"I had Johan record this to go along with my will, just in case something happened," the man explained. "Monty, if you're watching, greetings. It's been too long, my dear friend; though I'm afraid this is a rather one-sided meeting. Alas, I cannot look through this screen and gaze into your eyes once again.
"How's young Waylon doing? Is he still a boy, or has he grown into quite the accomplished young man by now. Is he watching this? Does he have children of his own? So many questions I hopefully now know the answers to. Ah… getting to the point.
"Timewise, it's early March. The plant's complete, and operational. We've gone live, we're powering the town.
"I've accomplished so much, and I'm sure if you've read my journals you already know. I even drafted my will in case something happens. Last night I realized even with all my preparations, it wasn't enough. I'll be making some changes in my life. They'll affect my wife and son.
"It's said confession is good for the soul. By God I hope that's true. So I enlisted Johan's help yet again in achieving my aims. Isn't that right, my loyal friend?"
"Absolutely, Herr Smithers."
Waylon Sr. reached down and pulled a worn leather satchel into the frame. "Johan has the copies of my will," he explained, holding a manila envelope up before returning it to his satchel.
"My father gave me that messenger bag when I started at Springfield university. It used to be his. I always knew I wanted to work in the atomic industry. Never imagined I'd be designing my own nuclear plant; but now I couldn't imagine it any other way. I was planning to work as a regulator in the administration. This is better.
"'Twin tycoons of Springfield' the used to call us. Remember, Monty, that article in the paper?" Waylon Sr. blushed at the memory, and rubbed a hand over his mustache. "That was quite the one, wasn't. And that photo! I'm surprised no one questioned it. Remember how vehemently and discretely we tried to track down every single copy and burn them?" Waylon Sr. laughed. "Here's my confession, old friend, I kept a copy. It's tucked away with my paperwork in my room. Please don't hold it against me, but you're quite the subject when you're caught off-guard. I loved that photo. Good memories."
Waylon Sr.'s face clouded over. "And here's where it gets difficult for me. Because it's not just recollections of the past. I have to address the present.
"Roberta, how is she? Lord, Roberta; if you're watching this I know I'll never be able to apologize enough. Everything you suspected of me, every accusation you never voiced but still asked with your eyes... it's true. All of it. And you have every right to hate me for what I've done. Alex... I think he knows too. I see that look in his eyes. He knows, I'm sure of it.
"I did love you, Roberta, still do. It's just... not in the way you deserve. When you get better, we'll talk. Hopefully we've had this talk by now; hopefully, even if you can't forgive me, you understand. I love you: you're the mother of my child, my partner, my best friend... I've failed you. You'll be better off free of me. Know this though, I'd lay down my life for you in a heartbeat. Whatever happens, no matter the distance, that will never change.
"Despite how you hate Monty, your anger is misplaced. Hate me if you must. He supported us as a couple, if that helps lessen the blow somewhat. He never encouraged me to leave you. He was the one who insisted I think of you when I sometimes got wrapped up in my own life. 'Invite her to the groundbreaking' he said. He threatened he'd do it for me if I hesitated. He knew you were my fiancée. He respected you as my wife. In that, he was a better man than I.
"Monty, I know how much I hurt you too. Every time I'd go home for the night, decline an invitation in lieu of my husbandly role to Roberta. I know that killed you inside. I wish I could've spared you that pain, but I had my obligations, and you respected them; even to the dagger in your own heart.
"God, Monty... Roberta…" Waylon Sr. dropped his head in his hand, muffling his words. "All I ever wanted was to be a good father, a good man! And I've wound up hurting the two people I love the most in ways they... neither... deserved. Look what I've done, gone and made such a fool of ourselves.
Waylon Sr. paused, and ran an handkerchief over his eyes. He looked away from the camera.
"Shall I stop the film," Johan asked.
Waylon Sr. waved a hand. "No, no. Keep it rolling." He took a deep breath. "I'm okay now."
