Author's Notes:
Deleted Scene: Burns and Smithers' mother have a graveside chat by Waylon Sr.'s memorial.
More of the past, here. It didn't make the cut because, much as I liked Roberta as a character, she is, simply put, not an element that moves the story along. This scene, I think, shows Roberta as being one of the few people who is not impressed by Burns. Ultimately though, it was cut because I could leave off with a few sentences implying the exact same concepts as shown here.
Less can very often be more.
"I want to let you know, Mrs. Smithers, that I am not going to try and take your son from you. I'm not going to force you to let me see him, nor send one of my 'goons' to take him away." Burns chewed on his lip a moment. "I would like to see Waylon Jr., perhaps get to know him. He seems like a keenly introspective lad."
"He is," Roberta remarked, guardedly.
"Those traits, they aren't always appreciated in the culture of today."
Roberta folded her arms across her chest. "What are you implying?" She glanced to towards the car. Waylon Jr. and her husband were still waiting. She started to leave.
Burns held up his hands. "Mrs. Smithers, I am implying nothing." He took a deep breath, sized her up and relented. He bowed his head, dropping all pretense. "All I'm saying is this: your son is the last link I have to a very dear friend.
"We've never, eh, seen eye to eye, Roberta. I daresay there are a lot of unresolvable hostilities at both our quarters. I do regret how things came to be. But please, if you could find a way to forgive me for whatever offenses you feel I've committed, I would dearly like the chance to get to know my godson."
Burns lowered his head. He stared at the flowers, and tried not to think about the empty grave at their feet. If I could take all of this back, he thought silently, I would in a heartbeat.
Roberta said nothing. He could feel her eyes on him, scrutinizing him. She was always a bright one, he recalled. Damnably clever.
After what seemed like an eternity, Roberta spoke. "I should say no," she began. "I should tell you to go to Hell, and stay away from my son…"
(Burns steeled his nerves for her next words, afraid of what she might say.)
"… But that doesn't seem right somehow." She hesitated, looking out over the rows of gravestones. "I don't care about what you think or feel. I don't give a damn about you. But I have to remember what Waylon wanted. He saw you as a friend, and a mentor I think. I always hated it when he would start talking about you. Maybe I was jealous... I don't know. It doesn't seem important now." She continued to stare off towards the horizon. "The world has moved on."
Burns nodded, silently. And it left a gaping hole behind, he added in his head.
Roberta continued. "I'll honor Waylon's request to let you see our son, but you must understand I'm doing this for him, not you. If it were up to me, you'd never see him, now or ever."
She looked over her shoulder, back towards her husband and son. The man was leaning against his car, looking decidedly impatient. He tapped his foot and glanced less-than-subtly at his wristwatch. Waylon Jr. sat in the car, head down.
"I have to go," Roberta said. "I'll keep in touch."
When? Burns wanted to cry out. He bit his tongue and nodded. "As you will, Mrs. Smithers."
"It's not 'Smithers' anymore. It's 'Weitz,'" she corrected him sharply.
"Mrs. Weitz, then. When might I expect to hear from you, then?"
She narrowed her eyes. "Whenever I feel like writing to you." She turned on her heel. "Good day, Mister Burns." Head high, she stalked off to the car and her waiting family.
Ah, Roberta, Burns thought to himself, It will always be 'Smithers' to me.