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by Colin Higgins
Harold Chasen stepped up on the chair and placed
the noose about his neck. He pulled it tight and tugged on the
knot. It would hold. He looked about the den. The Chopin was playing
softly. The envelope was propped up on the desk. Everything was
ready. He waited. Outside, a car pulled into the driveway. It
stopped, and he heard his mother get out. With barely a smile
he knocked over the chair and fell jerkily into space. In a few
moments his feet had stopped kicking, and his body swayed with
the rope. Mrs. Chasen put her keys down on the entrance table
and called to the maid to take the packages out of the car. It
had been a boring luncheon and she was tired. She looked at herself
in the mirror and absently pushed at her hair. The frosted wig
would be fine for dinner this evening, she decided. She'd cancel
her appointment with Rene and take a nap for the rest of the
afternoon. After all, she deserved to indulge herself once in
a while. She went into the den and sat at the desk. As she flipped
through her book for the hairdresser's number, she listened to
the Chopin playing softly. How soothing, she thought, and began
to dial. Rene would be furious but it couldn't be helped. The
phone buzzed, and she settled back, drumming her fingers on the
arm of the chair. She noticed on the desk the envelope addressed
to her. She looked up and saw, suspended from the ceiling, the
hanging body of her son. She paused. The body swayed slightly
from side to side, making the rope around the large oak beam squeak
rhythmically to the sound of the piano. Mrs. Chasen stared at
the bulging eyes, at the protruding tongue, at the knot stretched
tight about the grotesquely twisted neck. "I'm sorry,"
said a tiny voice, "You have reached a disconnected number.
Please be sure you are dialing the right number and are dialing
correctly. This is..." Mrs. Chasen put down the phone.
"Really, Harold," she said as she dialed again. "I
suppose you think this is all very funny. Apparently it means
nothing to you that the Crawfords are coming to dinner."
"Oh, Harold was always a well-mannered boy,"
said Mrs. Chasen to the elderly Mrs. Crawford at her dinner that
evening. "Yes, indeed. I had him using a little knife and
fork at three. He was never any trouble as a baby, although he
was perhaps more susceptible to illness than the average child.
He probably got that from his father, because I've never been
sick a day in my life. And, of course, he did inherit his father's
strange sense of values--that penchant for the absurd. I remember
once we were in Paris, Charlie stepped out for some cigarettes
and the next thing I heard, he was arrested for floating nude
down the Seine--experimenting in river currents with a pair of
yellow rubber water wings. Well, that cost quite a bit of enfluence
and d'argent to hush up, I can tell you. The younger Mrs. Crawford
laughed appreciatively, as did Mrs. Crawford, Mr. Fisher, and
Mr. and Mrs. Truscott-Jones. The elderly Mrs. Crawford sipped
her champagne and smiled. "Are you ready for dessert?"
Mrs. Chasen asked her. "Is everyone ready for a delightful
Peach Melba? Harold, dear, you haven't finished your beets."
Harold looked up from the end of the table. "Did you hear
me, dear? Eat up your beets. They're very nutritious. Very good
for the system." Harold looked at his mother and then quietly
put down his fork. "What ever is the matter?" asked
Mrs. Chasen. Aren't you feeling well? "I have a sore throat,"
he said softly. "Oh, dear. Then perhaps you'd best go up
to bed immediately. Excuse yourself and say good night to everyone."
"Excuse me," said Harold, "and good night everyone."
He got up from the table and left the room. "Good night,"
everyone echoed. "Take some aspirin," Mrs. Chasen called
after him. "And lots of water." She turned back to her
guests. "Dear me," she said, "I don't know what
I'm going to do with that boy. Lately he's become quite trying.
I'm sending him to Dr. Harley, my psychiatrist, and of course,
my brother Victor--the brigadier general--keeps telling me the
Army is the answer. But I don't want him off in some jungle battling
natives. That's how I lost Charlie. Of course, Charlie wasn't
battling. He was photographing parrots in Polynesia when that--"
"More champagne!" cried the elderly Mrs. Crawford,
and burped. "Mother!" said young Mrs. Crawford. "Mother,
please!" said Mrs. Crawford. "I'm sorry," said
the elderly Mrs. Crawford. "I thought I saw a bat."
A momentary silence overtook the table until Mr. Truscott-Jones
said that he had never tasted such a wonderful Peach Melba, and
Mrs. Chasen told the story of how she had got the original recipe
from a tenor in Tokyo who claimed to be Dame Nellie's bastard
son.
Why they bring that old woman to parties, thought
Mrs. Chasen as she sat down at her vanity table and took off her
wig, is beyond anyone's comprehension. After all, she is practically
senile. It's always so embarrassing, particularly for the family,
and, of course, so trying for the hostess. Why don't they put
her in a home? she asked herself, picking up her dressing gown
from the bed. She could be well taken care of and be able to live
there with her own kind until her time comes. She stopped by
her bathroom door and looked at herself in the full-length mirror.
Throwing back her shoulders, she patted her stomach. Not bad,
she thought. Staying young is purely a question of staying slim.
She opened the door and turned on the bathroom light. Harold
lay wide-eyed in the bathtub, his throat slashed, and blood dripping
from his neck and wrists. "My God! My God!" shrieked
Mrs. Chasen. "Ohhh! Ohhh! This is too much. Too much!"
She turned and fled crying down the hall. Harold turned his head
and listened. In the distance he could hear his mother's hysterical
wailing. He looked at himself in the blood-streaked mirror and
broke into a faint, satisfied smile.
"We have had several sessions now, Harold,"
Dr. Harley said, "but I don't think we can truthfully say
there has been much progress. Would you agree?" Harold,
lying on the couch and staring at the ceiling, nodded in agreement.
"And why is that?" Harold thought for a moment, "I
don't know," he said. Dr. Harley walked over to the window.
"I think it is perhaps your reluctance to articulate or elaborate.
We must communicate, Harold. Otherwise, I'll never understand.
Now, let's go over these pretended suicides of yours once again.
Since our last session your mother has reported three more. As
I calculate, that makes a total of fifteen. Is that correct?"
Harold looked intently at the ceiling. "Yes," he said,
thoughtfully, "if you don't count the first one, and the
time the bomb in the greenhouse exploded overnight." Dr.
Harley ran his hand over his thinning hair. "Fifteen,"
he said. "And they were all done for your mother's benefit?"
Harold considered that for a moment. "I wouldn't say 'benefit,'"
he concluded. "No," said Dr. Harley, "I suppose
not." He sat at his desk. "But they were all designed
to elicit a particular response from your mother, isn't that so?
For example, the squashed-skull incident we talked about last
time. You placed the dummy with the cantaloupe behind the rear
wheel of your mother's car so that when she backed over it she
thought she had run over your head. Now, the hysterics she displayed
then would be the kind of thing you have been aiming for in these
last three attempts. Am I right?" "Well," said
Harold. "That was one of the first. It was easier then."
"Uh, yes," said Dr. Harley. He leaned back in his chair.
"Tell me about the bathroom incident last night." "What
do you want to know?" "Would you rate it a success?"
Harold mulled that over. "It was the best response I've
had in the last few weeks," he said. "Did you leave
a suicide note?" "No. But I did write 'Farewell' on
the mirror in blood. I don't think she saw it." "Did
you leave a suicide note for the hanging in the den?" "Yes.
I left it right on the desk. She didn't even pick it up."
"The hanging then was a failure?" "Maybe it was
the rigging," Harold mused. "Maybe I should have used
a different harness." "You seem to use very elaborate
paraphernalia for these, uh, performances. The pool, for example.
That must have taken a lot of work." Harold took a deep
breath. "Yes," he said with a slight smile of satisfaction.
"It did. I had to build floats for the shoes and the suit.
I even had to design a little oxygen device that lets you breathe
underwater. It was a nice job." "But not a success.
At least, judging from what your mother told me." Harold
looked over at the doctor. "What did she say?" he asked.
"She said that she saw you floating in the swimming pool
face down and fully clothed with a note saying 'Good-by World'
pinned to your back. She told the maid to give you hot cocoa for
lunch because she didn't want you to catch cold." Harold
looked back at the ceiling. It was a long time before he spoke.
"It took me three days to set that up," he said finally.
Dr. Harley leaned forward in his chair. "Tell me, Harold,"
he said, changing the subject, "what do you do with your
time?" "You mean, when I'm not planning..." "Yes.
What is your daily activity? You don't go to school." "No."
"And you don't go to work." "No." "So,
how do you spend your day?" Harold paused. "I go to
junk yards." "And what is your purpose in going there?"
Harold thought for a moment. "The junk," he said. "I
like to look at junk." "I see. What else do you do?"
"I like to watch the automobile crusher at the scrap-metal
yard." "And anything else?" "I like demolitions."
"You mean tearing down old buildings and things like that?"
"Yes, particularly with that great iron ball." "That's
very illuminating, Harold, and I think opens up several avenues
for exploration in our next session. right now your time is up.
Give my best to your mother. I think I shall be seeing her early
next week." Harold got up off the couch and said good-by.
"Are you off to the junk yard?" Dr. Harley asked pleasantly.
"No," said Harold, "the cemetery." The doctor
was taken aback. "Oh--I'm sorry. Is it someone in the family?"
"No," said Harold as he opened the door, "I just
like to go to funerals."
Harold stood on the edge of the crowd and listened
to the minister say the final prayers. He preferred smaller funerals,
he decided. With only a few people around the grave, the emotion
seemed more intense. And, of course, with smaller funerals it
was possible to get closer to the coffin and actually see it being
lowered into the ground. 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.
"Why 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."
Brigadier General Victor E. Ball 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 retired 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 fourragere 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.
Harold'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 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."
Harold 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 the 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 watermelon.
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 British-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 dumbfounded 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. 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."
Mrs. Chasen 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?" 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."
Dark 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 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
horsely. "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."
Harold 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 something 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.
Dr. Harley'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 plaster 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?" "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."
Harold 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 the 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 you 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 the 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.
The 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 someone
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 cut-up 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."
The 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 looks 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 her 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 though, 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 figured 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???!"
Back 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 Rubenesque 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.'" 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. The 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 close to it, really reach out, and fell. 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 fell 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."
Harold 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."
"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 that 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 you 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
and 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
the 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."
They arrived at Glaucus' 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. "Oh, my,"
said Maude. "We're too late." "Is he all right?"
asked Harold. "He's fallen asleep, as usual." She took
the tools from his hands and began removing his boots. "No
matter. We'll come back in the morning." Harold strolled
over to the block of ice. "What is this he's working on?"
he asked. "An ice sculpture. It's Venus--the goddess of
love. To get it completed is his unfulfilled dream." "It
is kind of rough," said Harold, trying to make out the figure.
"He's never finished one yet. Look around. He's got every
kind of tool known to man, but the poor dear has difficulty staying
awake." She finished tucking a rug around him and walked
over to Harold. "Look," said Harold. "The ice
is melting." "I know," said Maude. They watched
it for a moment. "That's one of the drawbacks of the medium."
Harold sat before the fire in Maude's living room
and looked at the flames dancing around the log. "A little
after-dinner liqueur?" asked Maude, bringing over a decanter
from the sideboard. "Well, I really don't drink."
"Oh, it's all right. It's organic." She poured him
a drink and handed him the glass. She poured one for herself and
then sat down in the easy chair opposite him. "Let's have
a toast, Harold," she said. "To you. As the Irish say,
'May the path be straight because your feet have trod it.'"
"Thank you," said Harold and sipped his drink. "It's
nice." "I'm glad you like it." He smiled at her.
