Saturday was grey and smelled of rain, but in a pleasant way. Smithers always secretly liked that sort of weather. Everything felt cool and soft. Plateau City was covered in a soft mist, and bathed in the tangy brine-scent of the Hudson River.
Smithers grabbed a few brochures from the rack by the front desk, and read them while he waited for the bus. He'd been to New York City a few times, always with Burns; and always for business, though up till recently business and pleasure had been one in the same for him. He'd never really explored NYC, though he and Burns had gone to see an opera once. It was about as much metropolitan culture as he'd had occasion to experience there.
Plateau City, according to the brochures, had an interesting blend of old and modern culture. It had been settled by the Dutch in 1610, several years before Albany; and it had been a point of trade between the Dutch and the native peoples: primarily the Mohawk, but also Mohican.
When the English took over the Dutch settlements in 1664, effectively renaming "New Amsterdam" into "New York," they disregarded Plateau City.
Albany was located at the junction of the Hudson and Mohawk rivers. Water access drove commerce. Albany was also much more accessible to trade than Plateau City four hundred feet above the river. So while the city of Albany got to be the center of New York trade, Plateau City almost faded into obscurity.
The dwindling city was resurrected in the 1860s during the Civil War, and again during the Draft Riots. Plateau City's commanding view of the Hudson made it an important guard post. There was once an old fort built right on the edge of the cliffs: Fort Heldel. It had been named for a soldier who sat manning a single canon on the cliff edge while they built the fort around him, or so, admitted the brochure, the story went.
While the original fort had been destroyed, there was a plaque at the site, and a true-to-history reconstruction at the southern end of Plateau City.
Smithers found himself shaking his head in surprise as he got off the bus. He had always thought of Springfield as an old city. It had been settled in 1796. Reading about Plateau City inadvertently forced him to chance his perspective. Here he was in a city that had been settled nearly two hundred years before Springfield, and played a part in the Civil War. Living out west, the sense of how old the United States was had been crammed into the westward expansion of the 1880s. In his mind, Springfield had been an old town; or at least he used to think it was.
Smithers folded the brochures and stuck them into the pocket of his windbreaker. He didn't want to look like a tourist, wandering around with his nose stuck in a "Welcome to the Plateau!" pamphlet.
His daily plan was simple: he'd visit the park, then head over for an afternoon at the art gallery. If he was still feeling up to it, and he expected he would, he'd stop by J. Vernie's and check out the scene.
Smithers was always slightly nervous going to unfamiliar 'singles' clubs. He wasn't ashamed of being who he was, but he felt more comfortable keeping his preferences out of the public eye. Of course, everyone in Springfield apparently knew. Everyone except Burns, of course. Everyone always said: don't fall for straights. Easier said than done. Smithers remembered the first time he realized the nature of his feelings towards his boss…
… And here he was thinking of Mister Burns again. Smithers stuffed his hands into his coat pocket. No, he reprimanded himself sharply. You are not going to start that. For god's sake, get your head out of your ass, Waylon, and move on! And, he added, you're already thousands of miles away! Chin up and go have fun.
Inspired by his own internal pep-talk, Smithers leaned back and took a deep breath of the salty air. He loved the sea smell. He never realized how strong it could be, even this far away from the ocean. It must have something to do with the river, he thought, smiling slightly.
So thinking, Waylon Smithers set off to explore on the wonderfully overcast day.
Smithers' first planned stop on his route was Monument Park. The entire site was circular, and paved in marble. There were several tiers leading down to a fountain at the center. It was aptly named for the marble statues of the various historic figures. There was one of Dalworth Heldel crouched next to a cannon, an Iroquois warrior dressed for battle, a Revolutionary War soldier… Beside each larger-than-life sculpture was a plaque. They contained a small story, or a quote.
There was an odd feeling to Monument Park. It was like being at a memorial, rather than a spot for recreation. Peaceful though. Smithers walked quietly between the pale figures, lost in thought. Monument Park was a place of remembrance.
Smithers paused in front of a sculpture of a woman, sculpted in modern business attire. Her marble hair was short, her face almost regal, if a little sad. Her lifelike eyes were focused on something beyond the horizon. "Marion 'Jade-Eyes' Queneau; gone but never forgotten. 'How brave a soul that runs towards danger to save the lives of others." There was a date of birth, and a date of death. The latter was "September 11, 2001."
Smithers gulped silently, an unexpected wave of emotions threatening to spill over. He remembered the 9/11 attacks. From the safety of Springfield, it felt like a tragedy that might as well have happened on the other side of the world.
Standing, looking up at Marion's statue made it deeply real. He lifted his glasses down and wiped his eyes. He hadn't expected tears to come. There was something about the monuments. They were beautifully sculpted to elicit emotions. They did just that.
Smithers walked down to the reflecting pool at the center, and watched the fountain while he regained his composure. It reminded him of a song. He pulled his MyPod out of his coat pocket, and queued up this song, Walking in Memphis, by Marc Cohn. It seemed to fit the mood.
