Ryan woke up to the sound of knocking on his door. He groaned at stretched, then pulled the pillow over his head. "No!," he protested.

"Yes," came his father's voice at the door.

Ryan rolled over and threw a tee shirt on. "What?" he asked, opening the door and looking at Waylon.

Waylon stood there, a vest over his button-up shirt, and wearing tan khakis. "It's time to go. Are you packed?"

"It's still dark out," groaned Ryan, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. "And I never unpacked in the first place." He grabbed his backpack, slung it over his shoulder. "I want to get some stuff out of my trailer."

Waylon nodded. "That's fine, we're going that way anyhow."

The two men descended the flying staircase. Ryan instinctively started towards the front door, but Waylon gently took his arm. "Downstairs," he explained, gesturing toward a back hallway.

"But my bike-"

"-Is in the garage," Waylon finished. He lead Ryan down a second flight of stairs, the rich wood paneling giving way to wainscoting and white plaster.

The 'garage' as Waylon called it was located in a converted section of the manor basement. While the original ceiling-work remained, vaulted red brick with cathedral-arching, the area had been entirely redone. Between the supports for the ceiling, track lighting illuminated each bay. The floor was black and white checkered tile. Ryan paused at the foot of the stairs and looked down the row of various automobiles, nearly each one a collector's piece. Some he recognized, others he had no idea on.

A peg-board by the wall held more keys than he cared to count; each set labeled for its respective car. "An Aston Martin?" Ryan asked, eyes wide.

Waylon nodded, face pinching slightly. "The new one, yes."

"What happened to the old one?"

"It got totaled," Waylon replied curtly.

Ryan figured it was best to drop the matter. He watched his father select a set of keys for a Dodge Durango.

The Durango was located at the far end of the garage, closest to the doors, in a bay across from a blue Porsche. Ryan immediately recognized his motorcycle in the bay beyond the Durango. The trailer had been disconnected, and parked beside the bike.

"Hey!" he exclaimed. He was on the verge of protest for anyone touching his belongings, but then he paused. The bike shone like a floor model display, waxed and polished. Not a hint of road-grime to be seen.

Waylon folded the rear seats down, and tossed his bag into the cargo hold of the Durango.

"Your bike's been serviced, detailed, and refueled. Hopefully you don't mind."

Ryan pulled a few more sets of clothes, and the packs of Oreos out. "Mind? No! I mean, she looks great," he said, running a hand lovingly over the handlebars. "I mean, I should tell you no one touches my bike, but you didn't know, I guess I can let it go for now," he added, trying to play cool. He tossed his stuff in next to his father's bags.

Waylon hid a smile as he climbed in to the driver's seat

Ryan slid in beside him. He glanced around the interior of the Durango, and tried not to look impressed. Clearly, this was the fully-loaded edition. Ryan adjusted the seat, kicked off his shoes, and drew his feet up. He curled in the seat and leaned against the window. His father did a few last minute adjustments to the GPS, and they were off. The garage door opened automatically. So too did the gates at the end of the drive.

For several hours, they road silently. Waylon periodically glanced over at his son, but resolved not to be the first to speak. Ryan seemed content to be silent. Finally, after the second stop for bathroom breaks and fuel, about four hours into the drive, Waylon couldn't stand the silence.

For the past two hundred miles, he'd been listening to the thoughts in his own head. Enough was enough.

"Ryan," he began softly.

"Hmm?" the young man muttered sleepily, raising his head.

"I really am sorry, about all of this. But I'm glad you're here."

Ryan made a face and stretched his legs out. "Yeah? How so?"

Waylon shrugged. "I'm glad I'm getting the chance to get to know you. Family hasn't been something I've been blessed with, unfortunately."

"Right?" Ryan asked, a hint of sarcasm in his tone.

Waylon ground his teeth and slid his hands on the wheel, feeling the texture of the leather beneath his fingers. Visions of various father-son movies flashed through his head. This wasn't a movie, this was real. There was no script, and no promise of a happy ending.

He sighed heavily, and watched the clouds darkening on the horizon. "Right," he said finally. "I, eh, I don't have the best relationship with my mother."

Ryan narrowed his eyes. "Why? Does she resent you for being a shitty husband to your wife?"

"Language!"

"Sorry."

Waylon focused on the road for several minutes before speaking again. "No, it's not that. She lives at the New Bedlam Home for the Emotionally Interesting. A mental institution." Waylon thought about his next words carefully. He glanced at Ryan, who waited silently, face neutral. "I visit her," Waylon began, "but it's hard. She doesn't often recognize me anymore."

