Robert Bloch's Psycho (6 page)

At first they were simple.
Yes
and
no,
expanding to several words, such as
I know, I see, I understand.
For Marie, the guttural sounds gradually evolved into
please
and
thank you
. Sentences continued to lengthen, facial expressions answered by similar ones, and Norman Bates was smiling. The smiles were infrequent, and never lasted long. They were directed primarily at Marie, occasionally at Reed.

But when Ben and Dick took Norman to get washed and shaved, the communication ceased. Since they were not the ones who had chipped away Norman's facade of uncommunicativeness, Reed surmised, they would not reap the results.

And neither, it seemed, would anyone other than the two people closest to him. But for the time being, that was enough. A typical session between Reed and Norman now consisted of a greeting, and then Reed would sit in the chair, and Norman would lie back comfortably on his bed, a pillow under his head, and the two of them would talk. Many times Norman would close his eyes, trying to re-create the memories that were required to answer Reed's questions. At times it almost seemed as though he were sleeping, and that was good for Reed, since Norman was more open then, answering Reed's questions and responding to him slowly but, Reed felt, honestly.

At such times, Norman's defenses were at their lowest, and Reed guided him gently, almost hypnotically, along the paths of memory down which Reed wanted him to go. As the true Norman revealed more and more of himself, Reed found that his patient was—or
wanted
to be—a moral, gentle man. But at the same time, Reed sensed that there was something even deeper, farther below the surface, a darkness, an anger that was perhaps better left unseen, entombed in Norman's psyche. Buried with Mother.

*   *   *

Norman wasn't expecting visitors that afternoon. After his usual late-morning session with Dr. Reed and the visit from Nurse Marie with his lunch, Norman usually passed a few hours reading in his cell. They called it a
room,
but he knew what it was, with its thickly padded walls—it was like living inside a winter coat, which was fine with Norman. He felt as snug as a bug in a rug, like his mother used to say.

Wait. No thinking about Mother. Dr. Reed was helping him with that, showing him why he had to keep Mother out of his mind. He thought he was doing a pretty good job of it. She spoke to him less and less now. Still, even when she was quiet, there were times when he could hear her in there, scurrying around way down deep, as though lost in darkness and trying to find her way out. If he thought too much about her, he was afraid he would leave some kind of door open down there in the cellar of his soul through which she might be able to escape, and he was
not
going to do that.

He didn't
want
to listen for her, and he certainly didn't want to hear her speak to him again. She had only done so a few times since he told her to go away, and that made him feel strong, as though he were his own person again. They were talking about that, he and Dr. Reed. They were talking about more and more things now.

It felt good to talk, to be honest, and Dr. Reed was so easy to talk to. Norman couldn't remember ever speaking to anyone who relaxed him so much, to whom he felt so ready to share the things he thought, the things he'd experienced, both good and bad. It was as though Norman was
important,
as though Dr. Reed really cared about him and about what he thought, and Norman had shared more than he ever thought he could. As a result, he had figured out some things, important things.

Norman had told Dr. Reed that he knew that Mother was imprisoned with him, and that he would never let Mother get away from him again, because
she
was the one who killed. The way Norman figured it, if she stayed inside him, way down deep, then she'd never be able to kill again, since Norman was locked up. It was for the best, he realized, just as he realized he could probably never be free again. Dr. Reed had told him that he hoped that Mother could be made to go away, to leave Norman forever. And if that happened … well, maybe someday years from now, Norman could walk out of the hospital a free man. And alone.

Norman had liked it when Dr. Reed said that. But as much as he liked talking to Dr. Reed, he didn't talk much to anyone else, not even to Nurse Marie. He liked her very much, and he didn't need Mother to tell him that. But he was afraid that if he liked her
too
much, he might say or do things that he'd be sorry for, that would maybe make Nurse Marie not come to see him anymore, and he didn't think he could stand that. So the less he said to her, the better. He was always polite, saying
please
and
thank you,
just the way Mother had taught …

No. Don't think of Mother.
As the old saying goes, “That way madness lies.” And he was living proof of that, wasn't he?

