Harold and Maude (2 page)

The minister droned on. The deceased must have been somebody important, he thought. This is quite a turnout. He looked around him and saw a little old lady not far off, seated under a tree. She looked like one of the mourners and Harold would have paid no attention to her, except that she was eating a slice of watermelon and spitting the seeds into a paper
bag. He stared at her, more than a little puzzled. She seemed to be completely at ease, observing and enjoying everything around her, as if she were having a picnic in a neighborhood park.

The minister's prayer drew to a close and Harold decided to leave. He took a final look at the old lady and concluded that she was definitely an odd one. Very weird, he said to himself, and climbed into his hearse and drove away.

“W
HY YOU PURCHASED THAT
monstrous black thing,” said Mrs. Chasen at lunch, “is totally beyond me. You could have any car you want—a Porsche, a Jaguar, a nice little MG roadster. But no. We must have that eyesore parked in the driveway, an embarrassment to me and a shock to everyone else. I can't imagine what the ladies' auxiliary thought when they saw you—the son of their chairwoman—driving home in a hearse. Really, Harold, I don't know what to do. Drink up your milk, dear.”

Harold drank his milk.

“It is not as if you were a stupid boy,” continued Mrs. Chasen. “On the contrary, you have a very high IQ. So I simply do not understand this mortuary preoccupation. Where does it come from? Certainly not from me. I haven't the time for that kind of thinking.
From the minute I wake in the morning to the minute I go to bed at night, I am constantly on the move, doing things—committees, luncheons, the ballet—never an empty moment. But you, Harold, you never socialize, you never discuss, you never think about tomorrow. You merely fritter away your talents on those sanguine theatrical stunts—your little
divertissements
. There is no future in that, Harold. No matter how psychologically purging they may be. Your Uncle Victor suggests the Army. Well, perhaps you should go see him. I am certainly not fond of the Army, but maybe he can fathom you. After all, he was General MacArthur's right-hand man.”

B
RIGADIER
G
ENERAL
V
ICTOR
E. B
ALL
had in fact been General MacArthur's aide-de-camp for a short time in 1945. But in all fairness to MacArthur, he could hardly be said to have been the General's right-hand man, partly because he played no role in any command decision, but mainly because he had no right hand. Indeed, he had no right arm, as it had been shot off during training maneuvers at Fort Jackson, South Carolina. Normally an officer would be expected to retire after such a distinction, but General Ball was not the type of man who gave up without a fight. As he saw it, the biggest handicap in the Army brought about by the lack of a right arm was the
inability to salute in the required military fashion. After some experimentation he devised a mechanical device that lay folded in his empty sleeve. When he pulled the cord of his
fourragère
with his left hand, the sleeve sprang up to his forehead, delivering a snappy West Point salute. With this device, and the influence of several friends in the Pentagon, General Ball was able to make the Army his career. As he said to his nephew:

“The Army is not only my home, Harold, it is my life. And it could be your life too. I know how your mother feels. She insists I hold on to your draft records, but if it were up to me I'd process your file and have you shipped off to basic tomorrow. Believe me—you'd have a grand time.”

The general stood up from his desk and gestured at the military posters hung on his office walls. “Take a look about you, Harold,” he said. “There's the Army drubbing the Spicks at San Juan, clobbering the Chinks, whipping the redskins, and battling its way across the Remagen bridge. Ah, it's a great life. It offers history and education. Action. Adventure. Advising! You'll see war—firsthand! And plenty of slant-eyed girls. Why, it will make a man out of you, Harold. You put on the uniform and you walk tall—a glint in your eye, a spring in your step, and the knowledge in your heart that you are fighting for peace. And serving your country.”

He stopped before a portrait of Nathan Hale with a noose about his neck.

“Just like Nathan Hale,” he said. He pulled his lanyard and his sleeve snapped up a salute. “That's what this country needs—more Nathan Hales.” He paused at attention in front of the portrait before he let his sleeve fall neatly back in place.

“And do you know what?” said the general, turning to Harold, seated by the window.