Ryan tilted his head. "Wait, your mother doesn't know who you are?"

"It's complicated. She's confused most of the time now. She thinks I'm my father."

The clouds were growing thicker. Waylon could see the grey curtains of rain sweeping across the fields ahead. The wind was blowing the storm east, but not as fast as they were driving. It wouldn't be long before they caught up to it.

"So what happened to your father?" Ryan asked.

"I grew up without him," Waylon replied. "He… he wound up sacrificing himself to save Springfield from a nuclear meltdown, but no one ever knew about it. I didn't find out until a few years ago. I grew up thinking my father had run off and abandoned his family."

Ryan's eyes had a distant, faraway look to them. He mumbled something under his breath. Waylon didn't hear it.

"What's that Ryan?"

"Reactor Two: a hungry beast," Ryan muttered. "'At the word, the saw, as if to prove saws knew what supper meant, leaped out that the boy's hand.'" Ryan's eyes followed a bolt of lightning to the ground.

Waylon felt a chill run down his spine. Something in Ryan's tone was deeply unsettling. He shivered despite the warm weather. "Why would you say that?" Reactor Two? Was that where his father had died? It never occurred to Waylon to ask when Burns admitted the story of Waylon Sr.'s death. Something in Ryan's demeanor made Waylon believe it must be so.

Even through the sound-dampened interior of the Durango, Waylon felt, as much as heard the thunderclap shake the car.

Ryan raised his hazel eyes to Waylon, and muttered softly: "No one believed; they listened at his heart.' Your father… they thought he left."

Waylon nodded. "My mother… she blamed Mister Burns. She didn't know the truth. She thought my father had ran away, or been run out. She never knew he died a hero. I told her once, but I'm not sure she believed it. And she forgot soon after. I never told her again."

"Maybe you should," Ryan suggested. "Even if she forgets it, it probably does her good."

Waylon didn't know what to say to that. He watched the storm come over them. The first few fat droplets of rain collided against the windshield with a wet splat. Like hitting a junebug, Waylon thought morosely.

Several loud drops later, and the sky tore open. It was too loud to talk further.

Waylon squinted against the driving rain, it was almost impossible to see against the downpour. And hail. A few small BB-sized pellets at first, then the resounding crack as the size increased drastically to that of marbles. He merged to the right, slowing down just as a semi-trailer roared past on his left in a spray of water and mist.

Ryan cursed, echoing Waylon's sentiments. "What's his hurry anyway?"

Through the dim shadows of rain, Waylon saw an overpass ahead. He veered towards the shoulder, putting on his emergency flashers, and pulled over under the sheltering road above. Out of the hail and rain, it was mercifully quiet once again. Waylon watched the white hailstones bounce on the exposed highway ahead.

"Nature's ball-bearings," Ryan observed. "Or golf balls." He wiped the fog off his window with a sleeved arm. "So, Waylon, I believe you were telling me about your father?"

Waylon regarded his son thoughtfully. "You're not giving up, are you." It wasn't a question.

Ryan shook his head, black hair swinging. "Nope."

Waylon folded his arms over the steering wheel and looked out at the storm beyond the safety of their overpass. "Well," he began, "it's a long story."

Waylon Smithers Junior explained to his son Ryan about his childhood. He'd never known his father. His mother had been institutionalized for a time when he was very young, and for a few years he lived with his aunt and uncle, raised beside his cousins Robert ("Robbie") and Caroline. Robbie was older, Caroline younger.

When he'd first moved back in with his mother, he resented his aunt and uncle, unable to understand why they hadn't kept him. As he grew older, it made more sense to be raised by his mother. As for his mother, Roberta, she was both loving and detached in one.

Roberta remarried when Waylon was about six years old. His stepfather came in, intent on reshaping Waylon into what he thought a man should be. Waylon didn't bother to tell Ryan about the incident with the Malibu Stacey dolls, or the times his step-father had been less than gentle with him. It would hardly do to make this a pity story, and, in Waylon's mind, the less he recalled about his step-father's rough and hurtful ways, the better.

Waylon did admit though, that after several years, Mister Burns became his god-father. Or, technically, it had been in his father's will to grant Montgomery Burns that honor.

"We didn't know if my father was dead or alive," Waylon admitted to Ryan, "but after seven years without contact, he was presumed legally dead. We even had a memorial service. for him."