She smiled back. He settled into his chair and gestured above
the fireplace. "What's that up there?" "My umbrella?"
"Yes." "Oh, that's just an old relic. I found
it when I was packing to come to America. It used to be my defense
on picket lines, and rallies, and political meetings--being dragged
off by the police or attacked by the thugs of the opposition."
She laughed. "A long time ago." "What were you
fighting for?" asked Harold. "Oh, Big Issues. Liberty.
rights. Justice. Kings died and kingdoms fell. You know, I don't
regret the kingdoms--I see no sense in borders and nations and
patriotism--but I do miss the kings. When I was a little girl
in Vienna, I was taken to the palace for a garden party. I can
still see the sunshine on the fountains, the parasols, and the
flashing uniforms of the young officers. I thought then I would
marry a soldier." She chuckled. "My, my. How Frederick
would chide me about that. He, of course, was so serious, so very
tall and proper. Being a doctor at the university, and in the
government, he thought dignity was in how you wore your hat. That's
how we met. I knocked off his hat. With a snowball in the Volksgarten."
She smiled as she remembered. "But that was all ..."--she
gazed into the fire--"before." As Harold looked at
her she suddenly seemed very small and fragile. He felt tongue-tied
and uncertain. "So you don't use the umbrella any more?"
he said, breaking the silence. She looked at him. "No,"
she said softly. "Not any more." "No more revolts?"
"Oh, indeed!" said Maude, sparking back to her old
self. "Every day. But I don't need a defense any more. I
embrace! Still fighting for the Big Issues, but now in my small,
individual way." She smiled. "How about a song, Harold?"
"Well, I don't ..." "Oh, come on," said
Maude, going over to the piano. "Don't tell me you don't
sing. Everybody can sing." She sat down and sang a little
ditty which began: "A robin's chirp is the song of the
morn, The nightingale blows an evenin' horn, A peacock's trill
is a thrill stillborn, But the cuck-cuck-cuckoo SINGS THE LIVELONG
DAY!" When she had finished, Harold laughed and clapped
his hands. "What's the name of that?" he asked. "It
doesn't have one. I wrote it myself." "I like it."
"Good! let's play it together." "But I don't
play anything." Maude sat up. "Not anything! Dear me,
who was in charge of your education? Everyone should be able to
make some music. It's the universal language of mankind. It's
rhythm, harmony, the cosmic dance. Come with me." She went
into the bedroom and opened a large closet, full of all kinds
of musical instruments--horns, strings, drums, tambourines. She
rooted about for a while and pulled out a banjo. "Here we
are," she said. "Just the thing. Now, you hold it like
this and put your fingers like that." She showed him how
to play a couple of chords and then they went back to the living
room. "Now, remember," said Maude, sitting down at
the piano. "Don't just strum it. Be impulsive. Be fanciful.
Let the music flow out of you freely, as though you were talking.
Okay?" "All right." "Okay. From the top.
Let's jam!" With a flourish she began the song, singing
the lyrics while Harold strummed carefully along. He managed to
keep up with her and they ended together. "But the cuck-cuck-cuckoo,
'Spite his rote note yoo-hoo, The cuck-cuck-cuckoo SINGS THE
LIVELONG DAY!" He looked at her, beaming with delight.
"Okay?" he asked. Maude whistled. "Superb,"
she said.
After breakfast Harold sat by the pool and practiced
his banjo. He played Maude's song over and over but never to his
satisfaction. His unlimber fingers kept missing the chords, and
the tune was practically unrecognizable. "Harold,"
called his mother from the terrace. "Harold!" He hid
the banjo behind a bush. "Ah, there you are," said
Mrs. Chasen, coming through the rose garden. "I have the
most wonderful surprise for you. It's a little present which I
know you'll enjoy. Come with me." Harold followed his mother
around to the garages. "There we are," said Mrs. Chasen,
gesturing dramatically. "Isn't it darling?" She pointed
at a brand-new green Jaguar XKE. "It's for you, dear. I
had them tow away that monstrous black thing of yours and leave
this in its place. This is so much nicer, don't you think? And
so much more appropriate for you." Harold started to say
something. "Oh, one more thing," interrupted his mother.
"I've talked on the phone with your second computer date,
and she seems a very nice, quiet young lady--not at all hysterical
like the first one. She will be here tomorrow afternoon, and I
thought we might have sandwiches and coffee in the library. Now
please, Harold. Let's be on our best behavior and make her feel
at home. Good-by, dear. I'm off to the hairdresser's." She
took a parting look at the XKE. "Cute little thing, isn't
it? I like it very much." Harold stood for a moment, looking
at his new car. He made a decision and walked into the garage.
He took off his jacket and wheeled out to the Jaguar a large acetylene
torch. Scanning the car, he mad a few rough calculations. Then
he fired the torch and pulled the great welding mask over his
head.
Maude entered Glaucus' studio. "Good morning,"
she said. Glaucus, spryly dressed for autumn, chipped happily
away at a new nine-foot-tall block of ice. "Come in! Come
in!" he shouted, not looking around. He made a sweeping scratch
across the ice with a metal spoon and stood back to examine it.
"Have you seen Harold?" asked Maude. "One moment,"
said Glaucus, and made another scratch on the ice. He stepped
back. This time he was satisfied and jumped down from his stand.
"Ah, Madame M! Greetings," he cried kissing her hand"
"Sorry I'm late," said Harold, rushing through the
door. Glaucus looked up. "A rather free translation, but
none the less correct. And greetings to you, too, my gangling
young friend." "Good morning," said Harold. "Hello,
Maude." "Hello, Harold. Ready for today's Operation
Transplant?" "Well, I'm ready, if you are." "Aha!"
said Glaucus, pounding him on the back. "The spirit of Agamemnon
and the courage of Achilles! Come here, my boy. Now tell me,"
he asked, gesturing at the ice. "What do you see?"
Harold looked. "A block of ice," he said. "Exactly!
Now, ask me what I see." "What do you see?" "I
see the eternal goddess of beauty and love. I see Aphrodite, the
consummate woman, full of warmth and fire--frozen." He picked
up a small pneumatic drill, shouting, "And it is I who shall
set you free!" Attacking the ice, he made an incision and
stepped back to appraise it. He wiped his brow. "Each morning
I am delivered of a new block of ice. Each evening my eyes grow
weary, my hands hang heavy, and I am swept down Lethe to slumber--while
my goddess, half born, drips away--unseen, unsung, and unknown."
He stopped, overcome with feeling. "May we borrow a shovel?"
asked Maude sweetly. "Wait!" cried Glaucus. "Let
me think. Do I need a shovel today? No! I need a blowtorch."
He grabbed a blowtorch, saying, "Take any shovel you want.
You are welcome." "Thank you, Glaucus," said Maude,
picking up a shovel. "We'll see you later. Come on, Harold."
"Good-by, Glaucus," said Harold, and they both left.
"Farewell," cried Glaucus, absently. "Farewell,
my friends." He fired the blowtorch and approached the ice.
"'Where'er he moved, the goddess shone before,'" he
quoted, adding in a reverent whisper, "-- Homer."
Maude drove the pickup truck at a steady speed
along the highway. She looked over at Harold. Harold smiled.
"So far, so good," he said, and glanced out the rear
window at the little tree standing upright in the back. "How's
the patient?" asked Maude. "The tree's fine,"
said Harold, "but the cop looks kind of mad." "What
cop?" "The one following us," answered Harold
glumly. The motorcycle policeman drove up alongside Maude and
flagged her over to the side of the road. He parked his bike and
came up to Maude's window. "Lady," he said coolly,
"you were going seventy miles an hour in a forty-five-mile
zone. Could I see your license, please?" "Certainly,"
said Maude. "It's on the front bumper." "No,"
said the policeman patiently, "I want your license."
"You mean those little pieces of paper with your picture
on it?" "Yes." "Oh, I don't have one."
"Come again?" "I don't have one. I don't believe
in them." THe cop looked at his boots and then off down
the road. He adjusted his sunglasses. "How long have you
been driving?" he asked. "About forty-five minutes,
wouldn't you say, Harold? We were hoping to start sooner, but,
you see, it's rather difficult to find a truck." "Could
I see your registration?" "I just don't think we have
one, unless it's in the glove compartment. Would you look, Harold?"
"Isn't this your vehicle?" "No, no. I just took
it." "Took it?" "Yes. You see, I have to
plant my tree." "Your tree?" "Well, it's
not really mine. I dug it up in front of the courthouse. We're
transplanting it. Letting it breathe, you know. But of course,
we would like to get it into soil as soon as possible."
The cop adjusted his gun belt and scratched his nose. He looked
down at his boots again. "Lady," he said slowly, "let
me get this straight." "All right, then," said
Maude, starting up the engine. "And we won't take any more
of your time." She threw the gear into first. "Nice
chatting with you," she cried, and zoomed off. The cop spun
around as the truck sped by. He watched for a moment, speechless.
Then he ran to his motorcycle, hopped on, and gave chase. "I
think he's following us," said Harold, uneasily shaking his
head. "Is he?" said Maude cheerfully. "Is that
his siren? My, my. How they do like to play games. Well, here
goes." Maude changed gear and accelerated to top speed.
Careening down the highway, she dodged cars and changed lanes.
The cop on the motorcycle stayed with her, his siren screaming
like a soul from hell. Suddenly, Maude made a hard left turn,
sending the truck screeching in a half circle. She raced back
down the highway, passing the cop on the other side of the road.
Cars pulled over out of her way, while the cop made a similar
U-turn and darted after her. Maude immediately made another screeching
U-turn and flew off in her original direction. The cop, taken
unawares, tried to follow her, but the traffic around him was
in total confusion. He dodged an oncoming Ford, ran up over the
embankment, and finally halted, sliding and spinning, in a muddy
ditch. Harold turned around to face front and cleared his throat.
"He's stopped," he reported. Maude laughed and slowed
down. "Ah, yes," she said. "The old double U-turn.
Gets them every time." She drove down the highway and turned
off the road to the National Forest.
They finished planting the little tree in a pleasant
glade, and Maude patted the earth around its trunk. "There
we are," said Maude, standing up. "I think it will be
very happy here." "It's a nice spot," said Harold,
leaning on the shovel. "Good soil." "Yes, it is.
I like the feel of soil, don't you? And the smell. It's the earth.
'The earth is my body. My head is in the stars.'" She laughed.
"Who said that?" "I don't know." "I
suppose I did," said Maude, and laughed again. "Well,
farewell, little tree. Grow up tall, and change, and fall to replenish
the earth. Isn't it wonderful, Harold? All around us. Living things!
Come. I want to show you something." She led him along a
trail till they came to a large pine. "How's that for a
tree?" she said. "It's a tall one." "Wait
till you see the view from the top." "But you're not
going to climb it, are you?" "Certainly. I do it every
time I come here. C'mon, Harold. It's an easy tree to climb."
"But suppose you fall?" Maude had already started
up. "I don't think about it," she answered. "That's
unprofitable speculation and not worth my trouble." She
looked down at Harold. "Are you coming yourself, or will
you only hear about it secondhand?" Harold shook his head.
"Okay," he said, and started up. They climbed to about
eighty feet. It wasn't difficult, but, as he followed Maude up
higher, he felt the tree swaying in the wind. He swallowed.
"Here we are, Harold," said Maude. "It's like a
natural perch, just for us." She sat out on a bough and
made room for Harold. He climbed alongside her and sat down, keeping
a firm grip on the trunk. "Isn't it exhilarating?"
said Maude, looking out over the forest that stretched for miles
to the distant mountains. "Yes." Harold gulped. "It's
high." "Imagine! Here we are, cradled in a living giant,
looking over millions of others--and we're part of it."
