Psycho - Three Complete Novels (4 page)

“How far away is that?”

“About seventeen-eighteen miles. You keep going up the road until you come to a county trunk, turn right, and hit the main highway again. It’s ten miles straight ahead, then. I’m surprised you didn’t go through that way if you’re heading north.”

“I got lost.”

The fat man nodded and sighed. “I thought as much. We don’t get much regular traffic along here any more since that new road opened.”

She smiled absently. He stood in the doorway, pursing his lips. When she looked up to meet his stare, he dropped his eyes and cleared his throat apologetically.

“Uh—Miss—I was just thinking. Maybe you don’t feel like driving all the way up to Fairvale and back in this rain. I mean, I was just going to fix a little snack for myself up at the house. You’d be perfectly welcome to join me.”

“Oh, I couldn’t do that.”

“Why not? No trouble at all. Mother’s gone back to bed, and she won’t be doing any cooking—I was only going to set out some cold cuts and make some coffee. If that’s all right with you.”

“Well—”

“Look, I’ll just run along and get things ready.”

“Thank you very much, Mr.—”

“Bates. Norman Bates.” He backed against the door, bumping his shoulder. “Look, I’ll leave you this flashlight for when you come up. You probably want to get out of those wet things first.”

He turned away, but not before she caught a glimmer of his reddened face. Why, he was actually
embarrassed!

For the first time in almost twenty hours a smile came to Mary Crane’s face. She waited until the door closed behind him and then slipped out of her jacket. She opened her overnight bag on the bed and took out a print dress. She let it hang, hoping some of the wrinkles would disappear, while she used the bathroom facilities. Just time to freshen up a bit now, but when she came back she promised herself a good hot shower. That’s what she needed; that, and sleep. But first a little food. Let’s see, now—her make-up was in her purse, and she could wear the blue coat from the big suitcase—

Fifteen minutes later she was knocking on the door of the big frame house on the hillside.

A single lamp shone from the unshaded parlor window, but a brighter reflection blazed from upstairs. If his mother was ill, that’s where she’d be.

Mary stood there, waiting for a response, but nothing happened. Maybe he was upstairs, too. She rapped again.

Meanwhile, she peered through the parlor window. At first glance she couldn’t quite believe what she saw; she hadn’t dreamed that such places still existed in this day and age.

Usually, even when a house is old, there are some signs of alteration and improvement in the interior. But the parlor she peered at had never been “modernized”; the floral wallpaper, the dark, heavy, ornately scrolled mahogany woodwork, the turkey-red carpet, the high-backed, overstuffed furniture and the paneled fireplace were straight out of the Gay Nineties. There wasn’t even a television set to intrude its incongruity in the scene, but she did notice an old wind-up gramophone on an end table. Now she could detect a low murmur of voices, and at first she thought it might be coming from the gramophone’s bell-shaped horn; then she identified the source of the sound. It was coming from upstairs, from the lighted room.

Mary knocked again, using the end of the flashlight. This time she must have made her presence known, for the sound ceased abruptly, and she heard the faint thud of footsteps. A moment later she saw Mr. Bates descending the stairs. He came to the door and opened it, gesturing her forward.

“Sorry,” he said. “I was just tucking Mother in for the night. Sometimes she’s apt to be a bit difficult.”

“You said she was ill. I wouldn’t want to disturb her.”

“Oh, you won’t make any bother. She’ll probably sleep like a baby.” Mr. Bates glanced over his shoulder at the stairway, then lowered his voice. “Actually, she’s not sick, not
physically,
that is. But sometimes she gets these spells—”

He nodded abruptly, then smiled. “Here, let me just take your coat and hang it up. There. Now, if you’ll come this way—”

She followed him down a hallway which extended from under the stairs. “I hope you don’t mind eating in the kitchen,” he murmured. “Everything’s all ready for us. Sit right down and I’ll pour the coffee.”

The kitchen was a complement of the parlor—lined with ceiling-high glassed-in cupboards grouped about an old-fashioned sink with a hand-pump attachment. The big wood stove squatted in one corner. But it gave off a grateful warmth, and the long wooden table bore a welcome display of sausage, cheese and homemade pickles in glass dishes scattered about on the red-and-white checkered cloth. Mary was not inclined to smile at the quaintness of it all, and even the inevitable hand-crocheted motto on the wall seemed appropriate enough.