Waylon's story continued. In the following years, young Waylon found escape from his stepfather's harsh attitudes on the grounds of Burns Manor. Under Burns' encouraging hand, Waylon was allowed to indulge his passion in music and art; all things 'unmanly' that his step-father described. In his teens, he'd learned to dance, Burns' showing young Waylon various steps from swing-dancing to waltzes. Waylon closed his eyes, recalling with fondness the graceful movements in the ball room, covering the marble floor as if he were floating.

"That all sounds rather pedophilic," Ryan announced, expression skeptical.

Waylon shook his head. "No, not at all. There was nothing of that nature to it."

"Are you sure? You're married to him now. Sounds like 'grooming' to me."

Waylon squeezed his hands into fists, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. "No. It was nothing of the kind. It was innocent. I needed someone who paid attention to me. Looking back, I think he enjoyed the company as well. It was good for both of us. I didn't even think about him in that way till years later… and he had no idea how I felt till years beyond that. You can't blame Mister Burns for our relationship. Sometimes things just happen, and there is no clear 'why.'"

Ryan made a noncommittal noise, but seemed satisfied. "So then what?"

Waylon watched the storm, which showed no signs of letting up, and continued his story.

He told Ryan how he'd kept hoping his father would show up, even after the 'memorial' service. He imagined his father would swoop in, banish his stepfather, and make life normal for him and his mother. It was a dream he held on to long after there was a reason to. Waylon admitted when he graduated highschool, he couldn't help but scan the crowd for his father's face.

Highschool itself had been uneventful for Waylon. Surprisingly so. He graduated near the top of his class, and started working at the nuclear power plant. The fall after highschool, he started working towards his degree at the Springfield Community College. It was during his freshman year in college, he met Lydia, and they became closest of friends. Unsure what the next step was in his life, and reluctant to take any other course, Waylon proposed to her. They were married two years later.

All the while, Waylon continued his job at the nuclear plant, moving his way up from a simple "go-fer" to a trusted member of Monty Burns' inner circle. On schedule, he graduated college with a four year degree. Already by that point, his marriage was already showing some stress cracks. At the time, Waylon attributed it to the stress of completing his Senior thesis, and managing a full-time job to support his young wife.

Unfortunately, things did not improve upon his graduation. He received a promotion at work, requiring him to spend most of his waking hours between the nuclear plant and Burns Manor. Tensions between him and Lydia hit a breaking point. One fateful night, a few weeks after he'd broken his ankle on the job and had one drink to many, he couldn't find a reason to stay in his marriage any longer.

That was a rough memory. It's that horrible Mister Burns isn't it, Lydia objected. Though true, the accusation had been the breaking point for Waylon. He left that night, and never returned to her.

"I just didn't know how to keep it together," Waylon confessed to Ryan. "And you're right, I didn't handle it the way I should've."

He listened to the thunder rumble outside the car.

Ryan sat with his back to his father. He drew a smiley face in the fog on his window, then wiped it away. "Is that all real?" Ryan asked, not looking at Waylon.

"Of course, why would I make that up?"

Ryan shrugged. "I dunno. Maybe you're trying to relate to me."

Waylon snorted, almost amused. "Ryan, I'm not trying to 'relate' to anyone."

His son turned around, and brushed a strand of black hair from his eyes. "So that really happened then. You didn't know your father, you had a stepfather who whaled on you. It's no wonder you had no idea what a healthy relationship looked like, eh?"

"I never said my stepfather beat me," Waylon responded defensively. "And I do know what a healthy relationship looks like. It just took me a while to figure it out."

Ryan smirked. "Healthy. Right. I'll believe that when I see it. As for the beating thing? You didn't have to say it. I read between the lines. And I bet your mom didn't exactly step in on your behalf."

Waylon held up his hands in surrender. So far, Ryan hadn't been wrong.

Ryan folded his arms, satisfied. "I thought so."

The storm was finally receding. Waylon started the Durango, and shifted into gear. He licked his lips, then swallowed. His throat felt dry. "It's not that my mother didn't love me," he protested. His voice trailed off, unsure how to finish his sentence.

Ryan waited patiently.

"I think I reminded her too much of my father, and looking back, the fact that I spent so much time at Burns Manor probably only widened the gulf. I didn't have a bad relationship with my mother, but we were never as close as we could've been, I suppose. It wasn't the worst childhood, but it wasn't easy."

"Didn't give you much in the way of a positive role-model for a happy marriage, eh?"

