Harold and Maude

by Colin Higgins

  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 speciality 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 Viennese café.

  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 a 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 funereal 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 Petaluma. So you can imagine!” She tittered conspiratorially and took another sip of coffee.

  “Mmm, 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 speckled 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 cliché.”

  “Well, a cliché 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 us 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.”