Psycho - Three Complete Novels (21 page)

He smiled, pausing as they reached the double door at the far end of the hall. “Here we are. The library.”

Sister Barbara took her third deep breath for the day, or tried to. The air was moist, muggy, absolutely still, and yet there was movement somewhere—a throbbing, pulsing rhythm so intense that for a moment she felt quite giddy. Involuntarily her hand went in search of the rosary beads, and it was then that she discovered the source of the sensation. Her heart was pounding.

“You all right?” Dr. Claiborne glanced at her quickly.

“Of course.”

Inwardly, Sister Barbara was none too certain. Why had she insisted? Was it really compassion that moved her, or just foolish pride—the pride that goeth before a fall?

“Nothing to worry about,” Dr. Claiborne said. “I’m coming with you.”

The throbbing ebbed.

Dr. Claiborne turned and the door swung open.

And then they were in the web.

That’s what it was, she told herself—the shelves radiating from the center of the room were like the strands of a spiderweb.

They moved along one of the shadowed rows bordered by shelving on both sides, and emerged into the open area beyond. Here, under the sickly fluorescence of a single lamp on the desk, was the center of the web.

And from it rose the figure of the spider.

Her heart was pounding again. Over it, faintly, came the sound of Dr. Claiborne’s voice.

“Sister Barbara—this is Norman Bates.”

— 3 —

F
or a moment, when he saw the penguin walk into the room, Norman thought maybe he
was
crazy after all.

But the moment passed. Sister Barbara wasn’t a bird, and Dr. Claiborne hadn’t come here to hassle him about his sanity or lack thereof. It was purely a social visit.

Social visit. How does one play host to his visitors in an asylum?

“Please sit down.”

That seemed to be the obvious thing to say. But once they’d seated themselves at the table, there was a moment of awkward silence. Suddenly and surprisingly, Norman realized that his visitors were embarrassed; they didn’t know how to start a conversation any more than he did.

Well, there was always the weather.

Norman glanced over toward the window. “What happened to all that sunshine? It feels like there’s rain in the air.”

“Typical spring day—you know how it is,” Dr. Claiborne told him. And the nun was silent.

End of weather report. Maybe she is a penguin, after all. What do you say to your fine feathered friends?

Sister Barbara was glancing down at the open book on the table before him. “I hope we didn’t interrupt anything.”

“Not at all. Just passing the time.” Norman closed the book and pushed it aside.

“Can I ask what you were reading?”

“A biography of Moreno.”

“The Romanian psychologist?” Sister Barbara’s question caused Norman to look up quickly.

“You know about him?”

“Why, yes. Isn’t he the man who came up with the psychodrama technique?”

She really isn’t a penguin, then.
He smiled at her and nodded. “That’s correct. Of course, it’s just ancient history now.”

“Norman’s right.” Dr. Claiborne cut in quickly. “We’ve more or less abandoned that approach in group therapy. Though we still encourage acting out one’s fantasies on the verbal level.”

“Even to the point of letting patients get up on the stage and make fools of themselves,” Norman said.

“Now that’s ancient history too.” Dr. Claiborne was smiling, but Norman sensed his concern. “But I still think you gave an excellent performance, and I wish you’d stayed with the group.”

Sister Barbara looked puzzled. “I’m afraid I’m not following this.”

“We’re talking about the amateur dramatic program here,” Norman said. “I suspect it’s Dr. Claiborne’s improvement on Moreno’s theories. Anyway, he coaxed me into taking a part and it didn’t work out.” He leaned forward. “How did—?”

“Excuse me.”

The interruption came suddenly, and Norman frowned. A male nurse—Otis, the new one from the third floor—had entered the room. He approached Dr. Claiborne, who looked up.

“Yes, Otis?”

“There’s a long-distance call for Dr. Steiner.”

“Dr. Steiner’s out of town. He won’t be back until Tuesday morning.”

“That’s what I told them. But the man wants to talk to you. It’s very important, he says.”

“It always is.” Dr. Claiborne sighed. “Did he give you his name?”

“A Mr. Driscoll.”

“Never heard of him.”

“He says he’s a producer with some studio out in Hollywood. That’s where he’s calling from.”