Music in his heart and soul, Smithers walked silently though the park, lost in thought and the unbidden flow of emotions.
Do I really feel the way I feel?
C. Montgomery Burns had come to dread weekends in Smithers' absence. Without the daily goings on of running a nuclear plant to keep him preoccupied, keeping his mind from thinking about Smithers became a herculean task.
He wandered back up the abandoned room in the residential wing. He didn't like going up there, but it was the one place he could silence the ghosts.
He pulled the dark green curtains open, letting daylight filter into the room for the first time in decades. It made the dust seem all that more thick, seeing it float like tiny galaxies through the bright air. The room was stuffy. Burns braced himself against the jamb and pushed open the French doors that lead to the balcony.
The fresh air happily bounded into the room like an eager puppy, ruffling Burns' hair, and sending the dust scattering. Burns coughed, waving a hand before his face. The room was still desperately in need of a good cleaning. He didn't want anything moved, per se. He just wanted the entire place freshened up.
On the mantle was a small grey cardboard box. Burns had almost forgotten he'd left it there; almost. He crossed over and lifted it down. The box was slightly larger than a deck of playing cards, and heavier than one might expect. Burns already knew what was inside, but he hadn't looked in years. Once, a long time ago, he'd brought it to this room with Smithers, his young Smithers, intent on giving it to the man.
The time hadn't seemed right, and Burns sadly left the box behind.
Burns pinched the bridge of his nose, and closed his eyes. He massaged the spot between his eyes, trying to sort out what he felt. The box sat heavy, waiting, in his other hand. At long last, he opened his eyes and regarded the innocent object with a deep intensity.
It was something he'd had made years ago. Decades ago. A gift.
It hadn't been a bribe, or a payment. It had been an impulsive and unselfish act.
Burns sighed and gently lifted the lid.
Inside, nestled under several pads of cotton, was a gold pocket watch. It wasn't just any watch. It was a one-of-a-kind piece he'd had specifically crafted for his partner when they were both much younger men. A gift, to Waylon Smithers (Sr.), because he wanted the man to know how much he cared.
The cover of the watch had been sculpted into the regal countenance of a lion, full mane framing its face, and black diamond eyes shining with their own intense fire. He and Waylon Sr. had been on a business trip to Capital City. He wanted to give Waylon Sr. something truly special. The watch had been made in Europe, and Burns frantically awaited its arrival, fearful that it would come after they'd already left.
Each day, he'd send Johan to check the mail before Waylon got to it.
Keeping a secret from Waylon was a monumental task in and of itself. The man had been brilliant; no, beyond brilliant, a true genius! Very little escaped his notice. Burns had been so proud to actually surprise Waylon with such a gift.
Burns lifted the watch out carefully by its gold chain. He squeezed the crown, and the lion's face flipped down, revealing the watch face within. The interior face itself was unremarkable: the standard twelve spaces and two hands. It was the engraving inside the cover that truly made the watch special.
To Waylon Joseph Smithers; For not every man's heart beat is that of the Lion. Forever as Yours; CMB. There was a date as well, the date that Waylon had started working with Burns. It was the closest thing to an anniversary they'd ever had. Waylon left this world far too soon.
Burns felt a lump come to his chest as he looked at the watch.
Whether Waylon had some sixth-sense, or whether it was just his nature to always be prepared, he'd had a will made while he lived at Burns Manor. He was able to get that done without Burns even being aware of it. For all Burns liked to think himself the sneaky one, Waylon always did have the upper hand there, Burns remembered with a sad smile.
Waylon had left a letter with his will. The great tragedy of the matter were the things he couldn't discus in the will. He'd done his best to include Burns, but it was never that simple. Their relationship had been a tightly kept secret. Even Waylon's wife never knew the truth about her husband and his unspoken lover.
After Waylon was gone, Burns had to watch Waylon's family come together and support each other, while he was left to deal with his own grief alone. He'd stayed on the outside, watching as if through a thick window. Some fundamental aspect of him changed, following Waylon's death. A part of him had died as well.
He remembered the words Waylon had included in the letter, regarding the watch.
The handsome watch you gave me, the letter read, is yours as well. Please keep it safe, and in time, I want you to give it to my son when he's older. I can't say how old he need be; I trust you to know when the time is right.
Burns clutched the watch so tightly his knuckled turned white. When the time is right. Oh how easy those words were to say from across the grave. Anger flared up. How on earth was he, C. Montgomery Burns, American, Patriot, and Master of the Atom supposed to know when the so-called time was right?
"He might as well have asked me to drain the ocean with a thimble," Burns fumed aloud. Though, he added silently, wistfully, if he'd asked I damn well would've tired.
Burns shook his head. Since he'd known Waylon's son, Smithers Jr., there had been so many times Burns thought could be the time to present the watch. When the moments arrived, however, Burns lost his nerve.
There was a time once, when it appeared the world was ending at sundown, that Burns had planned to give the watch to Smithers. He'd put it in his pocket while they, and the rest of the Springfieldians had climbed to the top of the hill overlooking the town to await the apocalypse.