The best way to forget about Mother—about
everything
—was to bury himself in a book. Dr. Reed had started to bring him volumes from the hospital library. Norman had timidly asked if they had any titles similar to those he'd enjoyed when he lived at home, but Dr. Reed felt it best that he spend his time reading fiction of a not too excitable nature. He first brought Norman a love novel by Grace Livingston Hill that Norman quickly found he didn't like. Sinclair Lewis's
Arrowsmith
and
Babbitt
were the next offerings, and they were better, though Norman requested something with a bit more action.

Though Dr. Reed didn't come right out and say it, Norman thought that action equated with
violence,
something Dr. Reed wanted to keep Norman away from, even on the page. Still, the day after Norman finished
Babbitt,
Dr. Reed handed him a copy of Owen Wister's
The Virginian.
There was as much love story to the book as there was Western action, but that was fine with Norman, and his praise for the book brought him several Zane Grey and then Max Brand novels. It seemed that Dr. Reed thought Westerns a relatively safe genre in which Norman might read, with their accent on moral men doling out justice in an earlier time, using violence only when necessary and only for good ends.

Norman was halfway through
Riders of the Purple Sage
when a peremptory knock sounded on the door of his cell, and he heard a voice say, “Norman?” through the open slot. Norman sat up as the door opened, and saw Dr. Reed standing there smiling.

Norman smiled back. “Hello, Dr. Reed,” he said.

“Norman, I wonder if you'd be ready to talk to some friends.”

Norman felt a sharpness in his throat. “Friends?” he said, hating how his voice had suddenly diminished in volume.

“Yes. Just for a minute.”

He tried to say yes, but the word locked in his mouth. Still, he didn't want to disappoint Dr. Reed, so he nodded.

Dr. Reed smiled again, but the smile was crooked, as though he wasn't sure if he could count on Norman. Then he stepped back and allowed two men to enter the small cell.

The first was an older man, well over six feet tall. His hair was steely gray and cut close to his scalp. His gray beard was neatly trimmed as well, and he wore a dark suit and tie and a white shirt. He peered at Norman through a pair of thick, gold-rimmed glasses. The second man, short, balding, and chubby, followed. Norman recognized him. He was the doctor who had talked to Norman after the police got him, the one who had made him tell what Mother had done.

No, what
he
had done. What Mother had
made
him do.

Norman didn't like this doctor. He didn't want to talk to him again.

“You may remember Dr. Steiner, Norman,” Dr. Reed was saying. “He talked to you when you first came to us. And this gentleman is Dr. Goldberg. He's the superintendent of the hospital.” Dr. Reed stepped aside so Norman could see yet a third man, in a suit, younger than the others, looking in from the corridor. “And this is Dr. Berkowitz,” Dr. Reed said. “He's a friend too. Dr. Goldberg would like to ask you a few questions, Norman.”

The oldest man continued to stand, towering above Norman. Norman looked up into his face, then down again at the floor. “Norman,” Dr. Goldberg said, and in that single word Norman knew that Dr. Goldberg wasn't from this country, at least not from any part of it that Norman knew. “How are you feeling today?”

Only it wasn't
feeling,
it was
feelingk,
like some sort of German accent. Norman thought that Goldberg was a Jewish name, so maybe the accent was Jewish. Wherever he was from, Norman didn't want to talk to him. Norman didn't look up, didn't answer the question.

“Norman?” Dr. Goldberg said again. “I asked how you're feeling.”

“It's all right, Norman,” Dr. Reed said. “You can talk to Dr. Goldberg. He wants to help you too.”

But Norman didn't want to. He didn't know Dr. Goldberg, and he didn't feel comfortable with him. He only felt that way with Dr. Reed. He just wasn't ready to talk to other people. Didn't Dr. Reed understand that?