Dr. Claiborne pushed his chair back. “All right, I’ll take it.” Rising, he smiled at Sister Barbara. “Maybe he wants us to put on a psychodrama for him.” He moved to the seated nun, ready to assist her from her seat. “Sorry I have to break this up.”

“Must you?” Sister Barbara said. “Why don’t I wait here until you come back?”

Norman felt his tension returning. Something told him not to say anything, but he concentrated on the thought.
Let her stay, I want to talk to her.

“If you like.”

Dr. Claiborne followed Otis through the stacks to the doorway beyond. He paused there, glancing back. “I won’t be long,” he said.

Sister Barbara smiled, and Norman sat watching the two men out of the corner of his eye. Dr. Claiborne was whispering something to Otis, who nodded and followed him out into the hall. For a moment Norman saw their silhouetted shadows on the far wall of the corridor beyond; then one shadow moved off while the other remained. Otis was standing guard outside the door.

A faint clicking claimed Norman’s attention. The nun was fingering her rosary beads.
Security blanket,
he told himself.
But she wanted to stay. Why?

He leaned forward. “How did you know about psychodrama, Sister?”

“A college course.” Her voice sounded softly over the clicking.

“I see.” Norman spoke softly too. “And is that where you learned about me?”

The clicking ceased. He had her full attention now. He’d taken over. For the first time in years he was in charge, controlling the situation. What a wonderful feeling, to be able to sit back and let someone else do the squirming for a change! Big, rawboned, ungainly woman, hiding behind her penguin disguise.

Quite suddenly he found himself wondering exactly what was underneath that habit; what kind of body it concealed. Warm, pulsing flesh. His mind’s eye traced its contours, moving from thrusting, thirsty breasts to rounded belly and the triangulation below. Nuns shaved their heads—but what about their pubic hair? Had that been shaved too?

“Yes,” said Sister Barbara.

Norman blinked. Could she read his mind? Then he realized she was merely replying to his spoken question.

“What did they say about me?”

Sister Barbara shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “Actually, it was a footnote, just a few lines in one of our texts.”

“I’m a textbook case, is that it?”

“Please, I didn’t mean to embarrass you—”

“Then what did you mean?”
Strange, watching someone else trying to wriggle out of a spot. All these years he’d been the one who wriggled, and he still wasn’t out, never would be. Out, damned spot!
Norman hid behind a smile. “Why did you come here? Is the zoo closed on Sundays?”

There she was, clicking away at those damned beads again. Damned beads, damned spot. Was the damned spot really shaved?

Sister Barbara looked up. “I thought we might talk. You see, after I came across your name in that book, I went through some newspaper files. What I read interested me—”

“Interested?” Norman’s voice didn’t match his smile. “You were shocked, weren’t you? Shocked, horrified, revolted—which was it?”

Sister Barbara’s voice was scarcely more than a whisper. “At the time, all of those things. I thought of you as a monster, some sort of bogeyman, creeping around in the dark with a knife. For months afterward I couldn’t get you out of my mind, out of my dreams. But not anymore. It’s all changed.”

“How?”

“It’s hard to explain. But something happened to me after I took the veil. The novitiate—meditation—examining one’s secret thoughts, secret sins. In a way it’s like analysis, I suppose.”

“Psychiatry doesn’t believe in sin.”

“But it believes in responsibility. And so does my faith. Gradually I came to acknowledge the truth. You weren’t aware of what you did, so how could anyone hold you responsible? It was I who had sinned by passing judgment without trying to understand. And when I learned we’d be coming here today, I knew I must see you, if only as an act of contrition.”

“You’re asking me to forgive you?” Norman shook his head. “Be honest. Curiosity brought you here. You came to see the monster, didn’t you? Well, take a good look and tell me what I am.”

Sister Barbara raised her eyes and stared at him for a long moment in the glare of the fluorescence.

“I see graying hair, lines in the forehead, the marks of suffering. Not the suffering you caused others, but that which you brought upon yourself. You’re not a monster,” she said, “only a man.”

“That’s very flattering.”

“What do you mean?”

“No one’s ever told me I was a man,” Norman said. “Not even my own mother. She thought I was weak, effeminate. And all the kids, calling me a sissy—the ballgames—” His voice choked.

