Harold and Maude (5 page)

She went over to the boxlike machine and attached a small hose with a sort of oxygen mask at its end.

“Ever heard of these, Harold? Of course, this one I built myself. A young Sioux in a commune gave me the basic blueprint. Here, hold this.”

Harold held the mask while Maude fidgeted with the dials and pump.

“Have you noticed that art ignores the nose?” she said. “It's true. So I said let's give the old
schnauze
a treat. Have a kind of olfactory banquet. I began first on the easiest—roast beef, old books, mown grass—then I went on to these.” She picked up the metal cylinders and read off their titles: “‘An Evening at
Maxims,' ‘Mexican Farmyard.' Here's one you'd like, ‘Snowfall on Forty-second Street.'”

She took the cylinder and screwed it into the box. Then she helped Harold adjust the mask over his nose.

“Ready?” she said and threw the switch. The lights went on and the pistons began to pump. “Okay. What do you smell?”

Harold closed his eyes and breathed in slowly.

“Subways,” he said surprisedly.

Maude grinned. “Go on.”

“Perfume … cigarettes … cologne …” He became more and more excited. “Carpet … roasting chestnuts….
Snow
!”

“Oh, yes.” Maude laughed and turned it off. “You can put together any number of them.”

“That's really great,” said Harold. He put the mask down on the table. “I wonder if I could make one. I'm pretty good with machines.”

“Oh, sure you could. I'll give it to you and you can see how it works. It's very simple. You could probably improve on it. I thought, myself, of continuing—graduating to the abstract and free-smelling—but then I decided to switch to the tactile.” She pointed to the wooden sculpture. “That's my
chef d'oeuvre
.”

“Yes. It looks great.”

“No,” said Maude. “You have to touch it.” She demonstrated. “You have to run your hands over it,
get closer to it, really reach out, and
feel
. Go ahead. You try it.”

Harold gingerly touched the wood and ran his hand over a sensuous curve.

“That's right. How's the sensation?”

The kettle whistled from the kitchen.

“Oh, excuse me,” said Maude. “I'll get the tea. Go ahead now, Harold. Stroke, palm, caress,
explore
.”

Harold watched her disappear behind the kitchen door. He turned back to the sculpture and put both hands firmly on its smooth surfaces. He stepped closer, and as he moved his hands he found himself enjoying the feel of the polished wood. His hands became more daring. They swept around a large hole and for a moment he felt the odd compulsion to stick his head inside it. He controlled the impulse, but it refused to go away. He looked over his shoulder at the kitchen. Maude was humming behind the door. His hands continued outlining the opening and suddenly he stuck his head in it, quickly pulled it out, and took two steps back from the sculpture. He looked around. Maude was still humming in the kitchen. No one had seen him. He relaxed, clapped his hands together, and smiled.

Maude brought in the tea. “Here we are,” she said. “Oat straw tea and ginger pie. Sit down, Harold.”

“This is certainly a new experience for me,” he said, holding Maude's chair for her before he sat down.

“Oh, thank you, Harold. Well, try something new each day, that's my motto. After all, we're given life to find it out. It doesn't last forever.”

“You look as if you could.”

“Me? Ha! Did I tell you I'll be eighty on Saturday?”

“You don't look eighty.”

“That's the influence of the right food, the right exercise, and the right breathing. Greet the dawn with ‘The Breath of Fire.'”

She sat back in her chair and demonstrated “The Breath of Fire,” followed by “The Bellows.” They left her a little winded.

“Of course,” she said, laughing and catching her breath, “there's no doubt the body is giving out. I'm well into autumn. I'll have to be giving it all up after Saturday.”

She finished pouring the tea and put down the pot.

“That's an old teapot,” remarked Harold.

“Sterling silver,” said Maude wistfully. “It was my dear mother-in-law's, part of a dinner set of fifty pieces. It was sent to me, one of the few things that survived.” Her voice trailed off and she absently sipped her tea.

Harold regarded her quizzically. She seemed suddenly far away.

“The ginger pie is delicious,” he said, breaking the silence.

Maude looked up. “What? Oh, thank you, Harold. I'm glad you like it. It's my own recipe. I'll give it to you if you like.”

