when Dr. Reed said that. But as much as he liked talking to Dr. Reed, he didnât talk much to anyone else, not even to Nurse Marie. He liked her very much, and he didnât need Mother to tell him that. But he was afraid that if he liked her too much, he might say or do things that heâd be sorry for, that would maybe make Nurse Marie not come to see him anymore, and he didnât 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 â¦
No. Donât think of Mother. As the old saying goes, âThat way madness lies.â And he was living proof of that, wasnât he?
The best way to forget about Motherâabout everything âwas 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 heâd 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 didnât like. Sinclair Lewisâs Arrowsmith and Babbitt were the next offerings, and they were better, though Norman requested something with a bit more action.
Though Dr. Reed didnât 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 Wisterâs 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, âNorman?â through the open slot. Norman sat up as the door opened, and saw Dr. Reed standing there smiling.
Norman smiled back. âHello, Dr. Reed,â he said.
âNorman, I wonder if youâd be ready to talk to some friends.â
Norman felt a sharpness in his throat. âFriends?â he said, hating how his voice had suddenly diminished in volume.
âYes. Just for a minute.â
He tried to say yes, but the word locked in his mouth. Still, he didnât want to disappoint Dr. Reed, so he nodded.
Dr. Reed smiled again, but the smile was crooked, as though he wasnât 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 didnât like this doctor. He didnât want to talk to him again.
âYou may remember Dr. Steiner, Norman,â Dr. Reed was saying. âHe talked to you when you first came to us. And this gentleman is Dr. Goldberg. Heâs the superintendent of the hospital.â Dr. Reed stepped aside so Norman could see yet a third man, in a suit, younger than the others, looking in from the corridor. âAnd this is Dr. Berkowitz,â Dr. Reed said. âHeâs a friend too. Dr. Goldberg would like to ask you a few questions, Norman.â
The oldest man continued to stand, towering above