“Ballgames?” Sister Barbara was staring at him again. “Please, tell me. I want to know.”

She does. She really does!

Norman found his voice again. “I was a sickly child. Wore glasses for reading, right up until a few years ago. And I never was any good at sports. After school, on the playground we played baseball, the oldest boys were the captains. They took turns choosing up kids for their sides. I was always the last one chosen—” He broke off. “But you wouldn’t understand.”

Sister Barbara’s eyes never left his face, but she wasn’t staring now. She nodded, her expression softening.

“The same thing happened to me,” she said.

“To you?”

“Yes.” Her left hand strayed to her beads and now she glanced down at it, smiling. “You see? I’m what you call a southpaw. Girls play baseball too, you know. I was a good pitcher. They’d choose me first.”

“But that’s the direct opposite of what happened to me.”

“Opposite, but the same.” Sister Barbara sighed. “You were treated like a sissy. I was treated like a tomboy. Being first hurt me just as much as being last hurt you.”

The air was close, sticky; shadows crept through the window, detaching from the dusk beyond to cluster around the circle of lamplight.

“Maybe that was part of my problem,” Norman said. “You know what happened to me—the transvestite thing. You were lucky. At least you escaped loss of identity, loss of gender.”

“Did I?” Sister Barbara let the rosary fall. “A nun is neuter. There is no gender. And no true identity. They even take away your given name.” She smiled. “I don’t regret that. But if you stop and think, you and I are very much the same underneath. We’re kindred spirits.”

For a moment Norman almost believed her. He wanted to believe, wanted to accept their similarity. But in the pool of fluorescence on the floor he saw the shadow that separated—the shadow of the bars on the window.

“One difference,” he said. “You came here because you wanted to. And when you wish, you’ll go of your own free will.”

“There is no free will.” Sister Barbara shook her head. “Only God’s. He sent me here. I come and go only at His choosing. And you remain only to serve the same divine purpose.”

She halted as a livid light lanced through the room. Norman sought its source in the sudden darkening beyond the window. Then thunder shook the bars.

“Looks like we’re in for a storm.” Norman frowned glancing at Sister Barbara. “What’s the matter?”

The answer to his question was all too evident. In the lamplight the nun’s face was deathly pale, and her eyes closed as she clutched at her rosary. There was no hint of spiritual security here, not even a trace of tomboyish bravado. The harsh, almost masculine features had melted to reveal the fear beneath.

Norman rose quickly, striding to the window. Peering out, he caught a glimpse of sullen sky over the ground beyond. Now another streak of lightning razored across the parking area; for an instant it shimmered nimbuslike above the cars and the nuns’ van. He drew the drapes against the greenish glow, then turned away as, once more, thunder hurled its threat.

“Better?” he said.

“Thank you.” Sister Barbara’s hand fell away from the rosary.

Something clicked.
The beads.
He stared at them.

All that mumbo-jumbo about psychological insight, all that nonsense about God’s will, had vanished with a thunderclap. She was only a frightened woman, afraid of her own shadow.

Shadows were all around them now. They huddled in the corners, crawled between the looming bookshelves that stretched to the distant doorway. Glancing past it now, Norman realized the corridor beyond was empty; the shadow there had vanished. He knew the reason, of course. Whenever a storm broke, there was trouble with the loonies. God must have sent Otis off to calm his charges upstairs.

Norman turned back to Sister Barbara as the clicking sounded again. “You sure you’re all right?” he said.

“Of course.” But the beads clicked beneath her fingers and the quaver echoed behind her voice. Afraid of thunder and lightning; just a defenseless female, after all.

Suddenly, surprisingly, Norman felt a stirring in his loins. He fought it the only way he knew, with words that were bitter on his tongue.

“Just remember what you told me. If God sent you here, then He also sent the storm.”

Sister Barbara looked up, the rosary beads dangling, jangling. “You mustn’t say such things. Don’t you believe in God’s will?”

Thunder roared again outside the walls, hammering at Norman’s skull, beating at his brain. Then the lightning flash flared up behind the drapes, illuminating all.
God’s will. He had prayed and his prayers had been answered.

“Yes,” said Norman. “I believe.”