Waylon tried to laugh, though it came out sounding more like a cough. "Ah, I guess you could say that."

Ryan tucked his legs back into the seat.

"I guess that makes sense why you had so much trouble with my mom. It doesn't excuse anything, but I guess it explains it a little."

Waylon glanced at Ryan, and was surprised to see an almost sympathetic expression on his son's face. Not entirely understanding, but Ryan's eyes lacked the characteristic derision he'd come to expect from the boy's gaze. It wasn't a breakthrough, but it was a positive start.

Ryan didn't talk much, Waylon noted. Not unless he had something to say. For the most part, he rode silently, staring out the window at the clouds and periodic sunny breaks. From time to time they stopped, but Waylon drove like a man pursued. He wasn't sure what waited for him in Louisiana, at the ancient plantation of Belledouleur, but he was in a hurry to find out.

As the sun emerged from the clouds and dipped below the western horizon, Waylon finally summoned up the courage to ask a question that had been on his mind ever since Ryan arrived. Admittedly, it was a rather selfish question, but his mind would not let the matter drop.

"Did your mother… did she ever talk about me?" he asked softly.

Ryan raised his head, then shook it. "No, not really. Hardly at all. Unless I brought it up."

Waylon considered the implications of that fact. "I see. Was she happy?"

Ryan nodded. "Yep!"

All these questions, and Waylon felt he was just circling the drain. He might as well stop beating around the bush and ask it outright. "And was there ever someone else; after me?"

Ryan snorted. "What? You wanna know if Mom spent the rest of her life mourning over the one that got away? You know, you're not very subtle." Ryan's hazel eyes twinkled with a biting humor in the dim light. "No, Waylon. Mom didn't remarry, or have a 'special someone' as you'd say. But she was never unhappy either." His expression grew distant as Ryan remembered. "Mom used to say she'd tried marriage, and it wasn't for her. From then, she got a job as a school Library Education instructor at the elementary school, and I think that was her family. Mom, she had a way of always seeing the best in things. She was great at teaching, even as just being the Librarian after the main academic day. I mean, she loved working with the kids, and I got a chance to read a lot. It kept her busy though, between work and me."

Waylon afforded a glance in Ryan's direction. "She didn't really have time for someone else?"

Ryan rolled his eyes. "She didn't need it. Mom was happy as, well, mom. And at the school, she was kind of like a mother to all us kids. She worked a lot, but she was always there to know just what to say… or the right book to point us to, when we felt out of sorts. As my mom said, she was never lonely because she had herself, her books, and me. 'It's impossible to be alone when you have yourself,' was one of her favorite quotes."

Ryan smiled. "She loved her job. In first grade, I came home one day and told her 'I hate poetry!' Mom asked why, and I told her it was because the rhymes were stupid. Fat cat sat on the mat… stuff like that. It didn't tell a story; it didn't make pictures in my head, and the rhymes were annoying." Ryan stared out the window into lengthening twilight.

"Mom brought me to the library the next morning. She took me to the section with poems and I was really telling her I hated all poetry and trying to leave. She pulled out a book, and read me this little piece. I can still remember it. It was by Carl Sandberg, titled 'Fog.'"

Ryan tilted his head back, and recited two short stanzas:

The fog comes

on little cat feet

It sits looking

over harbor and city

on silent haunches

and then moves on.

"I liked it! Of course," Ryan continued, "I argued that wasn't a poem. I said it didn't rhyme, so it couldn't be a poem. So mom tells me, in Latin: Nullo metro compositum est." He grinned at the memory. "That means, 'it doesn't rhyme.' Mom didn't speak Latin, but she had this book called Latin Phrases for Fun, and that was one of them."

When Ryan smiled, closing his eyes for a minute. "I can't remember the other phrases. But there were some good ones.

Waylon felt an odd glow in his chest. There was something that warmed his heart to see Ryan remember a fond time.

"Mom told me that poems use words like an artist uses paint: it's not about following a pattern, it's about creating an image, evoking a mood. Heck, even changing a person's mind. Of course I was, like, seven at the time so a lot of it went over my head. But the core of what she was trying to teach me stuck. Now, I actually like poems. Especially the ones that don't rhyme. But sometimes, rhymes are good. If they don't detract from the words themselves. There's a reason some poets chose it. The same thing with meter, or foot, or whatever. The poem beat. A certain rhythm can hook into one's mind; and sometimes, that's a really powerful effect."