He continued. "That, Roberta, is why, when you're better, we'll have this talk. And I'll let you scream, and yell, even hit me if you must... but once that's done, we must go our separate ways. We'll discuss Waylon. I'm not going to take your son from you; but I'll not have you take him from me either. I deserve to be in his life. Let us not put him in the middle, this was never about him. It's about us... or maybe just me. I ruined this for all of us. I'm the only guilty one."
Waylon Sr. paused, and reached into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a solid gold pocket watch, the face shaped like that of a lion. He flipped the cover open, and regarded it.
"Good lord, have I spoken for that long? Johan, how much film's left on the reel?"
Johan's disembodied reply: "Barely but a little more, Herr Smithers."
"Ah! I'll need to be quick then." Waylon Sr. returned the watch to his pocket. "Monty, my beloved and cherished friend. You are my partner in more than just business; and I want to keep it that way. I look forward to spending a lifetime of days with you. And equally so many nights, if you'd allow me.
"Waylon, my son, what more can I say? I've spoken to everyone but you it seems. I'm not even sure what to say, my son. Follow your heart, yes; but respect promises you make. A man's honor is only as good as his words. People may forget what you say, they might forget what you do, but they'll always remember how you made them feel. That's true in business, and friendship as well.
"And if, by chance, I'm speaking to someone new... well, now you know the truth about me and the relationship between Springfield's so-called twin tycoons: The Master of the Atom, and the Lion of Fission. I hope you don't use this against my family; either family! This old lion will do more than simply roar when it comes to protecting the members of his pride. I'd lay down my life for any one of them; and that's the truth."
Waylon Sr. straightened his back, and glanced over towards the edge of the screen. He fidgeted with his tie tack again, then clasped his hands together.
"Johan, is that thing still running? I don't know how much time I have lef-"
He never finished his sentence. The film cut out abruptly, spinning onto the receiving wheel.
Ryan quickly reached up and turned the projector off. He sat in the darkness of the theatre, processing what he'd just seen.
His grandfather: oh the family resemblance was strong. The brow and profile? Ryan shared more with his grandfather than his own dad, it seemed (with a bit of his mother thrown in of course). Ryan set the reel to rewind, and pulled up a chair, stretching his feet out onto the balcony railing.
There must be more to life than having nothing, he quoted as he folded his arms behind his head. And there must be more to life than having everything. Had his grandfather been the one to write in that book, highlight those poems for Burns? There wasn't any other explanation. He glanced at the clock on the wall. It was already five thirty in the afternoon. Where had the day gone? His dad and Burns were probably home by now.
Part of him debated confronting Monty.
"Oh, what a messed up family tale this is," Ryan muttered aloud. "This is some gothic drama right here." He reached into his hoodie pocket to pull out the book of E. E. Cummings' poems… and found it empty. All that he had was the little vial from the vase.
The vase in Burns' private study.
The vase that lay in tiny china shards all over the oriental carpet in Burns' study.
"Oh… shit," Ryan groaned, clasping a hand to his face.
There was only one place the book could be. It must've fallen out during the scuffle with Winston by the mantle.
As if on cue, and confirming his fears, a voice echoed through the manor, rage barely controlled: "Ryan! Smithers! Get in here!"
Ryan didn't bother to wonder if there had been a comma between those two names. When Burns bellowed like that, he meant business. Ryan grabbed the roll of film off the projector and tucked it carefully in its tin case. Case in hand, he half-jogged, half-sprinted down the halls to Burns' study.
When he arrived, skidding to a halt on the wood floor, he found his father already there and locked in a heated debate with Burns.
"I don't care what you think happened," Burns snarled. "Someone has broken into my little sanctum, accosted poor Winston here, and enacted valdalic persuasions against my property! Look!" Burns gestured to the dried daffodils, crushed and trampled into the carpet. "Whoever did this," he snarled, his eyes bulging, "will pay most dearly."
