Norma: "On the one hand, thanks for picking up the motel's new linens. On the other hand, you are coming home very late and you smell like candy. Not the good kind, the gross kind."
Dylan: "I get it. This is me ruining your idyll fantasy with Norman, your child-boy-husband Mini Me. Okay? I get the memo. I grew up with this crap."
Norma: "He's a good boy! He eats off plates, like a person!"
We get some background now: Norma married Dylan's father when she was seventeen -- leading me once again to compare Norma and Lorelei Gilmore, in that we stop at the age of our trauma and then heap undue pressure on our kids when they turn that age -- and then eventually left him for Sam, Norman's father who is now quite dead.
Dylan: "Yeah, how'd that second marriage work out?"
Norma: "Here's the thing, I hate you. Just fully hate your ass."
Dylan: "I'm well aware. But what to you looks like resentment and anger feels a lot to me like being left out of the seventeen-year tea party you've had going on with the Boy Prince..."
Norma: "Uh, we're cool? We're buds? He likes me? You're acting like it is less healthy to have a positive and loving relationship with your kid. Like your constant bitching and malice are the norm."
Dylan: "So to speak."
Norma: "So to speak."
Dylan: "And the motel? The new car? Where'd all that come from? What's funding this little..."
Norma: "Sam was an insurance salesman, so he was well-insured."
Dylan: "My implication is resounding, Norma."
She bursts into tears, finally, demanding that he call her by her name: Her name is Mother.
It's a very interesting dynamic, this: You have two sons, each of whom relate to her in a much more adult way than is maybe optimal. One of them, she subsumes, the other resists. One of them is a native, the other an invader. But when you defend the walls around your domain as strongly as Norma Bates -- we know -- must, it doesn't really matter if the invader was born here. He's just another envoy from the nightmare beyond those walls. Whatever darkness he represents for himself is nothing compared to what he symbolizes: They'll never stop coming. First you dream and then you die.
The Bateses start the day on their knees, obsessively scrubbing down the scene of the crime. No, lower. Not even on their knees, on their bellies.