Psycho Page #8

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Without waiting for approval or disapproval, he turns, hurries

to the office. Mary looks after him, her face showing amused

sympathy, then follows.

INT. THE MOTEL OFFICE - (NIGHT)

Norman looks about, tray in hand, sees there is no reasonable

place to spread out a supper. He turns, sees Mary standing

in the doorway.

NORMAN:

Eating in an office...

(a rueful smile)

...to officious, even for me. I have

the parlor behind this... if you'd

like.

Mary nods. Norman walks on, behind the counter and into the

darkened parlor. Mary follows.

INT. NORMAN'S PARLOR -(NIGHT)

In the darkened room, lit only by the light from the office

spilling in, we see Norman placing the tray on a table. Mary

comes to the doorway, pauses. Norman straightens up, goes to

lamp, turns on the light.

Mary is startled by the room. Even in the dimness of one

lamp, the strange, extraordinary nature of the room rushes

up at one. It is a room of birds. Stuffed birds, all over

the room, on every available surface, one even clinging to

the old fashioned fringed shade of the lamp. The birds are

of many varieties, beautiful, grand, horrible, preying. Mary

stares in awe and a certain fascinated horror.

CLOSE UP - THE VARIOUS BIRDS TWO SHOT - MARY AND NORMAN

NORMAN:

Please sit down. On the sofa.

As Norman goes about spreading out the bread and ham and

pouring the milk, we follow Mary across the room. She studies

the birds as she walks, briefly examines a bookcase stacked

with books on the subject of "Taxidermy."

CLOSE UP - THE BOOKS ON TAXIDERMY MED. CLOSE SHOT - MARY

She notices, too, the paintings on the wall; nudes, primarily,

and many with a vaguely religious overtone.

Finally Mary reaches the sofa, sits down, looks at the spread.

MARY:

You're very... kind.

NORMAN:

It's all for you. I'm not hungry.

Please go ahead.

Mary begins to eat, her attitude a bit tense. She takes up a

small slice of ham, bites off a tiny bite, nibbles at it in

the manner of one disturbed and preoccupied.

Norman gazes at her, at the tiny bite she has taken, smiles

and then laughs.

NORMAN:

You eat like a bird.

MARY:

You'd know, of course.

NORMAN:

Not really. I hear that expression,

that one eats "like a bird," is really

a falsie, I mean a falsity, because

birds eat a tremendous lot.

(A pause, then

explaining)

Oh, I don't know anything about birds.

My hobby is stuffing things...

taxidermy. And I guess I'd just rather

stuff birds because... well, I hate

the look of beasts when they're

stuffed, foxes and chimps and all...

some people even stuff dogs and

cats... but I can't... I think only

birds look well stuffed because

they're rather... passive, to begin

with... most of them...

He trails off, his exuberance failing in the rushing return

of his natural hesitancy and discomfort. Mary looks at him,

with some compression, smiles.

MARY:

It's a strange hobby. Curious, I

mean.

NORMAN:

Uncommon, too.

MARY:

I imagine so.

NORMAN:

It's not as expensive as you'd think.

Cheap, really. Needles, thread,

sawdust .. the chemicals are all

that cost anything.

(He goes quiet, looks

disturbed)

MARY:

A man should have a hobby.

NORMAN:

It's more than a hobby... sometimes...

a hobby is supposed to pass the time,

not fill it.

MARY:

(after a pause, softly)

Is your time so empty?

NORMAN:

Oh, no!

(forcing brightness

again)

I run the office, tend the cabins

and grounds, do little chores for

mother... the ones she allows I might

be capable of doing.

MARY:

You go out... with friends?

NORMAN:

Friends? Who needs friends.

(Laughs, then with

gallows humor)

A boy's best friend is his mother.

(Stops laughing)

You've never had an empty moment in

your whole life. Have you?

MARY:

Only my share.

NORMAN:

Where are you going? I don't mean to

pry...

MARY:

(A wistful smile)

I'm looking for a private island.

NORMAN:

What are you running away from?

MARY:

(Alert)

Why do you ask that?

NORMAN:

No. People never run away from

anything.

(A pause)

The rain didn't last very long.

(Turning suddenly)

You know what I think? I think we're

all in our private traps, clamped in

them, and none of us can ever climb

out. We scratch and claw... but only

at the air, only at each other, and

for all of it, we never budge an

inch.

MARY:

Sometimes we deliberately step into

those traps.

NORMAN:

I was born in mine. I don't mind it

anymore.

MARY:

You should... mind it.

NORMAN:

Oh I do... but I say I don't.

(Laughs boyishly)

MARY:

(Staring at him,

shaking her head

softly.)

If anyone ever spoke to me, the way

I heard... The way she spoke to you,

I don't think I could ever laugh

again.

NORMAN:

(Controlled resentment)

Sometimes when she talks that way to

me I'd like to... curse her out and

leave her forever!

(A rueful smile)

Or at least, defy her.

(A pause, a hopeless

shrug)

But I couldn't. She's ill.

MARY:

She sounded strong...

NORMAN:

I mean... ill.

(A pause)

She had to raise me all by herself

after my dad died... I was only

five... and it must have been a

strain. Oh, she didn't have to go

out to work or anything, Dad left us

with a little something... anyway, a

few years ago... Mother met a man.

He talked her into building this

motel... We could have talked her

into anything... and when. Well...

It was just too much for her when he

died, too... And the way he died...

Oh, it's nothing to talk about when

you're eating.

(Pauses, smiles)

Anyway, it was too much of a loss

for my mother... she had nothing

left.

MARY:

(Critically)

Except you.

NORMAN:

A son is a poor substitute for a

lover.

(Turns away as if in

distaste of the word)

MARY:

Why don't you go away?

NORMAN:

To a private island, like you?

MARY:

No, not like me.

NORMAN:

It's too late for me. And besides...

who'd look after her? She'd be alone

up there, the fire would go out...

damp and cold, like a grave. When

you love someone, you don't do that

to them, even if you hate them. Oh,

I don't hate her. I hate... what

she's become. I hate... the illness.

MARY:

(Slowly, carefully)

Wouldn't it be better if you put her

in... someplace...

She hesitates. Norman turns, slowly, looking at her with a

striking coldness.

NORMAN:

An Institution? A madhouse? People

always call a madhouse "someplace."

(Mimicing coldly)

Put her in Someplace!

MARY:

I'm sorry... I didn't mean it to

sound uncaring...

NORMAN:

(The coldness turning

to tight fury)

What do you mean about caring? Have

you ever seen one of those places?

Inside? Laughing and tears and cruel

eyes studying you... and my mother

there? Why? has she harmed you?

She's as harmless as... one of these

stuffed birds.

MARY:

I am sorry. I only felt... it seemed

she was harming you. I meant...

NORMAN:

(High fury now)

Well? You meant well? People always

mean well, they cluck their thick

tongues and shake their heads and

suggest so very delicately that...

The fury suddenly dies, abruptly and completely, and he sinks

back into his chair. There is a brief silence.

Mary watches the troubled man, is almost physically pained

by his anguish.

NORMAN:

(Quietly)

I've suggested it myself. But I hate

to even think such a thing. She

needs me... and it isn't...

(Looks up with a

childlike pleading

in his eyes)

...it isn't as if she were a maniac,

a raving thing... it's just that...

sometimes she goes a little mad. We

all go a little mad sometimes. Haven't

you?

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