“Oh, I don't cook.”

“Why not?”

“Because I … well, men don't … I mean …” He paused. “I don't know why,” he said.

“Oh, it's fun. Try a cake. It's like making a collage from old magazine pictures. You have your ingredients, you throw them together, and presto! You've created something new, something different. Suddenly you're a somebody. You've made a cake.”

“And you get to eat it,” said Harold.

“Of course,” said Maude. “You get to eat it. You even get to share it. I'm all for everybody baking cakes. But enough of me. Tell me about yourself. What do you do, Harold, when you aren't visiting funerals?”

“Oh, a lot of things,” said Harold, smiling.

“Like what?”

“Well, I'll show you.”

H
AROLD AND MAUDE
sat on the hood of Harold's hearse and watched a construction company across the street tear down an old building. A huge crane swung a heavy lead ball crashing through the brick
and mortar, and a giant bulldozer shoveled up the debris and dumped it into a truck.

“Fascinating,” said Maude over the din. “Fascinating,” and she continued to gaze, enraptured.

“Thanks,” said Harold. “I've got another place too.”

Seated on a hill near the junk yard, they saw car after car being picked up by a monstrous claw and dropped into a crusher where, after a noisy pounding, they were shuffled out as twisted little bales of scrap.

“There is definitely a certain attraction,” said Maude, summing it up. “No question. It's all very thrilling.” She took a bite of a raw carrot. “But I ask you, Harold,” she said, munching solemnly. “Is it enough?”

“What do you mean?”

Maude smiled. “Come. I'll show you.”

They drove to a large vegetable field near the sea and knelt between the rows of early cabbages.

“I love to watch things grow,” Maude said. “Cast your eyes on those little rascals, Harold. The last time I was here they were just cracking the soil and pushing up their tiny green heads. Now look at them. Look at the new leaves inside.”

“Yes, I see,” said Harold eagerly. “They're all curled up and fragile—like a baby's hand.”

“We ought to go see some babies too.”

“What?”

“We ought to go visit a maternity ward. Have you ever been in one?”

“No, I guess I never have.”

“Oh, they're lots of fun. Maybe we can go this afternoon.”

“All right.”

“Good. We'll drive up through the valley and stop at the flower farm. Ever walked around a flower farm?”

“No.”

“Oh, that's a treat. Flowers are so friendly.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yes,” said Maude, “they're so empathetic.” Later, walking around the flower farm, she elaborated.

“They grow and bloom, and fade, and die, and change into something else. Look at those sunflowers! Aren't they beautiful? I think I'd like to change into a sunflower most of all.”

“Why's that?” asked Harold.

“Because they're simple.” She smiled shyly. “And because they're tall.”

“What's that?”

“Well, I knew at an early age that I was always going to be short. It was a disappointment but there was nothing I could do about it, except make up my mind that it wasn't going to stop me. It hasn't. Still,
I think it might be fun to be tall.” She laughed. “But how about you, Harold? What flower would you like to be?”

Harold rubbed his nose. “I don't know,” he said. “I'm just an ordinary person.” He gestured out at a field of daisies that ran all the way to the hills. “Maybe one of those.”

“Why do you say that?” asked Maude, a little perturbed.

“I guess,” he answered softly, “because they are all the same.”

“Oh, but they're not! Look here.” She guided him over to a clump of daisies.

“See? Some are smaller, some are fatter, some grow to the left, some to the right, some even have petals missing—all kinds of observable differences, and we haven't even touched the biochemical. You see, Harold, they're like the Japanese. At first you think they all look alike, but after you get to know them, you see there is not a repeat in the bunch. It's just like this daisy. Each person is different, never existed before, and never to exist again.” She picked it. “An individual.”

She smiled, and they both stood up.

“Well,” Harold said moodily, “we may be individuals, all right. But,” he added, glancing out at the field, “we have to grow up together.”

Maude looked at Harold. “That's very true,” she murmured. “Still, I believe that much of the world's sorrow comes from people who know they are this”—she held the daisy in her hand—“yet let themselves be treated as
that
.”