“What?” said Harold.

The general stood in front of him and confidentially bent down. “I think,” he whispered slowly, “I think I see a little Nathan Hale in you.”

Harold stared blankly back at his uncle.

The general smiled and punched him on the shoulder. “Think about it,” he said and walked back to his desk.

H
AROLD'S DECAPITATED HEAD
stood upright on the silver serving platter while Harold placed sprigs of parsley in the blood around the neck. When he heard his mother coming down the stairs, he quickly placed the large silver cover over the serving dish and put it under the table. He left the dining room to meet her in the hall.

“Harold, dear, I have only a few minutes but I want to inform you of my decision. Please sit down.”

Harold sat down and Mrs. Chasen started to put on her long white gloves.

“Harold,” she said matter-of-factly, “it is time for you to begin thinking of your future. You are nineteen, almost twenty. You have led an idle, happy, carefree life up to the present—the life of a child. But it is now time to put away childish things and take on adult responsibilities. We would all like to sail through life with no thought of tomorrow. But that cannot be. We have our duty. Our obligations. Our principles. In short,” said Mrs. Chasen, finishing with her gloves, “I think it is time you got married.”

“What?” said Harold.

“Married,” said Mrs. Chasen, picking up her evening purse and going to the door. “We are going to find you a girl so you can get married.”

H
AROLD KNELT IN THE CHURCH
and listened to the organ playing softly. He looked above the altar at the large stained-glass window showing St. Thomas Aquinas writing in a book with a feather. Thomas Aquinas never got married, thought Harold, and glanced over at the man in the open coffin. I wonder if
he
ever did. I wonder who he was, anyway.

Silver-haired Father Finnegan stepped up to the pulpit and scanned the few isolated mourners before
him. He opened his book and read as he had done countless times before.

“And so dear brethren let us pray to the Lord, King of Glory, that He may bless and deliver all souls of the faithful departed from the pains of hell and the bottomless pit, deliver them from the lion's mouth and the darkness therein, but rather bring them to the bliss of heaven, the holy light, and eternal rest.”

As Father Finnegan continued his weary prayer, Harold, kneeling near the back of the church, quietly sat up. He looked over at a portrait of the sorrowing Madonna.

“Psst!”

Harold listened.

“Psssst!”

Harold turned around. Across the aisle three rows back a white-haired old lady smiled and gaily waved at him. Harold turned back. That was the woman at the cemetery, he said to himself, the one eating water-melon. What does she want with me?

“PSSSST!”

Harold started and turned. The old lady had moved. She now knelt right behind him. She grinned.

“Like some licorice?” she asked sweetly, offering him a little bag. She spoke with a slight European accent.

“Uh, no. Thank you,” whispered Harold and knelt down.

“You're welcome,” she whispered back.

Keeping his eyes on the altar, Harold listened intently. After a few minutes he heard the old lady get up noisily from her pew, genuflect, walk into his pew, and kneel beside him. She gave him a friendly jab.

“Did you know him?” she asked, gesturing at the deceased.

“Uh, no,” whispered Harold, trying to appear involved in the service.

“Neither did I,” said the old lady brightly. “I heard he was eighty years old. I'll be eighty next week. A good time to move on, don't you think?”

“I don't know,” said Harold, standing up with the rest of the congregation. Father Finnegan blessed the coffin and the pallbearers wheeled it out.

“I mean seventy-five is too early,” the old lady continued, standing beside him, “but at eighty-five, well, you're just marking time and you may as well look over the horizon.”

The few mourners filed out of the church. Harold felt a tug on his sleeve.

“Look at them,” she whispered loudly to him. “I've never understood this mania for black. I mean no one sends black flowers, do they? Black flowers are dead flowers, and who would send dead flowers to a funeral?” She laughed. “How absurd,” she said. “It's change. It's all change.”

Harold walked out of the pew and the old lady followed.

“What do you think of old fat Tom?” she asked.

“Who?” said Harold.

“St. Thomas Aquinas up there. I saw you looking at him.”

“I think he's … uh … a great thinker.”

