Harold and Maude (4 page)

“Yes.”

“Then why did you leave?”

“I burned down the chemistry building.”

Dr. Harley stood up slowly and walked to the window. He adjusted the Venetian blind.

“We are not relating today, Harold,” he said. “I sense a definite lack of participation on your part. We are not
communicating
. Now, I find you a very interesting case, Harold, one with which I would like to continue, but this reluctance to commit yourself is detrimental to the psychoanalytical process and can only hinder the possibility of effective treatment. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” said Harold.

“Very well,” said Dr. Harley.

He sat down.

“Tell me, Harold,” he began after a pause. “Do you remember your father at all?”

“No,” said Harold, and added, “I'd have liked to.”

“Really. Why?”

“I'd have liked to talk to him.”

“What would you say?”

“I'm not sure. I'd show him my hearse, and my stuff.”

“What stuff?”

“All the stuff in my room—my workbench, my chemistry set, my rope harness for hangings, my oxygen device for drownings, my poster of
The Phantom of the Opera
—I have a lot of things.”

“They sound intriguing.”

“Well,” said Harold thoughtfully, “they're incidental but not integral, if you know what I mean.”

H
AROLD BROUGHT THE SILVER
serving dish into his room and placed it on the workbench. He took the cover off and looked at his severed head, sitting in a pool of dried blood garnished with sprigs of parsley. It was certainly a good likeness, he decided, and it might have worked a month or two ago, but right now the whole idea was a little too obvious. He picked up the head and peeled off the latex blood. The plan was to have had it served as part of the cold buffet, when his mother and her guests returned from the benefit performance of
Salome
, but, as all military strategists know, he said to himself, even the best plan will fail if the tactics become too familiar to the enemy.

He took the head and placed it on the neck of the mannequin, sitting fully clothed on the edge of his bed. The head did not fit perfectly, as the peg in the dummy's neck was too loose. Harold went into his closet and looked among the shelves for his box of tools. He picked up a meat cleaver, but he couldn't find a chisel or a screwdriver.

Mrs. Chasen knocked on the door and came into the room. She wore an evening gown, had a
fur wrap over her arm, and held in her hand several IBM cards.

“Now, listen, Harold,” she said, addressing the dummy on the edge of the bed. “I have here the cards of the three girls sent out by the Computer Dating Service.”

Harold stopped his search. He listened, puzzled, standing in the closet with the meat cleaver in his hand.

“I've telephoned the girls and invited each of them to have lunch with us before you take them out. The first one is coming tomorrow at one thirty. We'll chat in the library and serve luncheon at two. Have you got that?”

Harold looked at his mother through the crack in the closet door. She continued to address the dummy.

“Above all, Harold, I expect you to act like a gentleman. Remember your manners and try to make this girl feel at home. Well, I'm off to the opera with the Fergusons,” she said, putting on her wrap. “I only hope they can maneuver around that great black thing of yours in the driveway. You realize that, if your garage wasn't full of auto parts and other junk, you could park it there.”

She went to the door. “Look, Harold, I'm leaving the IBM cards here.” She placed them on a table next to a gallon of Max Factor blood. “Good heavens.” She
sighed, looking at the bottle. “I don't know. Whatever became of model airplanes?”

The front doorbell rang downstairs.

“That's them,” she said, turning. I'll …” She paused and looked intently at the dummy.

“You look a little pale, dear,” she said. “You get a good night's sleep. After all, you want to look your best for tomorrow.”

She left, closing the door behind her.

Harold walked out of the closet and went over to the dummy. He looked at it carefully. He shook his head and went back to the closet to continue the search for his box of tools.

T
HE NEXT DAY AT ONE THIRTY-FIVE
Mrs. Chasen went to the front door and greeted the first computer date, a cute, blonde, pug-nosed little coed called Candy Gulf.

“Hello,” she said. “I'm Candy Gulf.”

“How do you do?” said Mrs. Chasen. “Won't you come in?”

“Oh, thank you.”