God Bless Our Home.

So be it. This was a lot better than sitting alone in some dingy small-town cafeteria.

Mr. Bates helped her fill her plate. “Go right ahead, don’t wait for me! You must be hungry.”

She
was
hungry, and she ate heartily, with such absorption that she scarcely noticed how little he was eating. When she became aware of it, she was faintly embarrassed.

“But you haven’t touched a thing! I’ll bet you really had your own supper earlier.”

“No, I didn’t. It’s just that I’m not very hungry.” He refilled her coffee cup. “I’m afraid Mother gets me a little upset sometimes.” His voice lowered again, and the apologetic note returned. “I guess it’s my fault. I’m not too good at taking care of her.”

“You live here all alone, the two of you?”

“Yes. There’s never been anybody else. Never.”

“It must be pretty hard on you.”

“I’m not complaining. Don’t misunderstand.”

He adjusted the rimless spectacles. “My father went away when I was still a baby. Mother took care of me all alone. There was enough money on her side of the family to keep us going, I guess, until I grew up. Then she mortgaged the house, sold the farm, and built this motel. We ran it together, and it was a good thing—until the new highway cut us off.

“Actually, of course, she started failing long before then. And it was my turn to take care of her. But sometimes it isn’t so easy.”

“There are no other relatives?”

“None.”

“And you’ve never married?”

His face reddened and he glanced down at the checkered tablecloth.

Mary bit her lip. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ask personal questions.”

“That’s all right.” His voice was faint. “I’ve never married. Mother was—funny—about those things. I—I’ve never even sat at a table with a girl like this before.”

“But—”

“Sounds odd, doesn’t it, in this day and age? I know that. But it has to be. I tell myself that she’d be lost without me, now—maybe the real truth is that
I’d
be even more lost without
her.”

Mary finished her coffee, fished in her purse for cigarettes, and offered the package to Mr. Bates.

“No, thank you. I don’t smoke.”

“Mind if I do?”

“Not at all. Go right ahead.” He hesitated. “I’d like to offer you a drink but—you see—Mother doesn’t approve of liquor in the house.”

Mary leaned back, inhaling. Suddenly she felt expansive. Funny what a little warmth, a little rest, a little food could do. An hour ago she’d been lonely, wretched, and fearfully unsure of herself. Now everything had changed. Perhaps it was listening to Mr. Bates which had altered her mood this way.
He
was the lonely, wretched, and fearful one, really. In contrast, she felt seven feet tall. It was this realization which prompted her to speak.

“You aren’t allowed to smoke. You aren’t allowed to drink. You aren’t allowed to see any girls. Just what
do
you do, besides run the motel and attend to your mother?”

Apparently he was unconscious of her tone of voice. “Oh, I’ve got lots of things to do, really. I read quite a lot. And there are other hobbies.” He glanced up at a wall shelf and she followed his gaze. A stuffed squirrel peered down at them.

“Hunting?”

“Well, no. Just taxidermy. George Blount gave me that squirrel to stuff. He shot it. Mother doesn’t want me to handle firearms.”

“Mr. Bates, you’ll pardon me for saying this but how long do you intend to go on this way? You’re a grown man. You certainly must realize that you can’t be expected to act like a little boy all the rest of your life. I don’t mean to be rude, but—”

“I understand. I’m well aware of the situation. As I told you, I’ve done a bit of reading. I know what the psychologists say about such things. But I have a duty toward my mother.”

“Wouldn’t you perhaps be fulfilling that duty to her, and to yourself as well, if you arranged to put her in an—institution?”

“She’s not crazy!”

The voice wasn’t soft and apologetic any longer; it was high and shrill. And the pudgy man was on his feet, his hands sweeping a cup from the table. It shattered on the floor, but Mary didn’t look at it; she could only stare into the shattered face.