Burns dropped to his knees and attempted to gather the crushed petals in his hands. They only disintegrated further, yellow dust slipping through his fingertips. Burns made a feral sound through clenched teeth.
Ryan watched his father kneel down next to Burns.
"We can get more daffodils, sir. They may be out of season here, but I'll call and have them flown in from some hot-house overnight."
Burns shoved Waylon back. "It's not the daffodils, Smithers. Don't be daft. It's what they represented, their history. No money can rebuy the past." Burns rocked back on his haunches and laid a hand on the groggy doberman. "It's gone. My last link… gone."
Ryan, who had had been hesitating just outside the doorway finally spoke up.
"It's not all gone…"
Burns raised his eyes, expression unreadable. "What would you know? You're a child."
Ryan pointed to a book that had fallen mostly under one of the chairs. "Look in that, Monty."
With the speed of a striking cobra, Burns reached out and snatched the book up. "Oh really, boy? And how exactly did you even know this was here?" He narrowed his eyes, looking at the mayhem around him. "You did this, didn't you."
It wasn't a question.
Ryan squared his shoulders, and entered the room, stepping around his father. "Yes, Monty. I did."
Burns clutched the book without opening it. "Why, Ryan?" His face was drawn, expression simultaneously angry and betrayed.
"It's not my fault. I blame Tennessee Williams," Ryan remarked with a casual confidence he didn't feel. He tiptoed around Burns and sat down in the chair behind the old man. "I was reading The Glass Menagerie. And there's a line by e. e. cummings in there. It got me thinking I wanted to read more of his poems-"
("-Hardly poems," sneered Burns)
"So I went down to the Library, and I found this. That book, Monty. The one in your hand started everything. So for the rest of the day I was on this scavenger hunt like Sherlock Holmes. Please," Ryan gestured to the book. "Open it. I think it'll explain some things."
Burns glared at Ryan, but said nothing. He pushed himself up stiffly, and sat down in the chair opposite his stepson. "This better be worth my while."
"I assure you, Monty, it is." Ryan glanced down at his father, who was still crouched on the floor. "Dad," he began, extending a hand. "Please?"
Waylon took it, and let Ryan pull him up. Waylon settled himself on an ottoman, and pursed his lips. He looked on the verge of saying something to Ryan, but for whatever reason, kept his thoughts silent. His expression was that of faint reproach.
Ryan Smithers watched as Charles Montgomery Burns read the inscription at the beginning of the book. He said nothing when Burns moved to the first poem, and began to read, his lips forming soundless words.
Burns finished the first poem, and flipped several pages to the second, which he read aloud.
remember seek (forgetting find)
and in a mystery to be
(when time from time set us free)
forgetting me, remember me.
Burns closed the book and set it in his lap. He tapped his thumbnail against his teeth and stared at the empty space on the mantle. "Come what may-" he began. His voice trailed off.
"-We'll always have the daffodils," Ryan finished. "This was the only place I could even think that I'd seen daffodils around here. So, I went to see. I'm sorry about your vase, and the mess, but I found this inside it."
Ryan handed the vial over to Burns.
Burns uncorked it, and read the slip of paper. He raised his eyes to Ryan. "Did you?" He didn't need to finish the question.
Ryan nodded. "I did. I went down and found the safe, and the contents thereof." He glanced at Waylon, to Burns, then back to Waylon again. "I think this is something you really both should see."
Burns snorted. "What is it now? Some other book?"
Ryan shook his head and held out the film tin. "No. He made a movie."
The three men sat in darkened room, listening to Waylon Sr.'s words, watching his face on the screen.
Ryan stole a glance over at Burns.
The old man had drawn his knuckles to his mouth, resting them against his teeth, gnawing them. Ryan watched as Waylon reached out and took Burns' hand away from his mouth. Waylon drew Burns' hand into his lap, folding it between his own palms. Burns' eyes lowered briefly, a flicker of gratitude towards his husband.
Ryan's attention went back to the screen.