“Harold is out in the garden. He'll be in in a moment. Shall we go into the library?”

“Oh, all right.”

“I understand you are at the university, Candy,” said Mrs. Chasen as they walked down the hall.

“Yes, I am.”

“And what are you studying?”

“Poli Sci. With a Home Ec minor.”

“Uh, Polly Sigh?”

“Political Science. It's all about what's going on.”

“Oh, I see,” said Mrs. Chasen, ushering her into the library.

“Look. There's Harold out the window.” She waved at Harold as he walked across the lawn.

Candy waved too. Harold saw them and waved back. Then he walked behind the gardener's shed.

“He seems very nice,” said Candy.

“
I
think he is,” said Mrs. Chasen pleasantly. “Please sit down.”

Candy seated herself facing Mrs. Chasen, who sat with her back to the French windows.

“Is Harold interested in what's going on?” Candy asked. “I mean, I think it's such a super thing to study. And then, of course, I can always fall back on Home Ec. That's Home Economics.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Chasen a little vaguely. “That's good planning.”

“Well, it's my life.”

“Tell me, Candy, are you a regular in this computer club?”

“Heavens, no!” she answered and giggled. Glancing out the window she saw Harold come from
behind the gardener's shed with a large can marked “Kerosene.”

“I don't have to worry about dates,” she went on. “You see, the other girls in my sorority, well, we decided that somebody should try it. So, we drew straws and I lost!” She giggled again, then quickly added, “But I am looking forward to meeting Harold.”

Mrs. Chasen smiled. Behind her on the lawn Harold was pouring the contents of the can all over himself. Candy looked at him a little nonplused.

“I think I should mention, Candy,” said Mrs. Chasen, “that Harold does have his eccentric moments.”

“Oh,
yes!
” said Candy, finally comprehending. “That's all right. I've got a brother who's a real cutup too.”

And she giggled to show her good sportsmanship.

“Do you know, I'll never forget the time we had this old TV set with no parts in it. Well, Tommy stuck his head behind it and started giving a newscast before the whole family. We were all hysterical. And here's little Tommy pretending to be Walter Cronkite.”

She looked out the window and her mouth fell open. Harold was a mass of flames.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Chasen, “I'm sure it must have been very funny.”

Candy jumped up and pointed at the window. “Har … Har … Harold!” she screamed.

Mrs. Chasen looked at her, a trifle concerned. “Yes, dear,” she said. “Why, here's Harold now.”

Harold walked in and nodded a greeting.

Candy's eyes popped. Her whole body went slack.

“Harold, dear, I'd like you to meet Candy Gulf.”

Harold offered his hand.

Suddenly Candy began to sob convulsively. She covered her face with her hands and continued crying until Mrs. Chasen called a cab for her.

“I don't understand it,” said Mrs. Chasen as they watched the cab drive off. “It was something to do with a story about Walter Cronkite.”

T
HE NEXT MORNING
Harold knocked on Maude's door. The latch was missing and the door swung open.

“Anyone home?” he cried, walking into the living room.

No answer.

“Maude?” he called.

Silence.

He glanced around the room and inspected some of the things that caught his eye.

Over the fireplace a furled beige umbrella hung like an old trophy. Its bone handle was shaped like the
head of a goose, but one of the inlaid eyes was missing, making the goose look as if he were winking.

He walked over to the Japanese screens. Behind them was an eating alcove built in the Japanese manner—a raised platform covered with
tatami
matting.

Strands of acorns and small sea shells hung across the bedroom doorway. He separated them and glanced briefly at the ornately carved and canopied bed inside. It looks like something from
Lohengrin
, he said to himself with a smile and walked over to the windows.

An old Victrola with a stack of gramophone records stood along the wall. Beside it sat an old TV console with its picture tube removed. The cabinet was used as the shelf for a microscope, and the top served as the stand for a telescope that peered upward out the open window.