“Norman?” Dr. Reed said. Norman continued to look down. He realized he still had his book in his hand. It was an escape. He opened it to where he had been reading and looked at the words on the paper. He couldn't concentrate, since all his attention was fixed on the tall man standing over him, but he acted as though he were reading.

“Don't you want to talk to me, Norman?” Dr. Goldberg asked. He didn't sound happy. “Mr. Bates?” he said, but Norman didn't respond to that either. He heard Dr. Goldberg sigh, an exasperated sigh like Mother always gave to show that she was once again disappointed in him, and Norman saw the tall man's legs move to the door, past the other doctors and into the corridor.

Norman didn't look up,
wouldn't
look up as the others left his cell. The last thing he heard was Dr. Reed saying, “All right, Norman, you read. I'll talk to you later.” The door closed, and Norman was alone. Almost.

My. That went well.

Be quiet, Mother. I'm reading. Go away.

And, to Norman's surprise, she did.

*   *   *

“Goddamnit, I
knew
he was going to do that.”

“Felix—”

“It was idiotic to bring in a whole
panel
like that. It took him forever to get comfortable with
me.
”

“I'm sorry, but Goldberg
requested
me to come.”

“But it wasn't necessary, Nick! And bringing in the new resident too, well, hell, why didn't we just have a whole goddamned APA national convention in his cell?”

Felix Reed threw himself back in his chair and looked at Nicholas Steiner across the desk of Reed's tiny office. Steiner's cherubic face, usually wreathed in a quiet smile, was frowning. “I agree with you,” Steiner said. “It was overkill. It should have been you and Goldberg only. Five people in a room that small, and
I
get claustrophobic. I can only imagine what poor Bates must have felt like.”

Reed took in a deep breath and blew it out. He wished he smoked like Steiner did. Maybe it would help relax him. “I'm getting the feeling that Goldberg
wants
me to fail. That he can't wait to get Norman into electroshock therapy.”

Steiner took a drag on his Camel before answering. “You may be right,” he said. “Dr. Goldberg is very old school, after all. But, Felix…” Steiner leaned on the desk. “You
have
to show Goldberg an improvement in socialization skills. Now, I'm betting that he'll give you some more time, but on the other hand I don't think you can just keep Norman as your private pet in his cell. You've got to expose him to … other patients, perhaps. There's a reason for social hours, after all.”

Reed considered it. “Well, maybe. He's far from ready for the dining hall. He's barely at the point where he's eating a meal by himself, let alone engaging in conversation while he's doing it.”

“What about the social hall?” Steiner suggested.

“I just don't know, Nick. In spite of what Norman's done, he's such an innocent in so many ways. I keep thinking some of those other …
playmates
would eat him alive.”

“Then keep a watch on him. Observe from a distance, but intervene only if completely necessary. See how—and
if
—he interacts with others. He's going to have to eventually. Goldberg won't stand for him to be alone in his room forever.”

*   *   *

“Only one example, Dr. Berkowitz, of the many challenges we face here at the state hospital.” As he sat behind his intricately carved wooden desk, Dr. Isaac Goldberg took a cigar from a wooden humidor and offered it to the new resident.

Elliot Berkowitz shook his head. “No, thank you, I don't smoke.”

“We all have our vices, I suppose,” Goldberg said. “Do you mind if I…?”

Berkowitz shook his head again, faster this time. “Of course not.” He was surprised that Goldberg would even ask. The superintendent had so much old-world charm about him that Berkowitz could imagine himself back in prewar Vienna, in the office of one of the early psychoanalysts, even of Freud himself, with whom Goldberg, it was rumored, had studied.

The music helped the illusion. As soon as they had entered the office, Goldberg had gone to a console record player at the far end of the room and put a disc on the turntable. A classical overture started playing—Mozart, Berkowitz guessed—and Goldberg had proceeded to his desk and his cigar.

“So tell me,” Goldberg said, “a bit about yourself,
ja
? Not your scholastic record, that I know, but your own background, your family. Are they supportive of your career plans?”