Harold and Maude (3 page)

Harold gazed stoically at his mother.

“You think ‘A'? Or ‘B'?”

He blinked.

“Well, let's put down ‘C'—not sure. Seven: Is the subject of sex being overexploited by our mass media? That would have to be ‘yes,' wouldn't it? Do judges favor some lawyers? Yes, I suppose they do. Is it acceptable for a schoolteacher to smoke or drink in public? …”

As Mrs. Chasen rattled on, Harold slowly opened his coat and took out a small gun. Reaching into his side pocket, he brought out six bullets and, while his mother filled out the questionnaire, he carefully and deliberately loaded each bullet into the chamber.

“Do you sometimes have headaches or backaches after a difficult day? Yes, I do indeed. Do you go to sleep easily? I'd say so. Do you believe in capital punishment for murder? Oh, yes. Do you believe churches have a strong influence to upgrade the general morality? Yes, again. In your opinion are social affairs usually a waste of time? Heavens, no! Can God influence our lives? Yes. Absolutely yes. Have you ever crossed the street to avoid meeting someone? Well, I'm sure you have, haven't you, dear? …”

Harold inserted the last bullet and snapped the chamber shut. He looked up at his mother. She was too absorbed to hear anything. He pulled back the hammer, cocking the gun. Still she read on.

“Did you enjoy life as a child? Oh, yes.” She sighed, turning the page and continuing, “You were a wonderful baby, Harold.”

He slowly raised the gun until it was pointing directly at her head.

“Does your personal religion or philosophy include a life after death? Oh, yes, indeed. That's absolutely. Do you have ups and downs without obvious reasons? You do, don't you, dear? Mark ‘A.'”

Harold watched and listened. Slowly he turned the gun around until he was looking straight down the barrel.

“Do you remember jokes and take pleasure relating them to others? You don't, do you, dear? Mark ‘E.'”

Gradually he tightened his finger around the trigger.

“Do you think the sexual revolution has gone too far? It certainly seems to have. Should evolution—”

With a loud blast the gun fired, knocking him backwards out of the chair onto the floor. He lay there lifelessly as blood trickled from the neat round hole in his forehead.

Mrs. Chasen looked up.

“Harold,” she said impatiently. “Harold, please! Did you hear me? Should evolution be taught in our public schools?”

“I don't think I'm getting through to Mother like I used to,” Harold confided to Dr. Harley later that day.

“Oh?” said the doctor.

Harold brooded briefly. “I think I'm losing my touch.”

D
ARK GRAY CLOUDS ROLLED IN
from the coast and the wind rustled the trees at the cemetery. Father Finnegan glanced up from the burial service and decided that it looked like rain. He skipped the holy water and began the final prayers.

Harold looked about the small group of mourners. Some put up their umbrellas and huddled beneath them. Others stood silently, their hats in their hands.

“Psst!”

Harold turned.

Across the grave, Maude, outfitted in a yellow raincoat and matching sou'wester, waved her hand to catch his attention.

Embarrassed, he quickly gazed down at the coffin, pretending he hadn't seen her.

“Psst!”

He didn't move.

“PSSSST!”

He looked up.

She gave him a big smile and winked.

He nodded slightly.

Father Finnegan closed his book and, mumbling the last blessing, noticed Maude. For a moment he thought he recognized her, but before he was certain she seemed to be overcome by grief and disappeared behind some people.

He looked over at Harold. Harold looked down at the coffin. Father Finnegan concluded the prayer.

The mourners responded “Amen,” blessed themselves, and hurried to their cars.

“A moment, please,” said Father Finnegan, catching up to Harold. “You're the Chasen boy, aren't you?”

“Uh, yes,” answered Harold.

“Tell me, who was that old lady you were waving at earlier?”

“I wasn't waving at her. She was waving at me.”

Just then Maude drove by in Harold's hearse and stopped. She leaned out the window.

“Can I give you a lift, Harold?” she asked.

Harold was struck dumb. Father Finnegan walked around to the window.