By the couch in the middle of the room a strange boxlike machine sat on a table. Harold looked at it intently but he could not make out what it was. The lights and switches and the rack of brightly colored metal cylinders puzzled him, nor did he understand the word “Odorific” that was floridly lettered on its side.

He walked to the piano and examined the odd assortment of silver frames that stood on top of it. Here was another puzzle. All the frames were empty. They contained neither picture nor photograph.

Harold shrugged and stood for a moment before the big wooden sculpture. The lacquer shone in the morning light, making the grain seem almost like liquid, flowing through and around the curves and holes. Instinctively he reached out to run his hand along the smooth surfaces, but stopped short, deciding he shouldn't. He turned and walked out to the kitchen.

Through the window he saw Madame Arouet working in her garden, and he went outside to talk to her.

“Excuse me,” he said. “Have you seen Maude?”

She stopped her hoeing and looked up at him from beneath her wide straw hat. Her wrinkled face showed a weary resignation, but her dark, watery eyes questioned him keenly.

“Maude,” said Harold. “Do you know where she is?”

“Maude?” murmured Madame Arouet in a heavy French accent. She didn't understand.

“Yes,” said Harold. “Maude.”

“Ah! Maude!” She pointed to a large barnlike building farther up the hill.

“Thank you,” said Harold and started off. “Thank you.
Merci
.”

Madame Arouet bobbed her head and watched him go. A strange sadness filled her face. She turned back to hoeing her turnips.

Harold arrived at the building and knocked on the
door. It was too thick to hear through, so he opened it up and stepped inside. The first thing he saw was an enormous block of ice in the center of the room, with a wire-haired little man on a platform beside it energetically chipping away. All around were the trappings of a sculptor's studio—some hanging draperies, some old furniture, some plaster casts and molds. But what struck Harold was the abundance of tools, not only hammers and chisels but winches and wrenches and power saws.

“Excuse me,” he said, and then he noticed that the old man was trying to shape a female figure from the ice and kept looking over at his live model, posing like Venus. Harold could see her outline through the ice. She was naked. He hastily turned to go.

“What do you want?” asked the sculptor, stopping his work.

“It's all right. I was just looking for Maude.”

The nude model poked her head around from behind the ice.

“Harold?” she said happily.

“
Maude???!
”

B
ACK IN HER KITCHEN
, Maude filled the kettle and placed it on the stove. Harold sat in the living room, brooding.

“There we are,” said Maude. “It will be ready in a minute. By the way, Harold, how's your hearse?”

“Oh, it's fine.”

“She seemed yare to me.” Maude brought in a tray of tea things and began setting the table.

“Excuse the mismatched saucers,” she said.

Harold sat back on the couch. “Do you often model for Glaucus?” he asked nonchalantly.

“Heavens, no!” said Maude. “I don't have the time. But I do like to keep in practice, and poor Glaucus occasionally needs to have his memory refreshed as to the contours of the female form.”

She finished with the table and looked at him squarely.

“Do you disapprove?” she asked.

“Me? No!” said Harold and crossed his legs. “Of course not.”

Maude smiled. “Really? Do you think it's wrong?”

Harold looked up at her. She wanted the truth. He mulled it over. Is it wrong? he asked himself.

“No,” he answered simply, and smiled.

Maude smiled back. “Oh, I'm so happy you said that, Harold, because I want to show you my paintings. Come over here. I call this ‘The Rape of Rome.' What do you think?”

Harold looked at the large canvas. Vaguely Rubensesque and full of fire and movement, it depicted
a bevy of fat pink ladies struggling with their clothes, their abductors, and a couple of rearing steeds.

“I like it,” he said.

“And, of course, down here is quite a graphic depiction of Leda and the Swan.”

Harold looked at the corner of the painting.

“Why that's …”

“Yes,” said Maude coyly. “I thought it called for a self-portrait. Now, over here is my favorite. It's called ‘Rainbow with Egg Underneath and an Elephant.' What does that do for your eyes?”

“It's very colorful. Very … full.”

“Thank you. It was my last. I then became infatuated with these—my ‘odorifics.'”