"It takes your breath away," said Harold. "It's
also windy." "Yes. We should hoist sail and strike
out for the horizon. Wouldn't that be fun? I used to love sailing.
Especially when we couldn't see land, and we were all alone, surrounded
by the wide, flat sea. Then we would harness the wind and cut
through the waves like galleons bent on discovery." "When
was this?" "Oh, in the twenties, around the south of
France and off Normandy. I remember it was frowned upon. Considered
frivolous, or dangerous, or unbecoming--one of those terms that
the moribund use to keep the adventurous in tow. But we'll pull
them along anyway, won't we, Harold? We'll hitch them to our balloon."
"You could," said Harold. "But I don't know about
me." "What do you mean?" The wind died down.
Harold loosened his grip on the tree. "Well," he said.
"Most people aren't like you. They're locked up in themselves.
They live in their castles--all alone. They're like me."
"Well, everyone lives in his own castle," said Maude.
"But that's no reason not to lower the drawbridge and go
out on visits." Harold smiled. "But you agree that
we live alone. And we die alone. Each in his own cell."
Maude looked over the forest. "I suppose so. In a sense.
That's why we have to make them as pleasant as possible--full
of good books and warm fires and memories. Still, in another sense,
you can always jump the wall and sleep out under the stars."
"Maybe," Harold said. "But that takes courage."
"Why?" "Well, aren't you afraid?" "Of
what? The known I know, and the unknown I'd like to find out.
Besides, I've got friends." "Who?" "Humanity."
Harold smiled. "That's a lot of friends. How do you know
they're all friendly?" "Well, the way I figure it,
we're all the same, and it's just a question of us getting together.
I heard a story once in the Orient about two architects who went
to see the Buddha. They had run out of money on their projects
and hoped the Buddha could do something about it. 'Well, I'll
do what I can,' said the Buddha, and he went off to see their
work. The first architect was building a bridge, and the Buddha
was very impressed. 'That's a very good bridge,' he said, and
he began to pray. Suddenly a great white bull appeared, carrying
on its back enough gold to finish construction. 'Take it,' said
the Buddha, 'and build even more bridges.' And so the first architect
went away very happy. The second architect was building a wall,
and when the Buddha saw it he was equally impressed. 'That's a
very good wall,' he said solemnly, and began to pray. Suddenly
the sacred bull appeared, walked over to the second architect,
and sat on him." Harold started laughing so hard that he
had to hold onto the tree. "Awww, Maude!" he cried.
"You just made that up." "Well," said Maude,
laughing with him. "It's the truth. The world needs no more
walls. What we've all got to do is get out and build more bridges!"
They drove home in the late afternoon, taking the
same roads as they took before. Maude drove at her usual pace
and talked happily to Harold about children's games and how she
had taught Frederick to play marbles when they were in hiding
after the Anschluss. Neither she nor Harold noticed the motorcycle
cop giving out a ticket to a car parked by the side of the road.
"What happened to your husband?" asked Harold. "He
was captured," she said, "and shot. Trying to escape.
At least that's what they told me later. I guess I never will
know the real story." "Was that in France or Austria?"
Maude did not get the chance to answer. The motorcycle cop, his
lights flashing and siren wailing, drew alongside and frantically
gestured for her to pull over. She did, and he parked behind her.
He got off his bike and with large steps walked to the truck.
"Okay, lady. Out!" he said. "Hello," said
Maude, not quite recognizing him. "Haven't we met before?"
"None of that, lady. Out." He opened the door. "Oh,
well. It must have been your brother." "Out!"
Maude stepped out. "But there is a family resemblance,"
she insisted. "You too, buster," the policeman said
to Harold. "Stand over here." Harold came around the
truck and stood by Maude. The cop hitched up his gun belt and
took out his citation book. "Lady," he said. "You're
in a heap of trouble. I have you down here for several violations:
speeding, resisting arrest, driving without a license, driving
a stolen vehicle, possession of a stolen tree--where's the tree?"
"We planted it," said Maude. The cop glared at her
through his sunglasses. He looked in the back of the truck. "Is
this your shovel?" he asked. "No," said Maude.
The cop threw down the shovel. "Possession of a stolen shovel,"
he noted. "Officer," said Maude, "I can explain.
You see --" "Lady, you don't seem to realize. Resisting
arrest is a serious criminal offense. Under the state penal code,
section one forty-eight, paragraph ten--" "Oh, don't
get officious," said Maude, interrupting him. "You're
not yourself when you're officious. But then, that's the curse
of a government job." The cop stared at her for a long count.
He adjusted his stance. "Lady," he said patiently, "is
it true you are driving without a license?" "Check,"
said Maude, equally patiently. "And that truck. Is it registered
in your name?" "Oh! Not in my name." "Then
whose name is it registered in?" "Well, I don't know.
Do you know, Harold?" Harold didn't know. "Where are
the papers?" asked the cop. "I suppose they are in
the truck. Uh, are you going to take a lot of time with this?"
"Wait here," said the cop, and climbed into the front
seat. "Because if you are--" "Lady! For Pete's
sake. Be quiet." The cop opened the glove compartment and
began looking through the papers. Suddenly he heard the start
of an engine. He looked up. Maude was on the motorcycle, revving
it up and motioning Harold to jump on behind her. "Get the
shovel!" she cried. Harold hesitated. The cop was sliding
himself out of the front seat. Harold grabbed the shovel, climbed
on the bike, and Maude shot down the road in a cloud of dust.
The cop took out his gun. "Stop! Stop! Or I'll shoot,"
he cried. He fired several shots after them. Maude began defensive
zigzag maneuvering. "This is just like the Resistance,"
she shouted back to Harold. The cop watched them disappear over
the hill. He raced to the truck and climbed inside to start it.
He banged his fist on the dashboard. Maude had taken the keys.
It was early evening by the time Maude drove up
in front of Glaucus' studio and parked. Harold helped her off
the bike. "My, those motorcycles are awfully chilly,"
she said, laughing. "But aren't they fun!" "What
are you going to do with it?" asked Harold. "I don't
know. I'm going down to the ships tomorrow to say good-by to some
friends. Would you like to come?" "Thanks, but I can't.
I have to work on my car. Maybe we could get together the day
after." "Splendid," said Maude. "We'll have
a picnic." They opened the door to the studio and went inside.
Old Glaucus, bundled up in his winter clothes, was valiantly
fighting off sleep. He staggered toward the diminishing block
of ice, lifted his heavy hammer and chisel, and struck a blow.
He turned around and shuffled back to look at its effect. All
the time he mumbled snatches of Homer for encouragement. "'The
bitter dregs of Fortune's cup to drain.'--Iliad....Almost finished....Gotta
make it....Going to make it....Liberate Love....Set her free."
"Good evening, Glaucus," said Maude. "We've brought
back your shovel," said Harold. Glaucus looked at them vaguely.
"Shovel? 'Shovel the fires till one falls, wrapt in the cold
embraces of the tomb!' Excuse me. I must turn up the heat."
He faltered over to the thermostat, and turned it up full. He
came back to the ice. "Create." He sighed. "'Verily
these issues lie in the lap of the gods.'" He collapsed in
a nearby chair. "Just going to sit down for a minute,"
he muttered. "Won't even shut my eyes." Harold looked
closely at the ice. "I think I see it," he said to Maude.
"Yes," she agreed. "It's almost there."
Glaucus stood up, his eyes barely open. He shuffled in place and
made a few swipes at the air with his tools. "Yes,"
he mumbled. "Not giving up.... Almost done.... Almost finished."
He wandered over to his large couch and sat down. "Just
a little rest.... Not long.... Then, once more up the hill...."
His voice trailed off, and his head fell forward on his chest.
He began to snore. "I think he's asleep," Harold whispered.
"Aha! Morpheus!" shouted Glaucus, popping up, wild-eyed.
"I'll beat... I'll never..." His eyelids closed. "Gonna
make it.... Gonna make it.... Make it...." He plopped on
the couch and drifted back against the cushions. It was over.
He had fallen asleep. Harold took the tools from his hands, and
Maude made him comfortable on the couch, loosening his boots and
covering him with a rug. As they turned to go, Harold took a
last look at the ice sculpture. "It's melting away,"
he said. "Yes," said Maude. "Don't you think
we should turn off the heat?" "Why?" asked Maude.
"There'll be a new block of ice in the morning."
For dinner that evening Maude decided to go Japanese.
She gave Harold a kimono to wear, and she put one on herself.
It was a beautiful robe ("a gift from an admirer," she
said), made of blue and white silk that matched the colors of
her eyes and hair. A friendly dragon was embroidered on the back.
They had supper by lantern light in the Japanese nook, and afterwards
she explained to Harold how she had fallen in love with the Orient
during the many trips she and Frederick made there after the First
World War. Indeed, she confessed, her contact with the East had
made a profound impression on her life and, striking a match,
she lit up her hookah. Harold leaned back on the cushions and
thought over the day. "I like Glaucus," he said. "Yes,"
said Maude, puffing away pleasantly, "so do I. But I think
he is a little ... old-fashioned." She gestured at the hookah.
"Like a drag, Harold?" "Well, I really don't smoke."
"Oh, this isn't tobacco. It's a mixture of grass and poppy
seeds." "But I've never smoked that kind of ..."
"It's all right," said Maude, offering him the hose.
"It's organic." Harold took the hose and inhaled. He
smiled. "I'm sure picking up on vices," he said. "Vice?
Virtue? It's best not to be too moral. You cheat yourself out
of too much life. Aim above morality. As Confucius says, 'Don't
simply be good. make good things happen.'" "Did Confucius
say that?" "Well...." Maude smiled. "They
say he was very wise, so I'm sure he must have." Harold
looked at her intently. "You are the wisest person I know,"
he said. "Me!" cried Maude. "Ha! When I look around
me I know I know nothing. I remember, though, once long ago in
Persia we met a wise man in the bazaar. He was a professional
and used to sell his wisdom to anyone willing to pay. His specialty
for tourists was a maxim engraved on the head of a pin--'The wisest,'
he said, 'the truest, the most instructive words for all men at
all times.' Frederick bought one for me, and back at the hotel
I peered through a magnifying glass to read what it said: 'And
this too shall pass away.'" Maude laughed. "And the
wise man was right. Apply that, and you're bound to live life
fully." Harold sucked thoughtfully on the pipe. "Yes,"
he said sadly. "I haven't lived." He took a deep breath.
He suddenly giggled. "But I've died a few times," he
declared. "What was that?" asked Maude. "Died,"
said Harold happily. "Seventeen times--not counting maimings."
He laughed wildly, obviously feeling the effect of the hookah.
"Shot myself in the head once with a popgun and a pellet
of blood." "How ingenious!" cried Maude. "Tell
me about them." "Well, it's a question of timing and
the right equipment.... You really want to hear about this?"
"Of course." Harold grinned. "Okay," he
said, and leaned forward eagerly. "The first time it wasn't
even planned. I was at boarding school and they were getting ready
for the Centennial Celebration. They put all the fireworks and
stuff in the west wing below the chemistry lab. Well, I was in
the lab cleaning up, and I decided to do a little experimenting.
I got all this stuff together and started measuring it all out.
I was very scientific. Then, suddenly, there was this big fizzing
sound and this kind of white porridge stuff came slurping out
of the beaker and ran along the table, onto the floor. So I took
the hose." Harold stood up to demonstrate. "I turned
it on to wash the stuff into the sink, and POW! There was this
massive explosion. It cracked the table, blew a hole in the floor.
Knocked me against the wall. Smoke and stink everywhere. I got
up. I was stunned. Then suddenly--bombs started going off. Flames
shot up through the floor, and PACHAU! skyrockets and pinwheels
were flying about the room. Fireballs whizzing and bouncing. Singed
my hair. I couldn't get to the door. But behind me was the old
laundry chute, so I slid down it to the basement. And when I got
outside--wow! The whole top of the building was on fire. It was
crazy! Alarms ringing, and people running about. Boy! So I decided
to go home." He sat down by Maude and brushed his hair off
his forehead. "When I got there my mother was giving a party,
so I crept up the back stairs to my room. Then there was a ring
at the front door. It was the police. I leaned over the banister
and heard them tell my mother that I had died in an accident at
school. I couldn't see her face, but she looked at the people
around her and began to stagger." Speaking very softly and
slowly, Harold continued, tears welling in his eyes. "She
put one hand to her forehead. With the other she reached out,
as if groping for support. Two men rushed to her side, and then--with
a long, low sigh--she collapsed in their arms." He stopped
for a long pause. "I decided then," he said solemnly,
"I enjoyed being dead." Maude said nothing for a moment.
Then she spoke quietly. "Yes. I understand. A lot of people
enjoy being dead. But they're not dead, really. They're just backing
away from life. They're players, but they think life is a practice
game and they'll save themselves for later. So they sit on the
bench, and the only championship they'll ever see goes on before
them. The clock ticks away the quarters. At any moment they can
join in." Maude jumped up, shouting encouragement. "Go
on, guys! Reach out! Take a chance! Get hurt, maybe. But play
as well as you can." Leading a cheer before a packed stadium,
she cried, "Go team, go! Give me an 'L.' Give me an 'I.'
Give me a 'V.' Give me an 'E.' L-I-V-E. LIVE!" She sat down
beside Harold, very ladylike and composed. "Otherwise,"
she informed him, "you'll have nothing to talk about in the
locker room." Harold smiled. "I like you, Maude,"
he said. Maude smiled back. "I like you, Harold. Come, I'll
teach you to waltz." She gave him her hand and together
they walked to the Victrola. She turned it on, and the lilting
melodies of Strauss filled the room. Taking the hem of her kimono
in her hand, she held out her arms. He put his arm around her
waist and took her hand in his. He looked down at her and grinned.
Her head barely came up to his shoulder. She counted to the music
and then, smiling, she began to move. He picked it up, and before
long they were dancing together--round and round the lantern-lit
room, happily in step, twirling and circling as effortlessly as
young lovers waltzing in a Vienese cafe.
Mrs. Chasen met Harold's second computer date on
the front porch. "You must be Edith Phern," she said
to the bespectacled little girl with the closely cropped red hair.
"Yes, I am," said Edith. "I'm Mrs. Chasen, Harold's
mother. Harold is out by the garage. let's go meet him, shall
we?" "All right," said Edith, dropping her purse
and spilling out all the contents. Mrs. Chasen waited till she
picked them up, and then together they walked around to the back
of the house. "Harold has a new car," explained Mrs.
Chasen. "And he's been tuning it up. He's very mechanical."
"Oh," said Edith. "What kind of car is it?"
"It's a little Jaguar roadster," said Mrs. Chasen,
coming around the corner as Harold put the final polish on his
new car. The car had been somewhat changed. Its back end had
been squared off like a small station wagon, its back window was
frosted glass with a wreath of ferns etched across it, and the
whole car had been redone in black, except for some tasteful chrome
trimming on the front and sides, and the velvet curtains, which
were a kind of funeral purple. "It's very nice," Edith
said sweetly. "Looks like a hearse." Mrs. Chasen clenched
her teeth and smiled. Harold looked at her blankly. "Very
unique," Edith added. "Compact." Despite the blow
this mini-hearse had dealt her, Mrs. Chasen managed to remain
collected. "Edith," she said serenely, "I'd like
you to meet my son, Harold. Harold, this is Edith ... eh?"
"Phern," said Edith. "I'm very pleased to make
your acquaintance." Harold nodded a greeting. "Harold,
dear," said Mrs. Chasen, "I think you should go wash
up and meet us in the library. And remember what I said to you.
Let's make Edith feel at home." Mrs. Chasen had decided
on a small buffet luncheon in the library. While they waited for
Harold, she offered Edith some sandwiches and poured her some
coffee. Edith placed her napkin on her knees and balanced the
plate on her napkin. She was a little nervous but she overcame
it by smiling pleasantly at everything. Mrs. Chasen handed her
a cup of coffee. "And what do you do, my dear?" she
asked. "I'm a file clerk. At Harrison Feed and Grain."
"Oh, how interesting." "Yes, it's very challenging,"
said Edith. They sipped their coffee. Edith smiled. "Well,
what is it exactly that you do?" asked Mrs. Chasen, trying
once more. "I'm in charge of all the invoices for the Southwest.
We supply, for example, most of the egg farmers in Pataluma. So
you can imagine!" She tittered conspiratorially and took
another sip of coffee. "Mmmm, yes," said Mrs. Chasen.
She smiled at Edith. Edith smiled back. "Oh, here's Harold
now," said Mrs. Chasen as Harold entered the room. Edith
attempted to stand up to greet him. "Please, Edith,"
said Mrs. Chasen. "Don't get up." Edith sat down. Harold
sat between them and rested his arm on a small table. Edith smiled
at him, and he smiled back. "Edith was just telling me about
her job," said Mrs. Chasen, as she poured Harold a cup of
coffee. "I'm a file clerk." "Yes. Henderson Feed
and Grain." "No, Harrison," corrected Edith good-naturedly.
"Harrison Feed and Grain. At Hamilton and Fourth. I'm in
charge of the invoices..." She smiled. Mrs. Chasen handed
the coffee to Harold, who placed it on the table beside him.
"And I type up the schedule for the trucking fleet."
"She supplies the whole Southwest with chicken feed,"
said Mrs. Chasen, rather caustically. "Well, not the whole
Southwest," said Edith with a modest snicker. "Although
we do have a large business. Barley was very big last week. Fifteen
hundred bushels..." Harold took a large meat cleaver from
inside his jacket, swung it high, and cut off his left hand at
the wrist. The cleaver embedded itself in the table, and, as he
picked up the stump, blood dribbled from the plastic hand. Mrs.
Chasen was astonished. She glared at Harold and slowly shook her
head. Edith, fighting for composure, put down her cup and saucer.
She stood up. She smiled. "I think I'd better..." was
all she was able to say before collapsing in a dead faint under
the coffee table. Harold glanced at his mother. She looked up,
speechless, from the fallen Edith. All she could think of were
the words of her brother Victor: "I'd put him in the Army,
Helen!"
Harold drove along in his Jaguar-hearse, explaining
to Maude how he made the transformation. "The back of a
Datsun station wagon fitted just fine, and, after welding, I laid
down the black Naugahyde roof. Then it was only a matter of incidentals
-- chrome landaus from a Ford Thunderbird, windows, curtains,
and, of course, spray painting and rubbing it out." "It
seems to have worked very well," Maude said. "Yes.
I think I like it better than my old one." "Oh? Why's
that?" "I guess because I've put a lot of myself into
it. Fixing it up and making it run. It runs beautifully. I like
working with cars." "I knew a man once who used to
like working with cars. A German, wonderful person, but he would
spend all his time fixing his car and making it run beautifully.
Then came the war, and he lost his car. He had to walk everywhere,
and so he found himself spending his time making his body fit
and trim. He fixed it up, and it ran beautifully. After the war,
he decided not to go back to cars. 'Cars come and go,' he said,
'but your body is your transportation for life.'" Harold
looked over at Maude. "Are you trying to tell me something?"
he asked. Maude smiled. "I just did," she said. They
drove past rolling hills where cows grazed indolently in the sunshine,
and finally settled on a picnic spot near a solitary oak in a
large pasture. After a lunch of bread and cheese, wine, carrots,
fruit, and nuts, they settled back on the grass. "Would
you like a little licorice, Harold?" Maude asked. "It
has no nutritional value, but then, consistency is not always
a human trait." Harold took a piece and lay down with his
hands behind his head. Maude leaned against the tree and opened
her bag. She took out her tatting and began busily working the
thread. "Look at the sky," said Harold, chewing thoughtfully.
"It's so big." "And so blue." "Beyond
the blue is the vast blackness of the cosmos." "Yes.
But spreckled with uncountable stars. They're shining right now.
We just can't see them. I suppose that's just another instance
of all that's going on that is beyond human perception."
"Maude," said Harold, after a pause. "Are you
religious?" "What does that mean?" "Do you
believe in God?" "Oh, yes! Everyone does." "Do
they?" "Absolutely. Deep down. It's part of being human."
"Well then, who do you think God is?" "Oh, He
has a lot of names. Brahma, the Tao, Jove. And for the metaphysically
inclined, there's The First Cause, The One Reality, or The Eternal
Root. For me, I like what it says in the Koran--'God is Love'"
Harold grimaced. "It says that in the Bible," he corrected.
"And anyway, it's just a cliche." "Well, a cliche
today is a profundity tomorrow--and vice versa." She held
up her tatting. "Isn't that pretty? i only learned how to
do that last year." "Maude, do you pray?" "Well,
we communicate." "How?" "Lot of ways. Through
living. Through loving. Different levels of consciousness require
different levels of communication. Language isn't the only way
of talking." Harold smiled. "Yes," he said. "There's
always waltzing." "right," said Maude. "One
dances for grace--in the theological sense." "But where
is He? Is He inside or outside us?" "Both, I imagine.
There is a little God inside us to show us where we've been, and
a little God outside us to show us where we're going." "That's
pretty mystical." "You're right, Harold. It's a mystery.
Frankly, I'm not sure if He's Our Father or Our Mother. I only
know," she said, patting the trunk of the tree, "He's
very creative." Harold laughed and stretched out on the
grass. "This is really nice here," he said. "Makes
me feel like a kid." Maude laughed. "Let's have a
race to the top of that hill," he said, leaping up. "All
right," said Maude. "Let me put this away first."
"You know what I'd like to do?" "What?"
"Cartwheels." "Well, why don't you?" "Naw,
I'd feel stupid." "Come on, now, Harold. Everyone has
the right to be an ass. You just can't let the world judge you
too much." "All right," said Harold, and he did
a very spindly cartwheel. He did another and laughed. "Want
to join me in some somersaults?" he asked. "No, thanks,"
said Maude. "I'm going to beat you to the top of the hill."
They raced off, running down the slope, past the cows in the
next pasture, and on up the hill. They reached the top together
and collapsed, laughing and out of breath. "My, my,"
said Maude, lying back on the grass. "I feel I could evaporate."
Harold fell alongside her. "You'd turn into one of those
clouds," he said. "I think you'd be a nice cloud. You
could float around the skies all day." "No, not me,"
said Maude. "I'd be a very bad cloud. I'd always want to
dissolve into rain."
They spent the afternoon at the beach, running
along the sand and tempting the waves to wash over their feet.
Then they walked out by the rocks and cliffs and examined the
smooth stones in the tide pools. Later, Maude demonstrated the
Tai Chi. "Poetic names for poetic movements," she called
it. "To exercise my transportation," said Harold with
a grin. "Partly." Maude smiled. "But it will also
uplift your spirit and bring peace to your mind." And to
the sounds of the sea she taught him, among others, 'The Wild
Horse Ruffles Its Mane,' 'Repulse the Monkey,' 'Jade Ladies at
the Shuttle,' and 'Grasping the Sparrow's Tail.' They sat on
an old log to watch the sun go down. It put on a spectacular display,
throwing varying hues of red, orange, and purple across the banks
of clouds. "Cumulus and alto stratus," said Maude absently.
"Reminds me of Shanghai in the thirties." "Why's
that?" "Oh, we'd fly out of Hung-Jao in a two-seater.
Gliding and looping. Like pearl diving. Or galloping across the
desert to touch the setting sun. Now, there's an experience, Harold.
The desert! We should go. Though I suppose we couldn't do it before
Saturday. What are you doing tomorrow?" "Oh, I have
a luncheon date, with this girl." "Really?" "It
means nothing. My mother set it up." "It might mean
something to her." "To my mother?" "And
to the girl. Be kind, Harold. You see, I've lived a long time,
seen all that I wished, done all that I could, yet it's been my
experience that it's kindness that matters, and kindness is what
the world sorely lacks." The wind blew gently in her hair.
Harold reached over and took her hand. he looked down at the wrinkles
and the splotches of age, and covered it with his. "You're
beautiful," he said. "Oh, Harold," said Maude.
"You'll make me blush. I feel like a schoolgirl." He
smiled and kissed her hand. "Thank you," he said, "for
a wonderful day." "Wasn't it marvelous?" she said.
"And now we're seeing it end." She turned and looked
out at the setting sun. "There it goes," she said wistfully.
"Sinking over the horizon where we're all going to go. The
colors are changing and soon they'll be gone, leaving us with
darkness--and stars." Harold held her hand in his. Glancing
down he saw for the first time the tattoo etched on the inside
of her arm. It was a number--DD-726350. Shocked, he looked up
at her face. She hadn't noticed. She pointed out to sea and cried,
"Harold, look!" A lone seagull flew over the waves.
They both watched it for a moment, soaring freely in the reddening
sky. "Dreyfus once wrote," said Maude softly, "that
on Devil's Island he would see the most glorious birds. Many years
later in Brittany he realized they had only been seagulls."
She looked at Harold and smiled. "To me," she said,
"they will always be glorious birds."
"Harold," said Mrs. Chasen, "I cannot
impress upon you too strongly the importance of this meeting.
She is the last girl. The Computer Dating Company was reluctant
to send anyone in view of what they heard. And can you blame them?
Why, that poor little Edith left here quite shaken. Fortunately,
I was able to demand that the company stand by their original
agreement. But kindly remember, Harold, this is your third and
final chance." The doorbell rang. "There she is now,
and look at you. Comb your hair and straighten your tie. Please,
Harold, try to take this seriously, if not for your sake, at least
for mine." Mrs. Chasen left the room, and Harold went to
the mirror to straighten his tie. He brushed his hair off his
forehead and decided, as he looked at himself, that this time
he would at least try. Mrs. Chasen came back with a tall long-haired
girl in boots, a leather skirt, and a floppy red hat. "Harold,"
she said. "I'd like you to meet Sunshine Dore." Harold
approached them. "How do you do?" he said. "Can't
complain," said Sunshine. She had a wide mouth and large
teeth. "Sunshine is an actress," said Mrs. Chasen.
"I like to think so," said Sunshine, idly swinging
the strands of bead that hung around her neck. "I work at
it." "Now, why don't I leave you two alone for a moment,"
said Mrs. Chasen. "Harold, you could talk in the den, and
I'll bring in some drinks. Is lemonade all right?" "Groovy,"
said Sunshine. "Good," said Mrs. Chasen, and left for
the kitchen. She turned at the door to prompt her son. "Harold,
perhaps Starlight would like a cigarette." "That's
Sunshine," said Sunshine. "Yes, of course," said
Mrs. Chasen, and left. "Would you like a cigarette?"
asked Harold as he led her into the den. "No, thank you.
They stain my fingers." He gestured at the couch. She sat
down, and he sat beside her. "Is Sunshine your real name?"
asked Harold, after a pause. "Well, actually, it was the
name of my drama teacher--Louis Sunshine. perhaps you've heard
of him?" Harold shook his head. "He's mainly a theater
personality. Well, he was such an influence on the development
of my instrument--that means my body in theater talk--that when
I went to Hollywood and felt the need to express the emerging
me in a new form, I took on 'Sunshine.' As a tribute. Dore` is
my real name. Well, Dore, actually." She looked around the
den. "Gee, what a lovely place you have here." She stood
up and walked about. "I mean, it's really well decorated.
Nice furnishings. They remind me of the auction at MGM."
Harold swallowed. "Do you play?" she asked, running
her hand along the piano. "No," said Harold. "I'm
learning the banjo. Do you?" "Oh, I studied the guitar.
I had a folk-singing class. But I had to give it up. Gave me calluses
on my fingers. As an actress, I can't afford to have a tarnished
instrument." "No," said Harold. "I suppose
not." This wasn't easy, he decided. He tried again. "Do
you do a lot of acting?" "Oh, sure. I practice every
day. That's the Sunshine Method: Keep your instrument finely tuned.
Is this your father?" she asked, picking up a photograph
of General Ball. "No. My uncle." "He's in the
Army! I do so like the military, don't you? Those uniforms make
men look so virile." Harold grimaced. "I did 'What
Price Glory?' in summer stock," she said, putting down the
photograph. "A great production. I played Charmaine--with
a French accent." She went over to the mantelpiece. Harold
sat on the couch, patting his thighs. "Gee, what a lovely
collection of knives. Hunting knives, soldier's knives, antiques.
We had a display like this when we did Ibsen's 'The Seagull.'
May I see them? Harold took a deep breath. "That's it,"
he said. "That's what?" asked Sunshine. Harold came
over to her. "That's a really good collection of knives,"
he said. "Allow me." He took one down. "Now, this
knife is very interesting. It's a hara-kiri blade." "Ohhhh,"
cooed Sunshine. "What's hara-kiri?" "An ancient
Japanese ceremony." "Like a tea ceremony?" "No.
Like this." With an Oriental scream, he plunged the knife
in his belly and dropped to his knees. Bleeding profusely, he
continued the upper cut, the side cut, and the gouging, then tumbled
forward with a terminal shudder. Sunshine dropped to her knees,
wide-eyed. "Oh, Harold," she cried. "That was marvelous!
It had the ring of truth. Harold. Please. Who did you study with?"
She drew back. "I'm sorry, Harold," she whispered,
self-reproachfully. "I don't want to break into your private
moment. I know how exhausting true emotion can be. I played Juliet
at the Sunshine Playhouse. Louie thought it was my best performance."
Harold heard her throw off her hat and rearrange her hair. In
seconds she had transformed herself into Juliet, and, as her unbelieving
Romeo listened, she acted out her final scene in that tragic drama.
"What's here?" she cried. "A cup!" Closed
in my true love's hand? Poison, I see, hath been his timeless
end. Oh, churl!" She whacked him. "Drunk all, and left
no friendly drop to help me after? I will kiss thy lips."
Harold opened his eyes, terrified. "Happily, some poison
yet doth hang on them, to make me die with a restorative."
She kissed Harold, who immediately got up. "Thy lips are
warm," whispered Sunshine to the gallery. Harold backed
away, knocking over the telephone table. "Yea, noise!"
shouted Sunshine. "Then I'll be brief." She picked up
the knife. "Oh, happy dagger!" she cried. She took
a moment out to test it, pushing the blade into the handle and
seeing how it squirted out blood. Satisfied, she continued. "Oh,
happy dagger!" she cried. "This is thy sheath."
She pounded her chest. Then, with a mighty thrust and an accompanying
gulp, she stabbed herself between the beads and breasts. She
paused to catch her breath. "There," she whispered,
clutching the knife to her bosom and staggering to the couch.
"There rest..." She collapsed across the couch, languidly
draping her hair over the end. "And...let...me...DIE!"
With a last toss of the head, she expired, the bloody dagger clenched
in her bloody fist and stuck in her bloody chest. Harold had
never seen anything like it. He wandered around the couch, bewildered.
Mrs. Chasen entered with a tray of drinks, took one glance at
the couch, and dropped them all. She looked at her son and flung
out an accusing arm. "Harold!" she cried, exasperated.
"That was your last date!"
General Ball's adjutant unlocked the file cabinet
marked 'Top Secret' and took out the draft file of Harold Chasen.
He locked the cabinet and brought the file into the General's
office. The General stood before a mirror with his coat off,
adjusting his mechanical arm. "Here's the file, sir,"
said the adjutant, putting it down on the desk. "Oh, good
work, Rodgers. Come over here for a second, will you? I think
I have a screw loose, or something."
Mrs. Chasen asked Harold to meet her in the den
before dinner. Standing regally in front of him, she delivered
her verdict. "Harold, I spoke with Dr. Harley today, and
it seems you have missed your last two appointments. That information,
coupled with your recent behavior, particularly your performance
here this afternoon, has left me with no recourse but to listen
to the solution proposed by your uncle. Consequently, I have instructed
him to take the necessary measures for you to be inducted into
the service and, as soon as possible, to take up active duty with
the United States Army." Harold stood up, thunderstruck.
"This was a difficult decision for me to make," she
added. "But it is for your own good. I only hope that they
have more luck with you than I."
The next day Harold found Maude helping Madame
Arouet in her garden. Madame Arouet was putting up bean poles
and stringing between them bits of cloth and tin. Maude was over
in a corner, clearing the weeds for a new vegetable patch. "Maude,"
said Harold, "I must speak to you." "What is it,
Harold?" she asked. "They're going to draft me. In
the Army. I'm going to be sent to war for the government."
"They can't do that," said Maude completely unperturbed.
"You haven't voted." "But they have," said
Harold. "Oh, well," she said, "don't go. Perhaps
today war is part of the human condition. But it shouldn't be
encouraged. Bring over that wheelbarrow, would you please, Harold?"
Harold swallowed. He went and got the wheelbarrow. "If I
don't go," he said, "they'll put me in jail."
"Really?" said Maude, forking the weeds into the wheelbarrow.
"Well, historically, you'd be in very good company."
She laughed and paused to wipe her brow. "Would you like
to do a little hoeing, Harold?" she asked. "Work, I'm
told, done with no selfish interest, purifies the mind. Apparently,
you sink your separate self and become one with the universal
self. On the other hand, senseless labor is an insult and a bore
and should be scrupulously avoided." "Maude. Please!"
said Harold. "Do you think you could help me?" Maude
leaned over her pitchfork. "Harold," she said, smiling,
"with your skill and my experience--well, I think we can
come up with something."
Harold sat next to his uncle in the back seat of
the general's limousine. As they drove through the city, he listened
attentively as his uncle spoke of the glories of an Army career.
"Harold," said Uncle Victor, "I want you to look
on me as a father in this matter. We'll spend the day just getting
to know each other. Now, I know that you have no great desire
to join the Army. Hell, I felt the same way myself, when I started
out. But my father set me straight, and look at me now--a general!
With a chauffeur. Respect. Money in the bank." He patted
his empty sleeve as he took out a cigar. "Oh, it has its
drawbacks. Like anything else, I suppose. But the Army takes care
you. Believe me. Once you get to know it, you'll love it. By the
way, where do you think we should go?" "I was thinking
maybe up to McKinley Park," said Harold. "We could walk
around there and talk." "You mean by the McKinley Dam?
Good idea. That's a lovely spot. Hear that, sergeant? McKinley
Park." The general lit his cigar. "Yes, indeed, Harold.
You join up, and you've got a buddy for life." They arrived
at McKinley Park, and left the car and chauffeur. As they walked
along the path, General Ball looked over at the mothers with their
small children, and the senior citizens basking in the sun. "This
is what we're defending, Harold," he said. "look around
you -- everything that's good and beautiful in the American way
of life. People enjoying their freedom." "Yes, Uncle."
"Call me 'sir,' Harold. First thing you learn in the Army--an
officer deserves your respect." "Yes, sir." "Good
boy. Ah, look at that old gazebo. I remember in the old days they'd
have a military band there on Sundays, playing marches and other
patriotic songs. Wait a minute. Is that some peace nut over there?
My god, it is. Let's go off this way, Harold. Those crazy Commie
bastards. I don't know why we tolerate 'em". Harold looked
over at the peace petitioner. "Parasites," said Uncle
Victor "Yes, sir," said Harold, and followed him along
the path. They walked toward the reservoir. The general talked
expansively, and Harold seemed to become more and more interested
and involved. "Well, let's examine the facts on it,"
said Uncle Victor. "I say this country has been too harsh
in its outright condemnation of war. I say you can point to many
material advantages brought about by a crisis-and-conflict policy.
Hell, World War Two gave us the ballpoint pen. That's common knowledge."
"During wartime the national suicide rate goes down,"
offered Harold. "Is that a fact? Well, that fits in right
along with everything I've been saying. War is not all black."
"Yes, sir," said Harold. "It makes you think."
"Damn right it does. War is part of our heritage. And it's
a crying shame the way it has been handled in the last few decades.
I mean, let's look at it out in the open. Let's stop this pussyfootin'
around. Can you tell me why the hell we've given up on the Germans?
Can you? Those damn politicians in Washington have chalked them
up on our side, and the wars ever since have been a national disgrace.
Hell, look at history. The two best wars this country has fought
were against the Jerries. Now I say, get the Krauts back on the
other side of the fence where they belong, and let's return to
the kind of enemy worth killing and the kind of war this whole
country can support." "Wow, sir," said Harold.
"That's pretty strong stuff." "Well, Harold,"
said Uncle Victor, breathing deeply and absently patting his empty
sleeve, "I've always been a man who speaks his mind. It's
hurt me. I'm not liked in Washington. I know that. But--and you
ought to remember this -- I do have friends in high places."
They walked along the reservoir and sat on a small hill beneath
a tree. No one was about, and the general began telling Harold
some of his wartime experiences. "They came at me from all
sides. Hundreds of 'em. We kept firing. Zat-tat-tat-tat! "Throw
the grenades!' 'He's dead,' Joe said, and kept right on feeding
me the bullets. Zat-tat-tat-tat! They kept falling, but they kept
coming. Bullets whizzing all around me. Zot! Joe falls back with
a neat red hole in his head. I thought I was done for. But I kept
firing. Zat-tat-tat-tat! Only one thought kept me going. Kill!
Kill! For Joe and Mac and the rest of the guys. Kill!--a blinding
flash. I wake up on a stretcher. 'Did we hold?' I asked the medic.
'Yes, sir,' he said, and I slipped into unconsciousness."
"Gee! That's a great story, sir." "Well, you'll
soon have stories like that to tell of your own." "You
think so, sir?" Sure. You'll be able to tell your children.
Something for them to look up to. Be proud of." "I
hope so, sir. Golly, I never knew it could be so exciting."
"It's the greatest excitement in the world." Harold
sat up and mulled it over. "To pit your own life against
another," he said pensively. "That's right."
"To kill." "Yes, indeed." "The taste
of blood in your mouth." "The moment of truth."
Harold took hold of an imaginary rifle and aimed it at an imaginary
enemy. "Another man's life in your sights." "Yes."
He pulled the trigger. "Zap!" Uncle Victor laughed.
"Will they really teach me to shoot?" Harold demanded.
"Oh, sure," said Uncle Victor. "A variety of weapons."
"And to use the bayonet? AHHHHHH!" "Oh, sure."
"How about hand-to-hand combat?" "You'll have
plenty of that." Harold grappled with an imaginary victim
and began to kill him. "To strangle someone. Choke him. Slowly.
Squeeze out his life between your hands. Uncle Victor looked
at Harold and became slightly perturbed. "Eh?" he said.
"How about to slit his throat?" "Well, I don't..."
"I'd like that. You could see the blood squirt out."
"Harold. I think you're getting carried away here."
"Sir, how about souvenirs?" "Souvenirs?"
Harold sprang to his knees. "Of your kill. You know--ears,
nose, scalp. Privates." "Harold!" "What's
the chances of getting one of these?" he asked, and pulled
out a shrunken head. "Wow! To think maybe I could make my
own." "Harold!" cried Uncle Victor. "That's
disgusting!" "It certainly is!" said Maude. Harold
and the general stopped talking and looked up. Maude stood over
them, her goose-head umbrella in one hand and a large peace sign
in the other. "Who are you?" asked Uncle Victor, standing
up. "I am petitioning for peace, and I came over here --"
"Parasite!" shouted Harold, jumping up and thrusting
his fist in Maude's face. "Parasite!" "Harold,
control yourself," said Uncle Victor. "Commie bastard!"
cried Harold. "Get out of here!" "Don't you talk
to me like that, you little foul-mouth degenerate," said
Maude. "Really, General, I thought you at least--"
"Traitor!" shouted Harold. "Benedict Arnold! Remember
Nathan Hale, right, sir?" "Don't you advance on me!"
Maude shouted. "We'll nail every last one of you! You're
all going to end up like this!" And he held up the shrunken
head. "Filth! Filth!" cried Maude. "Lady, please,"
said Uncle Victor. "Harold--" "Just like this,"
said Harold, shaking the shrunken head in Maude's face. "Give
me that!" she cried, and grabbed it out of his hand. "I'm
going to throw this in the sewer where it belongs." She turned
and ran off toward the reservoir. "She took my head,"
said Harold, dumbfounded. "Stay where you are," ordered
the general. "She took my head!" screamed Harold. He
picked up Maude's fallen peace sign and ran after her. "I'll
kill her!" he screamed. "Harold, come back! Harold,
that's an order." The general followed him in hot pursuit.
Maude ran past the sign saying "Danger--No trespassing!"
and under the fence that led to the dam. Harold followed her,
wielding the peace sign like a club. The general, totally unnerved,
ran after them. Scampering out along the edge of the dam, Maude
stopped in the middle and held the shrunken head out over the
rushing water below. "Don't you dare!" cried Harold,
catching up with her and grabbing her arm. Maude clobbered him
with her umbrella, and when the general arrived she clobbered
him too. "Lady, please," cried Uncle Victor, trying
to restrain Harold with his one arm. "Give him back the head."
"I'll kill her," shouted Harold. "I'll kill her!"
"Keep away from me, you twisted little pervert!" screamed
Maude. The general wrenched the peace sign from Harold and threw
it over the dam. They paused for a moment to see it disappear
in the treacherous water below. Maude stood on the general's right,
holding the shrunken head. With a quick move, Harold pulled the
general's lanyard which activated his mechanical salute. The sleeve
sprung out and clipped Maude under the chin, knocking her over
the dam and into the churning waters. The general, horrified,
watched her go under. He waited anxiously, but she did not come
up. Still with his sleeve held at salute, he looked up. he couldn't
believe what he'd seen. he turned to Harold for some reason for
this calamity--some motive, some explanation. "I lost my
head," said Harold sadly, and watched the water flow rapidly
downstream.
Back at headquarters General Ball sat at his desk.
"You can get rid of the Chasen file," he said to his
adjutant. "My nephew is not going in the Army." "Shall
I put it back in Top Secret, sir?" "No need to, Rodgers.
Send it back through regular channels and have it certified medically
unfit for active duty." "Anything specific, sir?"
"Use your own judgment, lieutenant. But, confidentially--the
boy is an idiot. A homicidal maniac. He belongs in a mental institution."
"Yes, sir. Here's the latest body count, sir." "I
shudder to think, Rodgers, what would happen to the Army if we
allow it to become a refuge for killers."
Two skeletons, hung on two doors, jingled their
bones and laughed uproariously. The doors burst open and Harold
and Maude went scuttling by in a a small cart that drew up by
a sign marked "Exit." An attendant helped them out of
the cart, and they walked down the steps to the promenade. "Well,
so much for the Haunted House," said Harold. "It wasn't
very scary." "No," said Maude. "It had nothing
on this afternoon." "Oh, you weren't scared."
"Scared? Swimming underwater with that oxygen device of
yours? I was petrified." "Go on, you loved it."
"Well, of course, it was a new experience." They both
laughed. Harold brought tickets for the Ferris wheel, and they
were helped to their seat and locked in. "Off we go!"
said Maude, as they sailed above the carnival lights and up into
the night sky. "Isn't this fun? I used to ride the Prater
wheel all the time." "Too bad you lost your umbrella
in the reservoir," said Harold. "Oh, well," said
Maude. "It served its purpose. That's all you can ask of
anything--or anybody." "Your plan certainly served
its purpose. If you could have seen my uncle's face." Harold
laughed. "The Army won't want me now." Maude laughed
too. "Well, the Army was all right in its day," she
said. "Like the Church. Together they protected us from the
bad guys on the one hand and the devil on the other. But--as everything
will--the foe has changed. We have met the enemy and he is us.
So we'll just have to sit down now and reason out some better
solutions than defenses with weapons and dogmas." "Do
you think we'll succeed?" "Oh, certainly. Keep the
faith! The way I see it we're now in the cocoon. The day of the
caterpillar is over. The time of the butterfly is at hand."
"Oh, we've stopped," said Harold. "And right
at the top. What fun!" "Look at the people down on
the pier. They seem so small. Maude! Wait! What are you doing?"
"Just rocking the boat," cried Maude, wildly swinging
the seat. Harold was very relieved when they stepped off the
Ferris wheel and went into the penny arcade. They played the
pinball machines and tested their grips. But it was the hand-operated
soccer game that gave them the most fun. Maude right away got
into the football spirit. She cheered her team on enthusiastically
and manipulated her men to kick goal after goal. Fifteen minutes
later a crowd had gathered around her. A short Italian man played
with her against a couple wearing matching Hawaiian shirts. The
crowd cheered on every day and slapped each other on the back
whenever a goal was scored. Harold stole away and put a penny
in a machine that stamped out letters on a metal disk. As he marked
the letters and pulled the lever, he listened to the cheering
and smiled. "You sure have a way with people," he said
as they left the amusement park and walked along the pier. "Well,"
said Maude, "they're my species." Harold brought two
candy apples, and they sat out on the end of the pier to eat them.
"Look!" said Harold, pointing. "A shooting star!"
"I saw it," said Maude. "My, my. There's always
an oddball, even in the firmament." Harold looked up at
the stars. "They're beautiful, aren't they?" "Yes.
They're old friends. I used to watch them in Bavaria. They can
be very ... comforting." "How do you mean?" "Well,
for example, I used to look up and think that light traveling
from a distant star would take over a million years to reach us.
In a million years Nature evolved the wing of a bird. So, maybe
by the time that light reaches us, mankind will have learned to
deal with evil. Maybe he will have phased it out altogether, and
we'll all be flying around... like angels." Harold smiled.
"You should have been a poet." "Oh, no!"
cried Maude. "But I should have liked to be an astronaut.
A private astronaut, able to just go out and explore the unknown.
Like the men who sailed with Magellan. I want to see if we really
can fall off the edge of the world." She laughed. "What
a joke it will be," she said, making a large circle with
her candy apple, "if, like them, I end up where I began."
