by Robert Bloch
“That won’t be necessary.” Sister Cupertine was smiling again, very much her usual take-charge self. “We’ll just talk, and he can tell me all about himself. Where can I find him?”
“Four-eighteen, right across from Tucker’s room,” Dr. Claiborne said. “Ask the floor nurse to take you in.”
“Thank you.” The cowled head turned. “Come along, Sister.”
Sister Barbara hesitated. She knew what she wanted to say; she’d been rehearsing it in her mind all during the drive here. But should she risk offending Sister Cupertine again?
Well, now or never.
“I wonder if you’d mind if I stayed here with Dr. Claiborne? There are a few things I’d like to ask him about the therapy program—”
There it was, the warning furrow. Sister Cupertine cut in quickly. “We really mustn’t impose anymore. Perhaps later, when he’s not so busy.”
“Please.” Dr. Claiborne shook his head. “We always clear our schedule during visiting hours. With your permission, I’d be happy to answer the sister’s questions.”
“That’s very kind of you,” said Sister Cupertine. “But are you sure—”
“My pleasure,” Dr. Claiborne told her. “Now don’t worry. If she doesn’t find you upstairs, you can meet her again here in the lobby at five.”
“Very well.” Sister Cupertine turned away, but not before the eyes behind the thick lenses flashed a message to her companion. The five o’clock meeting will be followed by a lecture period on the subject of duty and obedience to superiors.
For a moment Sister Barbara’s resolution wavered; then Dr. Claiborne’s voice put an end to indecision.
“All right, Sister. Would you like me to show you around for a while? Or would you prefer to get down to business immediately?”
“Business?”
“You’re breaking the rules.” Dr. Claiborne grinned. “Only a qualified psychiatrist is permitted to answer a question with another question.”
“Sorry.” Sister Barbara watched the older woman enter an elevator down the hall, then turned to him with a smile of relief.
“Don’t be. Just ask what you’ve been meaning to ask me all along.”
“How did you know?”
“Merely an educated guess.” The grin broadened. “Another privilege we qualified psychiatrists enjoy.” He gestured. “Go ahead.”
Again, a moment of hesitation. Should she? Could she? Sister Barbara took a deep breath.
“You have a patient here named Norman Bates?”
“You know about him?” The grin faded. “Most people don’t, I’m happy to say.”
“Happy?”
“Figure of speech.” Dr. Claiborne shrugged. “No, to be honest, Norman’s rather special in my book. And that’s not a figure of speech.”
“You’ve written a book about him?”
“I plan to, someday. I’ve been accumulating material ever since I took over his treatment from Dr. Steiner.”
They had left the lobby now, and Dr. Claiborne was leading her down the right-hand corridor as they spoke. Passing a glass-walled visiting area, she noted a family group—mother, father, and teenaged boy, probably a brother—clustered around a fair-haired young girl in a wheelchair. The girl, who sat quietly, her pale face smiling up at her visitors as they chattered away, might very well have passed for a convalescent patient in any ordinary hospital. But this was not an ordinary hospital, Sister Barbara reminded herself, and that pale, smiling face concealed a dark, unsmiling secret.
She turned her attention to Dr. Claiborne as they moved on. “What sort of treatment—electroconvulsive therapy?”
Dr. Claiborne shook his head. “That was Steiner’s recommendation when I came on the case. I disagreed. What’s the necessity, when the patient is already passive to the point of catatonia? The problem was to bring Norman out of amnesic fugue, not increase his withdrawal.”
“Then you found other ways to cure him.”
“Norman isn’t cured. Not in the clinical or even the legal sense of the term. But we did get rid of the symptoms. Good old-fashioned hypnotic-regression techniques, without narcosyntheis or any shortcuts. Just plain slugging away, questions and answers. Of course, we’ve learned a lot more about multiple-personality disorders and the disassociative reaction in recent years.”
“I take it you’re saying Norman doesn’t think he’s his mother anymore.”
“Norman is Norman. And I think he accepts himself as such. If you recall, when the mother-personality took over, he committed murders as a transvestite. He’s aware of that now, even though he still has no conscious memory of such episodes. The material surfaced under hypnosis and we discussed content after the sessions, but he’ll never truly remember. It’s just that he no longer denies reality. He’s experienced catharsis.”
“But without abreaction.”
“Exactly.” Dr. Claiborne glanced at her sharply. “You really studied your texts, didn’t you?”
Sister Barbara nodded. “What’s the prognosis?”
“I’ve already told you. We’ve discontinued intensive analysis—no point in expecting any further major breakthroughs. But he’s functioning now without restraint or sedation. Of course, we don’t risk letting him wander outside on the grounds. I put him in charge of the library here; that way he has at least some degree of freedom combined with responsibility. He spends most of his time reading.”
“It sounds like a lonely life.”
“Yes, I’m aware of that. But there’s not much more we can do for him. He has no relatives, no personal friends. And lately, with our patient overload here, I haven’t been able to spend much time with him in just casual visiting.”
Sister Barbara’s hand strayed to her rosary beads and she took another deep breath.
“Could I see him?”
Dr. Claiborne halted, staring at her.
“Why?”
She forced herself to meet his gaze. “You say he’s lonely. Isn’t that reason enough?”
He shook his head. “Believe me, I can understand your empathy—”
“It’s more than that. This is our vocation, the reason Sister Cupertine and I are here. To help the helpless, befriend the friendless.”
“And perhaps convert them to your faith?”
“Don’t you approve of religion?” Sister Barbara said.
Dr. Claiborne shrugged. “My beliefs are irrelevant. But I can’t run the risk of upsetting my patients.”
“Patients?” The words came in a rush now, unbidden. “If you had any empathy yourself, you wouldn’t think of Norman Bates as a patient! He’s a human being—a poor, lonely, confused human being who doesn’t even understand the reason why he’s shut away here. All he knows is that nobody cares about him.”
“I care.”
“Do you? Then give him a chance to realize that others care too.”
Dr. Claiborne sighed softly. “All right. I’ll take you to him.”
“Thank you.” As he led her along the hall and into a side corridor, her voice softened. “Doctor—”
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry for coming on so strong.”
“Don’t be.” Dr. Claiborne’s voice had softened in turn as he replied, and here in the dimness of the corridor he looked suddenly drained and spent. “Sometimes it helps to get chewed out a little. Starts the adrenaline flowing again.”
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 —
For 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.”
