Invasion of the Body Snatchers Read Free Page A

does she say? Have you talked with her, told her about this?"
    Wilma just shook her head again, turning to stare across the porch at nothing.
    "Why not?"
    She turned slowly back toward me; for a moment her eyes stared into mine, then suddenly the tears were running down her plump, twisted face. "Because - Miles - she's not my Aunt Aleda, either!" For an instant, mouth open, she stared at me in absolute horror; then, if you can scream in a whisper, that's what she did. "Oh, my God, Miles, am I going crazy? Tell me, Miles, tell me; don't spare me, I've got to know !" Becky was holding Wilma's hand, squeezing it between her own, her face contorted in an agony of compassion.
    I deliberately smiled into Wilma's eyes, exactly as though I knew what I was talking about. "No," I said firmly, "you're not." I grinned and reached forward to lay my hand over hers, clenched on the chain of the swing. "Even these days, Wilma, it isn't as easy to go crazy as you might think."
    Making her voice almost calm, Becky said," I've always heard that if you think you're losing your mind, you're not."
    "There's a lot of truth in that," I said, though there isn't. "But, Wilma, you don't have to be losing your mind by a long shot to need psychiatric help. So what? Nowadays, that's nothing, and plenty of people have been help-"
    "You don't understand." She sat staring at Uncle Ira, her voice dull and withdrawn now. Then, giving Becky's hand a squeeze in thanks, she withdrew her own hand, and turned to me, no longer crying, and her voice was quiet and firm.
    "Miles, he looks, sounds, acts, and remembers exactly like Ira. On the outside. But inside he's different. His responses" - she stopped, hunting for the word - "aren't emotionally right, if I can explain that. He remembers the past, in detail, and he'll smile and say, "You were sure a cute youngster, Willy. