Harold and Maude Read online

  “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 a portrait of the sorrowing Madonna.

  “Psst!”

  Harold listened.

  “Psssst!”

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

  “PSSSST!”

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

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

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

  “You’re welcome,” she whispered back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Who?” said Harold.

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

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

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

  They stopped before the dour portrait of the Madonna.

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

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

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

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

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

  “Uh, yes,” said Harold nervously.

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

  Harold looked over at a crucifix.

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

  Harold followed her out to the street.

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

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

  “Harold Chasen.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Maude raced the motor and released the brake.

  “Harold,” she called, “do you dance?”

  “What?”

  “Do you sing and dance?”

  “Uh, no.”

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

  Harold stared after it in wonderment.

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

  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, Har
old?”

  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 of the seat. “Yes,” he answered, without taking his eyes off the road.

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

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

  Harold swallowed. “Yes,” he said hoarsely.

  “Well, it’s a new experience for me.”

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

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

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

  “Your hearse?”

  “Yearse!”

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

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

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

  “Thank you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Harold took the books while Maude glanced through her letters.

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

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

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

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