Author's Note:
If you haven't yet read one of my other pieces, "Winter of My Heart," this might be a good time to do so before reading further. While reading it's not inherently necessary to this chapter, it might offer a bit more background information you, dear Reader, might appreciate. As I've said before, these stories, "Unfolding of Waylon Smithers," "Winter of my Heart," and "Nuclear Attraction" were, once upon a time, all just pieces of a much larger tale.
Ultimately, it works better divided up this way; and you don't need to read NA or WoMH to enjoy "Unfolding." But if you're one of these people who like the so-called 'Supplemental Material' features of your DVDs, you'll probably enjoy taking a quick read through "Winter of My Heart" before continuing here.
~ Muse
Waylon Smithers didn't wake up until close till noon on Saturday. When he staggered into his apartment at seven that morning, he hadn't even bothered unpacking, or undressing.
He'd caught the midnight train back to Plateau City. On the ride back, he'd tried to doze as best he could. It was a fragmented and disconnected sleep; at times he wasn't sure if he were awake or dreaming. Other times he knew he was dreaming, but the images were so strange.
One part was a dream, he knew for certain. He couldn't remember it entirely. He was back at Burns Manor, sitting in Burns' personal study, a room that even he was rarely welcomed into. In his dream, he'd been sitting by the cold fireplace, looking at a photo album with Burns. There were pictures of the nuclear plant in various stages of development, photos of a handsome younger Burns, and even pictures of his father. In his dream, Burns then pulled out a second album. This one was full of pictures of him: Smithers Jr.
He dreamed he saw a photo of himself chauffeuring Burns somewhere. There was one where he was being chased down Mammon Drive by the hounds. A strange one where he was prostrate on some wooden porch, hugging Burns' shadow. When I lost you, I was so angry. I wanted to destroy everything. Now, I just want you to come home, Burns remarked as they turned a page.
The dream shifted. Smithers was now standing on the bow of Burns' yacht, looking back at the rapidly disappearing shoreline. The photo with pictures of him was still in his hands.
Burns was in the wheelhouse, piloting them out to sea at full speed. Where are we going? Smithers yelled over the roar of the engines. He tried to climb up the narrow staircase, but the ocean was rough. The waves came, knocking the rolling the boat nearly over.
Smithers feet slipped on the rungs, and it was only his tenacious grasp on the handrails that kept him from falling over, but the album slipped from his grasp. He watched in dismay as it vanished into the foamy water.
Somehow, despite the storm, he managed to make it to the top. When he got in, the wheelhouse was empty. No one was at the helm. The yacht listed wildly with each swell.
Smithers lunged forward and grabbed the wheel, fighting against the current to turn the craft around. His eyes scanned the dark horizon. In the distance, he saw the faint flash of a lighthouse. He was in the act of navigating towards it when the train had finally lurched to a stop, jarring him awake, and out of his phantasmal world.
The rest of the trip back to his apartment had been a blur. He felt absolutely exhausted, emotionally and physically.
Smithers woke up face down on the bed, travel bag on the floor next to him, still in his jeans and tee-shirt. His hair was completely disheveled, and he had a bit of day-old stubble starting to form. Smithers rolled over and looked at the time, then sat up. He wondered disjointedly how Keith was faring, but a quick scan of his phone showed no texts, and he wasn't interested in sending the first one.
Smithers got up, stripped down, and took a scalding hot shower. He liked the water hot; the hotter the better in most cases. It made him feel refreshed. He dried off, shaved, and had to confess a haircut would be in order. Fortunately, there was a barber shop nearby.
He slipped on a pair of jeans, and a plain white tee shirt, and headed out.
The day was beautiful, clear, but not too hot. Smithers strolled down the main avenue, feeling remarkably refreshed despite his late night.
Now, Saturday, Smithers' mind was still preoccupied as he checked in at the barber's shop, and sat down in the chair. He wanted the sides trimmed short again, but the top left long in front. They gladly obliged, crisping up the shape of his undercut style. If he added a bit of product, he could now pull of a well-styled pompadour.
Feeling refreshed, and not quite ready to go home, he made his way down to J. Vernie's, and was glad to find Leon working. Smithers pulled up a barstool, ordered a Diet Coke, and asked for a lunch menu.
"Not your usual today?" Leon asked.
Smithers shook his head. "I had a very late night; eh, technically a very early morning. I need something to keep me awake a bit longer."
Leon nodded, and poured his drink. "Weren't you and Keith going to Niagara Falls this weekend," Leon probed, curious.
Smithers gave a sad little shrug. "That didn't work out like we'd planned."
"What happened," Leon asked, leaning in. "He didn't flake on you did he?"
Smithers' head popped up. "'Flake?'" he asked, caught off guard.
Leon's deep eyes looked perplexed.
"Oh," Smithers realized, "'flake' as in not show up!" He chuckled ruefully at his own misunderstanding. "No, he showed up. We got to Niagara last night." Smithers shifted in his seat. "He wanted to go out. He's a, eh, a bit too into the party-and-play scene," he remarked, trying to be as discrete as possible. Smithers shook his head. "If he wants to do that, that's his choice. But I'm straight edge. And we stayed on the Canadian side. I wasn't too thrilled that he decided to carry through customs, and decided to come back by myself."
"Awww, honey," Leon crooned. "Are you okay?"