“Excuse me, madam,” he said, “but are you not the lady who drove my car off yesterday?”

“Was that the one with the St. Christopher medal on the dashboard?”

“Yes.”

“Then I suppose it was me. Hop in, Harold.”

Harold decided not to ask for explanations. He opened the door and got in.

“But where is it?” asked Father Finnegan, becoming a little perturbed.

“Where's what?” asked Maude.

“My car. Where did you leave it?”

“Oh, that. I think perhaps at the orphanage. No, it's not, because I still had it at the African Arts Center. Ever been there, Father? Oh, you'll enjoy it. They have the most colorful carvings. Primitive, of course, but some quite erotic.”

Realization hit Father Finnegan. “You painted the statues,” he said.

“Oh, yes,” said Maude brightly. “How did you like them?”

“Well, that's the point. I didn't.”

“Don't be too discouraged,” she said, releasing the brake. “Aesthetic appreciation always takes a little time. Bye-bye.”

“Wait!” said Father Finnegan, but his voice was lost in the screeching of tires and a roar of exhaust as Maude sped off in the hearse and turned the corner.

Harold picked himself off the floor and looked out of the window. The gravestones merged together in a flickering blur of gray. Maude came to the entrance
of the cemetery and spun out onto the main road. Cruising at about sixty miles an hour, she settled back and relaxed.

“What a delight it is, Harold,” she said, “to bump into you again. I knew we were going to be great friends the moment I saw you. You go to funerals often, don't you?”

Harold had one hand braced on the dashboard and the other on the back of the seat. “Yes,” he answered, without taking his eyes off the road.

“Oh, so do I. They're such fun, aren't they? It's all change. All revolving. Burials and births. The end to the beginning, the beginning to the end. The great circle of life.”

She made a sudden left-hand turn that sent a terrified Volkswagen into a heart-stopping change of lanes. “My, this old thing handles well. Ever drive a hearse, Harold?”

Harold swallowed. “Yes,” he said hoarsely.

“Well, it's a new experience for me.”

She raced over a small hill, causing Harold's head to bounce repeatedly on the ceiling, and then made another sudden left-hand turn that threw the rear wheels into a momentary slide.

“Not too good on curves,” she exclaimed, and put her foot down on the gas. “Shall I take you home, Harold?”

Harold, halfway between the seat and the floor, blurted out faintly, “But this is my car.”

“Your hearse?”

“Yearse!”

Maude stepped on the brakes and skidded to a dusty halt in the gravel by the side of the road. She looked over at him. “Fancy that,” she cooed. “My, my. Then you shall take me home.”

H
AROLD DROVE SLOWLY
and carefully as he listened to Maude elaborate on her system of acquiring cars.

“After his release from the penitentiary, Big Sweeney began work in a printing shop, where I met him and we became friends. Then when he received ‘the call' and left for the monastery in Tibet, he gave his collection of keys to me, as a present. Wasn't that nice? Of course, I've had to make some additions for the newer models, but not as many as you might think. Once you have your basic set, it's only a question of variation.”

“Do you mean with that ring of keys you get into any car you want and just drive off?”

“Not
any
car. I like to keep a variety. I'm always looking for the new experience, like this one. I liked it.”

“Thank you.”

“You're welcome. Oh, there's my house over there.”

Harold pulled the hearse over and stopped before a clapboard cottage with a walnut tree in the front yard. Several other old houses stood nearby on spacious lots, some with barns or stables in the back, but across the street and on down the hill the land had been subdivided. The houses there looked very much alike, all small, boxlike, and crowded together.

“Looks as if the weather has cleared up,” said Maude, getting out of the hearse. Harold closed her door. He was still troubled.

“But when you take these cars,” he asked, “don't you think you are … well, wronging the owners?”

“What owners, Harold? We don't
own
anything. It's a transitory world. We come on the earth with nothing, and we go out with nothing, so isn't
ownership
a little absurd? I wonder if the post has come.”

She opened up a wooden box on the porch and took out the mail.