"Maude," said Harold. "Yes." "I have
a present for you." And he handed her the metal disk. "Oh,
Harold!" How nice." She read the inscription out loud.
"'Harold loves Maude.'" Harold, somewhat embarrassed,
turned, and looked out to the sea. Maude touched his arm, and
he turned around. And Maude loves Harold," she said softly.
He smiled, and Maude gave a happy laugh. "Oh, my!"
she said. "This is the nicest present I've received in years."
She kissed it and tossed it into the ocean. Harold watched it
go in disbelief. "But..." he said. "Now,"
explained Maude, "I'll always know where it is." Harold
swallowed. "Okay," he said, and smiled. "Come
on," said Maude. "Let's try the roller coaster."
And hand in hand they walked back along the pier to the dazzle
of the carnival on the boardwalk.
Back at her place, Harold lit a fire while Maude
prepared her chrysanthemum cordial in the kitchen (a pound of
chrysanthemums, water, sugar, lemon peel, nutmeg, and a pint of
quality brandy). "It's delicious," said Harold. "Oh,
I love cooking with flowers," said Maude. "It's so Shakespearean."
She turned on the radio in the bookcase. "I think there's
a Chopin concert on FM tonight. Yes. There we are." The
delicate sounds of a nocturne flowed out into the room. "Do
you like Chopin, Harold?" "Very much." Maude
sat on the piano stool and sipped her cordial. "So do I,"
she said. "So do I." Harold walked over to her and
leaned on the piano. He looked at the empty frames. "Why
are there no photographs in these frames?" he asked. "I
took them out." "Why did you do that?" "They
mocked me. They were representations of people I dearly loved,
yet they knew these people were gradually fading from me and that,
in time, all I would have left would be vague feelings--but sharp
photographs. So I tossed them out. my memory fades, I know. But
I prefer pictures made by me, with feeling, and not by Kodak with
silver nitrate." Harold smiled. "I'll never forget
you, Maude," he said. "But I would like a photograph
of you." Maude laughed. "Well, let me see." She
put down her glass and went into the bedroom. By the closet with
the musical instruments stood an old sea chest. "Bring the
candelabra," said Maude, kneeling down, "and we'll get
some light on this. How's the banjo coming?" "Just
fine," said Harold, taking the branched candlestick from
the bedside and bringing it over to Maude. "I'm going to
surprise you tomorrow night." "My, my." She chuckled,
opening the chest. "It's going to be quite a birthday celebration.
I'm certainly looking forward to it." She shuffled through
old papers, bundles of letters, and well-worn manila envelopes.
"It's in here somewhere," she said. "These candles
smell nice," said Harold, standing over her. "What is
that incense? Sandalwood?" "Yak musk," said Maude.
"But I don't think they call it that commercially. It's 'Fragrance
of the Himalayas,' or something. 'The Dalai Lama's Delight.' I
suppose that's nicer." "It's more romantic."
"Pay dirt!" cried Maude, holding up a large envelope
and closing the trunk. "I think it's in here." She
got up and sat on the canopied bed. Harold put down the candelabra
and sat beside her. She opened the envelope. "Yes. Here it
is," she said. "My American visa." She peeled
the photograph off the document and handed it to Harold. "On
short notice, this is the best I can do." "Thank you."
He held it up. "Very pretty. It looks just like you."
Maude smiled. "Harold, that picture is almost twenty-five
years old." "You haven't changed a bit. I'll keep it
in my wallet." He opened his wallet and out fell a picture
of a sunflower, clipped from a dealer's catalogue. He quickly
retrieved it and turned away from Maude. "You're not suppose
to see that," he said, putting it back in his wallet. "It's
another part of tomorrow night's surprise." He closed his
wallet and turned back to Maude. "Maude," he said.
"You're crying." Maude held the visa in her hand. "I
was remembering how much this meant to me," she said slowly.
"It was after the war--I had nothing--except my life. How
different I was then. And yet how much the same." Harold
was perplexed. "But... you've never cried before. I never
thought you would. I thought you could always be happy."
"Oh, Harold." She sighed, stroking his hair. "You
are so young. What have they taught you?" She brushed away
the tears that fell down her cheeks. "Yes. I cry. I cry for
you. I cry for this. I cry at beauty--a sunset or a seagull. I
cry when a man tortures his brother... when he repents and begs
for forgiveness... when forgiveness is refused... and when it
is granted. One laughs. one cries. Two uniquely human traits.
And the main thing in life, my dear Harold, is not to be afraid
to be human." Harold blinked away the tears in his eyes.
He had a lump in his throat. He swallowed. Reaching out, he took
her hand in his. Then, gently touching her cheeks, he brushed
away her tears. She smiled slightly, and he leaned forward and
kissed her on the lips. Parting, they looked at each other in
the candlelight. They heard the Chopin playing softly in the next
room. Leaning forward, Harold took her face in his hands and kissed
her again. Her arms embraced him tenderly. As effortlessly as
two raindrops merge, they fell back together on the canopied bed.
Harold awoke the next morning to the crowing of
a rooster -- "Cock-a-doodle-doo!" He rubbed his eyes
and yawned. He heard it again. Taking care not to wake Maude,
he sat up in bed and looked out the window. Madame Arouet was
feeding her chickens, and her rooster, perched on a fence post,
was greeting the new day. As Harold watched, the line of a song
ran through his head: "A rooster crows to bravissimos,
But the cuck-cuck-cuckoo..." He smiled and scratched his
chest. He felt great. He stretched. He thought he'd like a cigarette.
He looked back down at Maude. The morning sun shone on her white
hair and threw a soft golden glow about her face. She slept like
a child, he thought, serene and secure. He had never seen anything
more beautiful. He snuggled down beside her and pulled up the
covers. He laid his head in front hers and waited for her to wake
up. She opened her eyes. They were as clear and sparkling as
a mountain stream. She smiled. "Good morning," she
said. "Happy birthday," he said, and kissed her on
the nose.
Mrs. Chasen sat in her bedroom, eating her breakfast
and talking on the phone. "And so I thought, Father, that
you, being a man of the cloth, might be able to speak to him.
Frankly I'm at my wits' end." Harold, knocking on the door,
came into the room. "Mother." Mrs. Chasen waved him
off. "No, Father. He will not be going into the Army just
at the present. Apparently his uncle thinks it is unwise at this
time." "Mother." Mrs. Chasen covered the mouthpiece.
"Not now, Harold, I'm talking to Father Finnegan."
Harold folded his arms. "Mother," he said, "I'm
going to get married." "Father, I'll call you back,"
said Mrs. Chasen, and hung up. "What did you say?"
she asked. "I'm getting married." Mrs. Chasen looked
at him carefully. "To whom?" she inquired. "To
a girl," said harold, taking out his wallet. He flipped it
open and handed it to his mother. Mrs. Chasen took one look at
the photograph and closed her eyes. "I suppose you think
this is very funny," she said. "What?" Mrs. Chasen
handed him back the wallet. "A picture of a sunflower."
"Oh, sorry," said Harold, and flipped over to the photograph
of Maude. "Here she is," he said, and handed it back
to his mother. This time Mrs. Chasen examined it closely. She
looked up at him and then examined it again. "You can't
be serious?" she said faintly. Harold smiled.
"He's serious," she said to Dr. Harley,
as she lay on his couch, looking up at the ceiling. "He's
actually serious." "I'll have a talk with him,"
said the doctor. "Maybe I can do something." "Oh,
I hope so. I sincerely hope so. I'm sending him to you, his uncle,
and to Father Finnegan. Surely someone can talk sense into him."
Uncle Victor certainly gave it a try. "Harold,"
he said to his nephew, seated in his office before him, "your
mother has told me about your marriage idea, and though, normally,
I have nothing against marriage, I don't think this one is quite
normal. Helen says your fiancee is eighty years old. Now, even
to an untrained mind, this is not the customary relationship.
In fact, dammit, it's highly irregular. Now, I don't want to remind
you of the unpleasant incident that happened yesterday. I think
it is best if we consider that forgotten. Nevertheless, knowing
your particular bent, I think that it would be wisest for you
not to leave the house or indulge in any kind of activity that
would be newsworthy. This marriage would attract attention, and
in my opinion, Harold, you don't need a wife. You need a nurse."
The meeting with Dr. Harley was much cooler. "There's no
doubt, Harold," said the doctor, leaning back in his chair,
"that this impending marriage adds another chapter to an
already fascinating case. But let us examine it, and I think you'll
realize there is a simple Freudian explanation for your romantic
attachment to this older woman. It is known as the Oedipus complex,
a very common syndrome, particularly in this society, whereby
the male child subconsciously wishes to sleep with his mother.
Of course, what puzzles me, Harold, is that you want to sleep
with your grandmother." The session with Father Finnegan
never seemed to get off the ground. The little priest seemed overcome
by the enormity of the problem. "Now, Harold," he said,
patiently. "The Church has nothing against the union of the
old and the young. Each age has its own beauty. But a marital
union is concerned with the conjugal rights. And the procreation
of children. I would be remiss in my duties if I did not tell
you that the idea of..." He swallowed. "...intercourse--the
fact of your young, firm..." Lowering his eyes, "...body..."
He stroked his forehead. "...co-mingling with the withered
flesh, sagging breasts and flabby buttocks of the mature female
person--..." He rubbed his hand despairingly across his
mouth. "...frankly and candidly makes me want to vomit."
"But," said Harold to all three of them
when they had concluded their statements, "you didn't ask
me if I loved her." And neither General Ball, nor Dr. Harley,
nor Father Finnegan could find an answer for that.
"Love!" cried Mrs. Chasen, throwing up
her arms. "What do you mean 'love'? Really, Harold, how can
you talk of love when you know nothing at all about it?"
"I know what I feel." "You think that's love?
That's not love. That's some geriatric obsession! How can you
do this to me? I don't understand it. I simply don't understand
it." Mrs. Chasen went to the bar and poured herself a drink.
In all the years he had known her, Harold had never seen her so
distraught. It struck him as ironic, because all that didn't matter
any more. "Harold," she said, sitting down beside him.
"Listen to me. Why do you want to throw your life away?"
"I'm just going to ask her to marry me." "But
what do you know about her? Where does she come from? Where did
you meet her?" "At a funeral." "Oh, that's
wonderful." Mrs. Chasen took a drink. "I not only get
an eighty-year-old daughter-in-law. I get a pallbearer as well!
Harold. Please. Be reasonable. Think what you're doing. What will
people say?" "I don't care what people say."
Mrs. Chasen stood up. "You don't care! 'Senior Citizen Weds
Teenage Arsonist in Funeral Chapel!'--And you don't care!"
She walked to the bar. Harold had had enough. He got up to go.
"All I want is for you to marry a nice girl, have a nice
wedding--what are you doing?" "I'm leaving," said
Harold. "You're walking out?" "Yes," he
said. "But, where are you going?" He turned in the
doorway. "I'm going to marry the woman I love." Mrs.
Chasen stopped. "Harold," she said very quietly. "This
is insane." Harold smiled. "Perhaps it is," he
said, and closed the door.
That evening Harold opened the door of Maude's
cottage and led her in blindfolded. "Hold on to my hand,"
he said, guiding her to the center of the room. "Oh, I love
surprises," she confessed gleefully. "They make me feel
so -- chiffon!" "Okay," said Harold. "Stay
there."He took off her mask. "Da-dum!" Maude blinked
and looked around. "Oh, Harold!" she said, joyfully
clapping her hands. "They're beautiful!" A hundred
sunflowers filled the room--on the tables, the chairs, the mantelpiece--and
over the fireplace was a banner saying "Happy Birthday Maude."