Burns reached his hand into his pocket to grab the watch, but Smithers (as usual) had made it awkward.
Oh, what the hell, Smithers announced. He grabbed Burns by the shoulders, and pulled the older man in for a kiss on the lips.
Burns went rigid. It was so unexpected all he could do was freeze and stare mutely as Smithers' embrace came to an all-to-quick end. Burns gasped in surprise, expression stunned. He started to reach into his pocket to pull out the watch, but then that little Simpsons girl had started talking; then that crazy stunt with the fake angel… and the moment was so beyond "passed" that Burns knew better than to even try. He'd repocketed the watch sadly, and acted as if nothing had ever happened.
Standing in Waylon Sr.'s old room, Burns sat down on the bed and put his head in his hands.
The trouble with living as long as he had was simple: sooner or later everyone he ever got close to wound up dead.
In his own subconscious logic, as long as he kept Smithers at arm's length, somehow, perhaps, Smithers could live forever with him. He knew that theory didn't rationally make sense. Smithers could be hit by a car tomorrow, and it would have no bearing on whether he, C. M. Burns confessed his confused feelings or not.
The only thing Burns wasn't confused on was the fact that Smithers was the one person who truly made his enduring life actually worth living.
Burns leaned over and grabbed the pillow off the bed. He wrapped his arms around it and hugged it to his chest. It still smelled like Waylon Sr. after all these years.
It's time to let it go, Monty, he heard Waylon's voice in his head. Even ghosts have to rest eventually.
Burns buried his face in the pillow. I'm not strong enough.
You're as strong as you make up your mind to be, he imagined Waylon chiding him gently. The breeze from the open window swirled around him, catching the dust and sweeping it outside. It's time to let me go. That doesn't mean forget. It just means move on.
Burns lifted his face from the pillow. He hadn't realized he'd been crying. The silk pillowcase was stained from his tears. He took a deep breath and straightened his back. What was this room but a memorial? A bodyless tomb? A prison for memories?
He got up and walked to the outline in the wall where the door to the hall had once been.
How long, he wondered, had it really been. Years seemed to lose their meaning after a while.
The wind gusted unexpectedly.
The papers and book on the table by the fireplace caught the current and blew to the floor. Burns walked over and picked them up. It was Waylon's copy of Faulkener's works. The book had landed open at the bookmark. A folded sheet of paper had slip out. Burns felt a swelling of nostalgia at the scene. His dear Waylon could never read anything without making notes. He picked up the book, glancing at the text.
For a long while we just stood, looking down at the profound and fleshless grin. The body had apparently once lain in the attitude of an embrace, but now the long sleep that outlasts love, that conquers even the grimace of love, had cuckolded him… and upon the pillow beside him lay that even coating of the patient and biding dust.
Burns felt an oddly sour taste in his mouth, like bile. He swallowed uncomfortably.
Reluctantly, but unable to stop, he lifted the folded piece of paper and read it.
It was scribbled in Waylon's neat handwriting; with the same stream-of-conscious style Burns had overseen when the man was writing away in his journal.
'Death leaves a heartache no one can heal, love leaves a memory no one can steal.' The greatest tragedy in life is not the nature of death, but the way it works its will upon the living. The second greatest tragedy is when we spend so much time fearing death we forget how to live. Monty showed me the secret to his long life today, and gave me a choice to share it. What would life be like, I wonder, to live beyond normal years? I can't imagine, but it's a choice I must decline. Mankind wasn't meant to live forever, or cling to things beyond death. I'll grow old and watch my children grow strong. Then, when it's time, I'll die. It's not death that I fear. I'm afraid of what I'll leave behind when I go. The only thing that worries me is leaving Monty to grow old alone.
Burns ran his fingers over the words.
Everything he thought he knew had changed. Waylon must've had some preternatural gift, some foresight. Or maybe he simply was that keenly intuitive.
"I'm living his greatest fear," Burns murmured softly.
The epiphany was mind-bending. Burns tucked the book and note up under his arm. The box containing the watch was in his pocket. He left the room through the clandestine passage through the closet, and leaned against the wall out in the main corridor.
When he'd ordered Johan to seal Waylon's room decades ago, he never expected to ever regret the decision. He put his hand where the door used to be. The plaster felt slightly different from the rest of the main hallway. Burns shook his head.
Two weeks, or was it three, and he was completely losing his mind, he feared.
He summoned his current steward, and ordered the man get a work crew in immediately.
"I want this door reopened," he said gesturing to the blank wall behind him. "And I expect it match exactly with the construction of this wing."
The steward nodded, not seeing any evidence of door, but knowing better than to argue with the whims of Monty Burns. The man was rich, eccentric, and prone to wild mood swings. Perhaps there was a door there. The steward scurried off, eager to remain unseen as ordered.
Burns made a fist and chewed his thumbnail thoughtfully.
What would he do once that room was reopened?
He was sure he had no idea, but whatever it might be, it was time to do it.
Whistling an unusually cheerful tune, he turned and trotted off to the veranda, book still tucked under his arm.