Harold and Maude (11 page)

“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.

B
ACK 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 over 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 supposed 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 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.

H
AROLD 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 of 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.

M
RS.
C
HASEN 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 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.

“H
E
'
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.”

U
NCLE
V
ICTOR
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 fiancée 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 peculiar 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
.”

“B
UT
,”
SAID
H
AROLD
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.

“L
OVE
!”
CRIED
M
RS.
C
HASEN
, 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.

T
HAT EVENING
H
AROLD
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.