Maude walked around the room, dazzled and delighted. She laughed.
"They're so gorgeous. Where did you get them all? You must
have planned this for days." "I have," said Harold,
and turned on the Victrola. A Strauss waltz floated out across
the room. "May I have this dance, sweet lady?" said
Harold making a courtly bow before her. Maude curtsied. "With
all my heart, kind sir," she replied. He took her in his
arms, and they waltzed merrily till the record ended. "And
now," said Harold, drawing back the Japanese screens. "Supper
for two." "My, my!" cried Maude, totally enraptured.
"Silver place settings! Where ever did you get them? And
look at that." Harold picked up the small silver vase with
a single daisy in it and presented it to her. "From me to
you," he said. "An individual. Remember." Maude
took the daisy and held it gently in her hand. "Thank you,"
she said. "I do." "And now," said Harold,dramatically
flinging off the cover over the ice bucket. "Champagne!"
cried Maude, delightedly. "Oh, you've thought of everything."
Harold picked up the bottle, and began to remove the cork. "It's
all right," he said, imitating her accent. "It's organic."
Maude laughed. "Oh, wait," she said, and rushed into
the bedroom. "I have a surprise for you, too. She came back
with a box. "Aren't birthdays fun?" she said. "To
me they always meant a new beginning, another year of adventure!"
"Watch out," cried Harold. The cork flew from the bottle
and the champagne fizzed over the brim. He poured it quickly in
her glass and filled up his own. "You can open this after
dinner," said Maude, putting her present on the mantelpiece.
"After the concert," said Harold, handing her a glass
of champagne. "All right," she said. "you make
the toast." Harold held up his glass. "To us,"he
said. "To us." They sipped their champagne and smiled.
"Finally," said Harold, "I have one more surprise."
He took from his picket a tiny ring box, wrapped with a little
red ribbon. "You can open it after my solo," he said,
putting it beside Maude's gift on the mantelpiece. "I hope,"
he added, looking at her tenderly, "it will make you very
happy." "Oh, I am happy," said Maude. "Ecstatically
happy. I couldn't imagine a lovelier farewell." "Farewell?"
"Why, yes. It's my eightieth birthday." "But
you're not going anywhere, are you?" "Oh, yes, dear.
I took the pills an hour ago. I should be gone my midnight."
"But..." Harold stared at her. Maude smiled and sipped
her champagne. He realized suddenly what she had done. He bolted
to the phone.
The ambulance raced through the city streets, its
red lights flashing and its siren wailing like a banshee in the
night. Inside, Maude lay on the stretcher, covered with a blanket
and happily holding the daisy in her hand. Her only concern was
Harold, who knelt beside her, crying piteously. "Come on,
Harold," she said, "give us a smile. What a lot of fuss
this is. So unnecessary." "Maude. Please. Don't die.
I couldn't bear it. Please, don't die." "But, Harold,
we begin to die as soon as we are born. What is so strange about
death? It's no surprise. It's part of life. It's change."
"But why now?" "I made up my mind long ago that
I'd pick the date. I thought eighty was a good round number."
She giggled, suddenly. "I feel giddy," she said. "But,
Maude, you don't understand. I love you. Do you hear me? I've
never said that to anyone in my life before. You're the first.
Maude. Please. Don't leave me." "Oh, Harold, don't
upset yourself so." "It's true. I can't live without
you." Maude patted his hand. "'And this too shall pass
away.'" "Never! Never! I'll never forget you. I wanted
to marry you. I was going to ask you tonight. Don't you understand?
I love you. I love you." "Oh, that's wonderful, Harold.
Go - and love some more." The ambulance drove up to the
Emergency entrance of the hospital, and the attendants ran around
and opened the back. "So unnecessary," giggled Maude,
as they slid her onto a gurney and wheeled her inside. Harold
walked beside her. "Hold on," he said. "Just hold
on!" "Hold on? Hold on?" Maude giggled again.
"Oh, Harold. How absurd!" The attendants wheeled her
to the receiving desk and left to fill out their forms. An officious
redheaded nurse stood behind the counter, explaining to a student
nurse the hospital's admitting procedures. Harold anxiously banged
on the counter and a young intern with horn-rimmed glasses looked
up from his book. "Please," said Harold. "There's
been an accident, an overdose of pills. We've got to see a doctor.
It's an emergency." "Very good," said the head
nurse. "Now, Julie, you go ahead and get all the particulars."
The student nurse took out her clipboard and picked up a pencil.
"Ah, what's your name?" she asked pleasantly in a slow
Southern drawl. "It's not me," said Harold. "It's
her." Maude stopped her humming and smiled. She waved "hello"
with her daisy. "It's better to begin," said the head
nurse, "by asking the last name first, then first name, then
middle initial, if any. It saves time." "Oh, right,"
said the student nurse. She smiled at Maude. "What is your
last name?" "Chardin. The Countess Mathilda. But you
may call me Maude." "Oh, thank you." "Please!"
cried Harold. "She has got to see a doctor right away."
"Young man," said the head nurse, "perhaps you
ought to wait in the waiting room." The student nurse had
written down Maude's name. "How old are you?" she asked.
"Eighty. It's my birthday." "Oh! Many happy returns."
"No. I don't think so." "You don't understand,"
cried Harold. "She's taken an overdose of pills two hours
ago. She hasn't got much time." The intern came from behind
the counter with his clipboard and asked Maude for her signature.
"It's just a formality," he explained. "Be delighted
to," said Maude, signing it with a flourish. "I like
your hair so much," she added. "Really," said
the intern. "I'm letting it grow long. Now, this form is
just in case of a damage claim. You know, so the hospital won't
be responsible for... whatever." "I think, Julie,"
said the head nurse, "it's better to use a ballpoint pen.
They're more efficient." "Oh, right." "Purely
a legal safeguard," continued the intern, checking over the
signature. "Nothing personal, you understand." "Don't
you realize?" cried Harold. "She's dying." "Well,
not dying, actually," Maude explained. "I'm changing.
You know, like from winter to spring. Of course, it is a big step
to take." "Perhaps, then, Julie, you'd better skip
the preliminaries and get to the important section." "Oh,
right," said the student nurse, and conscientiously turned
over the page. "What is your Social Security number?"
"No," said the head nurse. "Ask about the insurance.
The hospital insurance." "Oh, right. Do you have any
insurance? Blue Cross? Blue Shield?" "Insurance against
what?" "No insurance," said the student nurse.
She turned sadly to her superior. "Well, write it down."
"This is madness!" shouted Harold. "I'm sorry,"
said the head nurse, giving Harold an icy stare, "but the
psychiatrist won't be in till morning." "What's the
trouble here?" asked a doctor, coming through the swinging
doors. "An overdose of drugs, doctor," said the head
nurse. Harold went up to the doctor while the student nurse leaned
over and asked Maude solicitiously, "Do you have a welfare
plan at your place of employment?" "I'm retired,"
said Maude. "Doctor, please," said Harold. "She's
swallowed these pills. You've got to do something." "All
right, take her in there." The intern began wheeling her
away. "It was nothing personal," he said. "Who's
the next of kin?" cried the student nurse, her ballpoint
pen ready. "Humanity," Maude shouted back cheerily
as she went through the swinging doors. "Farewell, Harold,"
she cried, waving the daisy. "I'm off for the new experience."
The doors swung shut behind her. Harold stood and watched till
the doors had stopped swinging completely.
It was eleven o'clock on the waiting room clock.
Harold noticed the sweep second hand was broken. He sat in the
corner. A black woman sat across from him, staring stoically at
the darkness out the window. Her little boy slept beside her on
the couch. At eleven thirty her elder son came out through the
swinging doors, his head and arm in bandages. She said nothing
to him. She woke up the little boy and took him by the hand. All
three left without saying a word. Harold sat in the room alone.
He glanced at the torn magazines on the table. He rubbed his face.
He leaned forward in his chair and stared at the swinging doors.
At midnight the new nursing shift came on. At one o'clock the
intern closed his book and left. Around three an expectant father
and his pregnant wife arrived at the emergency room by mistake.
They were given directions for the maternity ward. The father
kept apologizing. The wife just smiled.They left. Harold stood
up and walked up and down the hall. At four the janitor came
by and emptied the ashtrays. By five Harold had returned to the
waiting room. He sat on the couch and stared at the torn magazines
on the table. By six the night sky had lightened. Harold could
make out the shapes of the cars in the parking lot. At seven
twelve the doctor came in to tell him that Maude had died. He
received the news very calmly. His face showed no sign of emotion.
He thanked the doctor mechanically and walked away down the hospital
corridor.
Maude's living room looked different with the morning
sun streaming through the window. The remains of the party were
everywhere--the sunflowers, some of them already beginning to
droop; the champagne bottle standing half empty in a bucket full
of water. Harold walked to the window. Outside the birds sang
and pecked at the birdseed. Idly he flipped the handle of the
feeding trolly, remembering the first day he had seen it work.
His eyes began to fill with tears. He blinked them away and walked
to the fireplace. Catching sight of the "Happy Birthday"
sign, he violently ripped it off the wall. The sunflower pots
and everything on the mantelpiece crashed to the floor--including
the little ring box, with the red ribbon around it. Immediately
ashamed of himself, he picked it up and saw beside it Maude's
present to him from the night before. He put it on the table,
and opened it up. It contained her ring of car keys, the collection
she had received from Sweeney. He looked at it, displaying no
emotion, and at the floridly handwritten note attached. "Dearest
Harold," it read. "Pass it on--With love, From Maude."
He took the note in his hand and sat down. He read it again.
The tears welled in his eyes. This time he could no longer fight
them back. He did not even try. She was gone. It was over. The
note dropped from his hand. Falling listlessly back on the couch,
he began to cry. She was gone. It was over. He was alone. The
tears ran down his cheeks. His sobbing grew louder and unrestrained.
Crying hopelessly, like a lost child, he buried his face in the
cushions.
The mini-hearse sped along the sea-cliff road,
recklessly spinning around corners and sliding dangerously close
to the edge. Harold sat at the wheel, driving like a man possessed.
The tears were still wet on his face. His hands firmly gripped
the wheel. He turned off on a dirt road that led to a high bluff
and raced along it till he reached the top. From far down the
coast one could see the car go over. It flew off the cliff, did
a gliding half turn, then crashed on the rocks and burst into
flames. The fire subsided, and the smoke and steam gradually
disappeared. The waves, brought in on the rising tide, washed
in and around the wreckage. Harold looked down at it from the
edge of the cliff. The sun sparkled in the broken glass. A piece
of burned curtain drifted back and forth on the swell; overhead,
the gulls glided carelessly on the wind. Harold rubbed his nose
and put Sweeney's keys in his pocket. He stretched, took a deep
breath, and wiped his tearstained face with both hands. Swinging
his banjo from around his back, he strummed a few chords. He took
a final look at the remains of his car and turned away. As he
walked down the hill, he began to pluck out Maude's song. He played
it through once, remembering in snatches how she had sung the
words: "But the cuck-cuck-cuckoo, 'Spite his rote note
yoo-hoo, The cuck-cuck-cuckoo..." He smiled. He began it
again. It was getting better and better, he thought, and he knew
he'd have it right before he came to the end of the road.
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Original Content Copyright © 1995-. All rights reserved.
Reproduction in whole or in part in any form or medium without express written permission is prohibited.
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Ya'll come back now, ya here...
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