“Oh, yes. But a little old-fashioned, don't you think? Like roast swan. Oh, dear! Look at her.”

They stopped before the dour portrait of the Madonna.

“May I borrow this?” she said, taking the felt pen from Harold's coat pocket. With a few deft strokes she drew a cheery smile on the Virgin's mouth.

Harold looked about the empty church to see if anyone was watching.

“There. That's better,” the old lady said. “They never give the poor thing a chance to laugh. Heaven knows she has a lot to be happy about. In fact,” she added, looking at several statues at the back of the church, “they all have a lot to be happy about. Excuse me.”

Harold made a halfhearted gesture for his pen but to no avail. The old lady was already in the back of the church, drawing smiles on St. Joseph, St. Anthony, and St. Theresa.

“An unhappy saint is a contradiction in terms,” she explained.

“Uh, yes,” said Harold nervously.

“And why do they go on about that?” she asked.

Harold looked over at a crucifix.

“You'd think,” she said, walking out the door, “that no one ever read the end of the story.”

Harold followed her out to the street.

“Uh, could I have my pen back now please?” he asked.

“Oh, of course,” she said, giving it to him. “What is your name?”

“Harold Chasen.”

“How do you do?” She smiled. “I am the Countess Mathilda Chardin, but you may call me Maude.” When she smiled, the lines around her eyes made them seem even more sparkling and blue.

Harold politely offered his hand. “Nice to meet you,” he said.

She shook his hand. “I think we shall be great friends, don't you?” She took a large ring of keys from her purse and opened the door of the car at the curb.

“Can I drop you anywhere, Harold?” she asked.

“No,” answered Harold quickly. “Thank you. I have my car.”

“Well then, I must be off. We shall have to meet again.”

Inside the church Father Finnegan stood dumb-founded before the beaming statues.

Maude raced the motor and released the brake.

“Harold,” she called, “do you dance?”

“What?”

“Do you sing and dance?”

“Uh, no.”

“No.” She smiled sadly. “I thought not.” She stepped on the gas. With a great screech of burning rubber, the car flew from the curb, tore down the street, and spun around a distant corner. One could still hear the gears shifting in the distance.

Harold stared after it in wonderment.

Father Finnegan, who was standing at the church door, had also seen it depart. “That woman—” he said to no one in particular, “she took my car.”

M
RS.
C
HASEN SAT AT THE DESK
in the den and spoke to her son standing opposite her. “I have here, Harold, the forms sent out by the National Computer Dating Service,” she said. “It seems to me that since you do not get along with the daughters of any of my friends, this is the best way for you to find a prospective wife.”

Harold opened his mouth but his mother waved any objection aside.

“Please, Harold,” she said. “Sit down. We have a lot to do and I have to be at the dressmaker's at three.” She looked over the papers.

“The Computer Dating Service offers you at least three dates on the initial investment. They say they screen out the fat and ugly, so it is obviously a firm of high standards. I'm sure they can find you at least one girl who is compatible.”

Harold drew over a chair and sat down.

“Now first, here is the personality interview, which you are to fill out and return. There are fifty questions with five possible responses to check: A—Absolutely Yes, B—Yes, C—Not Sure, D—No, and E—Absolutely No. Are you ready, Harold?”

Harold looked at his mother with his mournful brown eyes.

“The first question is: Are you uncomfortable meeting new people? Well, I think that's a ‘yes.' Don't you agree, Harold? Even an ‘absolutely yes.' We'll put down ‘A' on that. Number two: Should sex education be taught outside the home? I would say no, wouldn't you, Harold? We'll give a ‘D' there. Three: Do you enjoy spending a lot of time by yourself? Well, that's easy, isn't it? Absolutely yes. Mark ‘A.' Should women run for President of the United States? I don't see why not. Absolutely yes. Do you often invite friends to your home? No, you never do, Harold. Absolutely no. Do you often get the feeling that perhaps life isn't worth living? Hmmm.”

Mrs. Chasen glanced up. “What would you say, Harold?”