The film reached the its end, the strip flipping onto the receiving spool with a flapping rattle. Burns reached up and quickly stopped the projector. He brought up the lights.
For several minutes, no one spoke.
It was Waylon who eventually broke the silence. "I knew," he began slowly, "that you loved my father. I never realized though, he loved you too."
Burns glanced at Waylon. "Does that bother you?"
Waylon's brow furrowed. "I don't know," he admitted.
Burns gave a cough. "The man was always three steps ahead of me, I fear. I never realized it till now. I can't help but feel a twinge of betrayal, and there is no small matter of astonishment, for I had no idea he'd managed to secure Johan's obedience so completely. You have a dog, Smithers. And you Ryan?"
Waylon nodded.
Ryan shook his head.
Burns made a dismissive gesture with a hand as he sat back down. "Well, imagine you have a hound, one you think completely yours, and utterly loyal to you. Then, one day, as you go to retire for the evening you realize the animal is not on its place at the foot of your bed. You go down the hall, and find the beast curled contentedly up against the side of your friend, or relation; and you realize then the hound has chosen itself a new master… and you realize there is not a damn thing you can do about it."
Burns shook his head. "I should be mad, yes. But quite frankly, I'm impressed. Even all these decades later, old Waylon still manages to surprise me, eh? All this time, I thought I was calling the shots. It appears Waylon had been planning everything behind my back. He always could get the upper hand with me, I fear. Ah, but that is what I get for choosing a companion both Engineer, and Architect."
Burns gave a rueful smile at Waylon Jr. "That's something you, dear man, could learn from."
Waylon gave Burns' hand a patronizing squeeze.
Burns patted Waylon's arm gently, then focused his attention on Ryan.
"Then we have this one here. He takes it upon himself to investigate a personal matter in which he has no business putting his nose into. He ransacks my study, slips some quietive to poor innocent Winston there, and proceeds to act as if this was all perfectly normal for his day's work."
Ryan started to protest, but Burns cut him off.
"I haven't encountered this level of well-played chicanery since dealing with Waylon Sr. himself. You are irreverent, and pert. You caper about this house like you own it, and yet I cannot find a single cell of my being willing to dispute your claim!"
Burns' eyes flashed, almost electric in the dark. "Damn you, Ryan. You are ever too much like your grandfather. For your transgressions, you must be punished, and I can see no better nor fitting way than to reprove you in much the same manner as I would've handled your grandfather himself."
Oh really now? Ryan thought. He crossed his arms across his chest and looked levelly at Burns.
"The fate of your next years has been decided. You will be going to college, starting post-haste; even if I have to wring some administrative necks to make it happen. I don't care for registrations and semesters. You start this fall. As concession though, I shall give you forty-eight hours to decide what major you will pursue."
That's it? Ryan asked himself, sitting back. That's the punishment?
"Where will I go?"
"A place befitting your accursed intellect and cheeky attitude: Yale. I can think of no finer place for a young man of your caliber."
Ryan ran his hands over his knees. He wasn't sure how he felt. "You're sending me away…"
"Hardly, boy. I'd do far worse to pit you against me."
"So you're not getting rid of me.
"Of course not. What sort of man do you think I am? If that is too great a distance for you, then you can take day courses at Springfield University for all I care. But I'll not have you sitting around the house, your genius quietly degrading from disuse. No. Your punishment shall be using that devilish intellect God or Fates have decided to bestow on you. You will study hard, and you will maintain your grades."
"Or what?"
"Or you will not find me so benevolent towards your contraventions if you fail to uphold your end of the bargain."
Ryan rubbed his palms together. He stared into Burns' eyes unflinchingly. Though Burns' face was pleasant, there was a sharp edge to the gaze. Ryan found himself reluctant to push the issue further.
"So," Burns asked, "do we have a deal?"
Ryan took a deep breath. "Deal," he replied, extending his arm over Waylon.
Burns took it, and the two men shook hands formally.