“She’s not crazy,” he repeated. “No matter what you think, or anybody thinks. No matter what the books say, or what those doctors would say out at the asylum. I know all about that. They’d certify her in a hurry and lock her away if they could—all I’d have to do is give them the word. But I wouldn’t, because I
know.
Don’t you understand that? I
know,
and they don’t know. They don’t know how she took care of me all those years, when there was nobody else who cared, how she worked for me and suffered because of me, the sacrifices she made. If she’s a little old now, it’s my fault, I’m responsible. When she came to me that time, told me she wanted to get married again, I’m the one who stopped her. Yes, I stopped her, I was to blame for that! You don’t have to tell me about jealousy, possessiveness—I was worse than she could ever be. Ten times crazier, if that’s the word you want to use. They’d have locked
me
up in a minute if they knew the things I said and did, the way I carried on. Well, I got over it, finally. And she didn’t. But who are you to say a person should be put away? I think perhaps all of us go a little crazy at times.”

He stopped, not because he was out of words but because he was out of breath. His face was very red, and the puckered lips were beginning to tremble.

Mary stood up. “I’m—I’m sorry,” she said softly. “Really, I am. I want to apologize. I had no right to say what I did.”

“Yes. I know. But it doesn’t matter. It’s just that I’m not used to talking about these things. You live alone like this and everything gets bottled up. Bottled up, or stuffed, like that squirrel up there.”

His color lightened, and he attempted a smile. “Cute little fellow, isn’t he? I’ve often wished I had a live one around that I could tame for a pet.”

Mary picked up her purse. “I’ll be running along now. It’s getting late.”

“Please don’t go. I’m sorry I made such a fuss.”

“It isn’t that. I’m really very tired.”

“But I thought perhaps we could talk awhile. I was going to tell you about my hobbies. I’ve got a sort of workshop down in the basement—”

“No, I’d like to, but I simply must get some rest.”

“All right, then. I’ll walk down with you. I’ve got to close up the office. It doesn’t look as if there’ll be any more business tonight.”

They went through the hall, and he helped her on with her coat. He was clumsy about it, and for a moment she felt rising irritation, then checked it as she realized the cause. He was afraid to touch her. That was it. The poor guy was actually afraid to get near a woman!

He held the flashlight and she followed him out of the house and down the pathway to the gravel drive curving around the motel. The rain had stopped but the night was still dark and starless. As she turned the corner of the building she glanced back over her shoulder at the house. The upstairs light still burned, and Mary wondered if the old woman was awake, if she had listened to their conversation, heard the final outburst.

Mr. Bates halted before her door, waited until she inserted the key in the lock and opened it.

“Good night,” he said. “Sleep well.”

“Thank you. And thanks for the hospitality.”

He opened his mouth, then turned away. For the third time that evening she saw him redden.

Then she closed her door and locked it. She could hear his retreating footsteps, then the telltale click as he entered the office next door.

She didn’t hear him when he left; her attention had been immediately occupied by the duty of unpacking. She got out her pajamas, her slippers, a jar of cold cream, a toothbrush and toothpaste. Then she rummaged through the big suitcase looking for the dress she planned to wear tomorrow, when she saw Sam. That would have to be put up now, to hang out the wrinkles. Nothing must be out of place tomorrow.

Nothing must be out of place—

All at once she didn’t feel seven feet tall any more. Or was the change really so sudden? Hadn’t it started when Mr. Bates got so hysterical, back there at the house? What was it he had said which really deflated her?

I think perhaps all of us go a little crazy at times.

Mary Crane cleared a place for herself on the bed and sat down.

Yes. It was true. All of us go a little crazy at times. Just as she’d gone crazy, yesterday afternoon, when she saw that money on the desk.

And she’d been crazy ever since, she
must
have been crazy, to think she could get away with what she planned. It had all seemed like a dream come true, and that’s what it was. A dream. A
crazy
dream. She knew it, now.

Maybe she could manage to throw off the police. But Sam would ask questions.
Who
was this relative she’d inherited the money from? Where had he lived? Why hadn’t she ever mentioned him before? How was it that she brought the money along in cash? Didn’t Mr. Lowery object to her quitting her job so suddenly?

And then there was Lila. Suppose she reacted as Mary had anticipated—came to her without going to the police, even consented to remain silent in the future because of a sense of obligation. The fact remained that she’d
know.
And there’d be complications.