She blinked back the tears that were forming in her eyes and looked out over the thousands and thousands of daisies waving gently in the afternoon sun.

A
RED CONVERTIBLE BOUNCED
over the dirt curb and swung a quick right. Two panicked cyclists pulled over as the car sped by them and zigzagged down the road.

“Ha!” said Maude, controlling the wheel. “Power steering!”

“Can't you go any slower?” begged Harold. “There's no rush.”

“You're right!” said Maude and immediately eased up on the gas. “I do get carried away. I don't approve of rushing and I thank you for reminding me.” She smiled at him. “In China they have a saying: ‘No man can see himself unless he borrow the eyes of a friend.' I'm beholden to you, Harold.”

Harold smiled back.

“Aw, that's okay,” he said, and looked out the window.

Driving into town, Maude slammed on her brakes
at a stop sign. The tires screeched. They screeched again as she took off.

“Boy, Maude.” Harold sighed. “The way you handle cars. I'm glad we didn't take mine. I could never treat my car like that.”

“Oh, it's only a machine, Harold. It's not as if it were
alive
, like a horse or a camel. We may live in a machine age, but I simply can't treat them as equals. Of course,” she added, turning on the radio, “the age does have its advantages.”

A rock group played loudly. Maude tapped out the rhythm on the steering wheel. “What kind of music do you like, Harold?”

“Well—”

Suddenly Harold was thrown against the door as Maude made a fast U-turn, drove across the street, up onto the sidewalk, and knocked over a mailbox before finally coming to an abrupt halt.

“Did you see that?” she asked.

“What?” said a disoriented Harold. “What happened?”

“Look.”

“Where?”

“Over there on the courthouse lawn.”

“What is it?”

“That little tree. It's in trouble. Come on.”

She got out of the car, followed by a puzzled Harold, and walked briskly over to a small tree.

“Look at it, Harold. It's suffocating. It's the smog. People can live with it, but it gives trees asthma. See, the leaves are turning brown. The poor thing. Harold, we've got to do something about this life.”

“But what?”

“We'll transplant it. To the forest.”

“But we can't just dig it up.”

“Why not?”

“But this is public property.”

“Exactly. Come on.”

“Wait. Don't you think we should get some tools, maybe? And a sack or something?”

“Yes, you're right. We'll go see Glaucus. Come on.”

She started back to the car but Harold grabbed her arm.

“Look!” he said.

Two policemen had come from the courthouse and stopped at the sight of the car. They were already walking around it and taking notes.

“It's the police,” said Maude, nonchalantly. “Come on. They're old friends.”

She walked toward them while Harold trailed apprehensively behind.

“Good afternoon, officer. Bit of trouble here?”

“Yes, ma'am,” said the policeman, tipping his hat. “Somebody had some trouble parking.”

“Well, it's a tricky turn.”

“Uh, yes, ma'am,” he said, not quite understanding.

“Tell me,” said Maude, pointing to the vehicle in front, “is that car parked all right?”

“Oh, yes. That's fine.”

“Good. Thank you.”

She started off and turned back. “Um, officer. You might turn off the radio. It saves the battery.” She smiled at him and walked away.

The policeman turned off the radio. He watched the little old lady take a ring of keys from her coat pocket and open the car door. She hopped inside and opened the other door for the rather nervous-looking youth.

“Nice old gal,” said the second officer, coming over from noting the damage to the mailbox. “She reminds me of my grand—”

A screech of tires and a roar of exhaust cut off the rest of his sentence. They looked up to see Maude zoom away from the curb, pop into second, and swing around the corner.

“Forget it,” said the second officer after a moment. “My grandmother never learned to shift.”

T
HEY ARRIVED AT
G
LAUCUS' STUDIO
after nightfall. A gas jet on the wall cast the only light, but a large heating unit was going full blast. The block of ice in the center of the room had been chipped down to a mere five feet and was rapidly melting away in the heat. On the
corner platform, covered with rugs and skins, Glaucus snored loudly, bundled up in a parka and a New England hunting cap with the flaps pulled over his ears. Asleep, he looked much smaller and more frail. He still held a mallet and an ice pick in his gloved hands.