“Oh, look. More books. I just sign their cards and they keep sending them to me. I received an encyclopedia in Dutch last week. Here, hold them, Harold, would you please?”

Harold took the books while Maude glanced through her letters.

“Very odd, too,” she said, “because I don't speak Dutch. German, French, English, some Spanish, some
Italian, and a little Japanese. But no Dutch. Of course, that's nothing against the Dutch. I thought Queen Wilhelmina was a wonderful woman. Come inside, Harold. I'll look at these later.”

Harold walked into the house and put the books down on a table.

“About those keys,” he persisted, as Maude hung up her hat and coat. “I still think you upset people when they find their car is gone, and I'm not sure that is right.”

“Well,” she answered, “if some people are upset because they feel they have a hold on some things, then I'm merely acting as a gentle reminder. I'm sort of breaking it easy. Here today, gone tomorrow, so don't get attached to
things
. Now, with that in mind, I'm not against collecting stuff. Why, look around you. I've collected quite a lot of stuff in my time.”

Harold looked around the large living room and was struck by the odd assortment of furnishings. No two chairs were alike. The couch was covered with a Persian rug. Colorful canvases hung on the walls, a baby grand piano stood in one corner next to a huge carving of highly polished wood, and a samovar full of dried flowers sat on a tapa mat by the fireplace near some Japanese screens.

“It's very … interesting,” said Harold, somewhat at a loss for words. “Very different.”

“Oh, it's all foolish memorabilia,” said Maude, going over to the window. “Incidental but not integral, if you know what I mean. Oh, come look. The birds.”

She opened the window and filled a small tin cup with seed. Then she released a spring that shot the cup out along a wire and dumped the seed on a bird table. Harold was impressed with the mechanical ingenuity of the device.

“Isn't that delightful?” said Maude. “This is my daily ritual. I love them so much. The only wild life I see any more. Look at them. Free as a bird.”

She took the empty birdseed box into the kitchen. “At one time I used to break into pet shops and liberate the canaries, but I gave it up as an idea before its time. The zoos are full and the prisons overflowing. My, my. How the world so dearly loves a cage.”

She looked out the window over the sink. “Look, Harold. There's Madame Arouet cultivating her garden. Yoo-hoo!”

She waved at the black-clad old woman diligently hoeing in her large vegetable patch, but the old woman didn't notice.

Maude sighed. “She's really very sweet. But so old-fashioned. Please sit down, Harold. I'll put on the kettle and we'll have a nice hot cup of tea.”

“Thank you,” said Harold. “But I really have to go.”

“It's oat straw tea. You've never had oat straw tea, have you?”

“No.”

“Well then.” She smiled and picked up the kettle.

“No, really. Thank you, but it's an appointment I shouldn't miss.”

“Oh, at the dentist's.”

“Sort of.”

“Well then, you must come back and visit.”

“All right,” said Harold and walked to the door.

“My door is always open.”

“All right.”

“See you soon.”

“Okay.”

“Promise?”

Harold turned. “I promise,” he said, and smiled.

D
R.
H
ARLEY'S OFFICE CEILING
was plastered and painted white. To the casual observer, thought Harold, it would look smooth, flat, and uninteresting.

“Harold.”

But to a searching eye and over a period of time, the craftsmanship of the painter and plasterer became visibly apparent, so that what had once seemed dull and ordinary became fascinatingly impressionistic.

“Harold.”

A layer of plaster became a craggy desert of light and shade, and a swirl of paint evoked the swell of a polar sea.

“You don't seem to be listening, Harold. I asked you, do you have any friends?”

Harold abandoned his musings and concentrated on the question. “No,” he answered.

“None at all?”

Harold considered. “Well, maybe one.”

“Would you care to talk about this friend?”

“No.”

“Does your mother know this friend?”

“No.”

“Is this a friend you had when you were away at school?”

“No.”

“I see.” Dr. Harley ran his hand over the back of his head. He decided on a new tack.

“Were you happy at school?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“You liked your teachers?”

“Yes.”

“Your classmates?”

“Yes.”

“Your studies?”