Smithers nodded. "I am, actually." He selected a sandwich of the menu. "I thought I'd be upset, but," he shrugged, "I'm not." Smithers interlaced his fingers thoughtfully. "I'm just glad I found out sooner than later, before anything got too serious, you know?"
Leon nodded. "True that," he agreed, nodding, light reflecting off his golden earrings. "Are you worried about Keith," he asked gently.
Smithers shook his head. "I feel like I should be; like if I were a better person I would be concerned… but I'm not. It's his life, his choices. Everyone's got to find their own way, make their own decisions; right?"
Leon patted his arm. "Exactly. Seems like you've done a lot of thinking on this, Waylon."
Smithers took a sip of his Coke. "I've had time to think about a lot lately." His mind drifted, unbidden, back to Burns. What was in that letter, seriously? At this point, it might almost be worth the risk to find out.
His sandwich arrived, and Leon left him to eat in peace. After lunch, he went down to Monument Park and sat, looking over the river several hundred feet below. He wished he'd brought his MyPod along. Music always seemed to help him think. Only a mere hundred feet below, the black-winged gulls glided, calling out to one another with their strange, meowing voices. Behind him, the sounds of the city faded into a white noise backdrop. It might not have been a song, but it was a sort of music in its own way.
Smithers sat, lost in thought. He wasn't sure how long he'd been there, only that the shadows beside him had lengthened considerably, and the day was beginning to cool. He got up, stretched, and made his way back up town to his apartment.
Sunday came and went without much fanfare.
Smithers went to the gym, ran a few miles, and lifted weights. No texts came in, no missed calls. Social media was fairly quiet. He noticed Keith had unfriended him, and felt a slight touch of regret, but nothing significant. He almost thought about calling Burns, just to hear the man's familiar voice.
What would you even talk about? he asked himself; and changed his mind.
Instead he pulled out the letter and set it on the table.
Tomorrow, he told himself, or maybe the day after that. Sometime though, I'll get to you.
When Monday arrived for Waylon Smithers, the routine was old hat. He found himself eager to start the new week. He arrived at the plant, checked in with Preston, and made his way to the hydrology department. The letter accusingly on his table, still unopened.
By mid-week, the letter had created a presence no less threatening than a live grenade. Still, Smithers couldn't bring himself to open it. Finally, he grabbed a ballpoint pen and some sheets of paper from his computer bag, and sat down to write his own.
Dear Mister Burns, Monty;
I'll cut to the chase. No, I still have not read the letter you sent me. I'm not sure I ever will; and I want to tell you why. The way I see it, what could you possibly have left to say to me? You've said just about every hurtful thing you ever could. You chose your words like needle-tipped darts, and hurl them with intent to wound.
I don't think there's a single part of my soul left you haven't pierced one way or the other.
In that, I don't need to read it if it shall just prove to be more of the same. I'm sorry, Monty, but at this point, there's nothing left for you to hurt. I've grown numb to your barbs.
I'll admit, I did wonder if perhaps you'd actually said the opposite: and confessed some sort of affection for me. Therein lies the irony. I've been your friend and faithful companion for the last twenty years. Through it all, perhaps I've not always been forthcoming, but I've never been completely discrete either.
If you wanted to tell me you had some sort of fond regard for me, beyond fleeting appreciation when I'd done something to benefit you, you had two decades to do it.
What could you possible want to say now that you hadn't said in all those opportunities you had? Or, how do you think you could possibly hurt me anymore? You have no power over me.
Smithers thought of what Keith had said.
Power's not something you can simply take by force. Sure there's fear, but that's just a fleeting control. True power endures, and it's given to one by those around them. How many people, other than you, talk about your grandfather? Even remember his name? None; because he ruled by fear; and in the end, was powerless. The tyrant of the Burns Estate lies turning to dust, and no one visits his grave.
I'm sure that will be you someday.
Monty, you had a lifetime that I gave you power over me.
I gave it freely, openly, even one might say lovingly.
In the end, it meant nothing to you. I see that now. I dreamed about that photo album I saw once. I'm sure you remember. I found it in your private study and you yelled at me for flipping through it. I saw the pictures of you and my father working together. It doesn't take a genius to tell you respected him as an equal. Clearly you're capable of treating another person with civility.
Unfortunately, that person was not me.
You can't keep kicking someone, Monty, and expect them to stay around. Even a beaten dog will eventually run away.
So no, I have not read your letter. And no, I don't know if I ever will. Maybe some year, when I am old and grey, I'll find it in a trunk somewhere, and finally want to know the answer of what you felt was so important to say. Important, and yet you couldn't say it to my face.
Well, Monty, if it's not important for you to say, then it's not yet important for me to read. I'm sorry, but that's the truth.
I hope this letter finds you well.
Good luck in your future endeavors.
- Waylon Joseph Smithers.
He did not add "Jr." to the end.
Smithers slipped the letter into business envelope, prepaid for overnight delivery, then went to the front desk to gather the label. The manager handed it to him, he attached it to the envelope, then dropped the letter unceremoniously into the mail slot. It would get picked up Thursday, delivered by Friday; Saturday at the latest. Smithers had a tracking number for it. He'd know when his letter arrived, then he'd wait and see what Burns did next… if Burns did anything at all, that was. He wasn't expecting a response.
Deep inside, in a corner of himself that he'd almost forgotten about, a tiny flame flickered bravely, a light in the darkness, holding on to some meager hope for a future someday.