you?" said Cliff. Waylon nodded. "The other day, I found your brother hanging from a rope by his neck –"

"Dear God!"

"–but no worry, as he's clearly all right now. I administered an experimental potion to temporarily stay the signs of life so as to mimic death. I showed him to the other guards so they'd think he really was dead, and the doctor examined him and put him into a body bag. I took his body out of the bag, replaced it with cabbages and sacks of potatoes, then got him into my trunk. You're lucky they didn't insist on an autopsy, kid."

Clayton said, "I can't thank you enough for saving my life, Cliff."

"And thank you for helping me get the dosage right."

"So, where do I go from here? I can't just go back in town; they'll throw me back in jail."

Mr. Burns said, "We can send you across the country with a new identity."

"I'd hate to be so far away from Waylon and my aunts, but I guess that's what I'll have to do."

"Wait," said Waylon. "What if they make up phony papers for you, but instead you go live in Uncle Wayland's old cabin? You can hunt and farm like you've always wanted to, and I'll visit you every week and bring anything in from the city you need? Then, if you ever do decide to live in a city, you can go take a train out to Ogdenville. You can always telephone your address, and I'd visit you."

"You'd do that for me?"

"Of course." He hugged Clayton again.

"I'll have people doctor some papers for you. They should be ready in a few days. In the meantime, you may stay in one of my guest rooms. Waylon, see him to his bedroom."

"Which one, sir?"

"The one I showed you the day you first sought my help on your brother's behalf."

"I know the one you mean. Come with me, Clayton."

As they left, Cliff said, "That Waylon is a fine young man."

"Very fine. Almost worthy of being a Burns."

"A little more than 'almost.'"

"So you see it, too?"

"How could I not? I am the boy's real father."

Monty dropped his jaw, then forced a chuckle and said, "Good one! You almost had me, there."

"I'm not joking. Back at Yale, I had a torrid affair with his mother, Verna. We were oscillating the unmentionables on a nightly basis. It's a wonder I passed any of my exams. Elzy, the poor bastard, hardly got the chance to knock boots with her at all."

Monty looked back down the hall. "It can't be..."

"It's true. I even kept one of the letters she wrote me."

He pulled one out of his breast pocket and handed it to Monty, who began reading, growing increasingly sick and dizzy. The words blurred and danced on the page, and Cliff's voice echoed in his mind as the world faded to white.

When he awoke, Waylon had his hand on his forehead and Cliff discreetly slid the love note out of Monty's hands. Monty struggled away from Waylon, swiping his hand away. "Leave me be! Go tend to your brother." He averted his eyes from Waylon, instead staring fixedly into the fringes of the carpet he was lying on. As Waylon headed for his brother's room, Monty said, "Wait! Waylon, what's your blood type?"

"I'm afraid I don't know that, sir. Why?"

"Well, it would be useful to know if your blood is compatible with mine should an emergency arise. You are to submit to testing as soon as possible. Now, run along." Once Waylon was out of earshot, he told Cliff, "You are going to find out his mother's blood type, or I'll tell Elzy about your affair."

"And he'd believe you... why?"

Monty produced the love letter from his jacket pocket. "I took it back from you when you weren't looking. Now, you are also to deliver to me the father's blood type."

"What has possessed you, Monty?"

"If medical evidence can show that Waylon is not my nephew, I need to see it."

"Why?" The silent response to his question clued him in, and he began to slowly, knowingly nod. "You sent Clayton to your old bedroom where father caught you with Otis, didn't you? You have that inclination towards Waylon, don't you?"

"You're talking out of your ass, Cliff, just as your namesake so often did."

"Oh, don't turn this bitterness on me or father. For what other reason would you react with such horror and disgust to find that an upstanding, intelligent... attractive young man is your nephew."

"Shut up!"

"What other embarrassment could so handicap your verbal faculties, reducing you to childish retorts as that one?" He glanced admiringly into a mirror. "But then, of course my progeny would be irresistible."

"Leave! And don't return until you have the information I require."

"Oh, all right," he said, taking his briefcases and trunk outside.

Burns slammed the doors, then leaned back against them and slid to the ground. "No, he can't be; he looks so much like Winfield... At least we never... What a whoreson I've been."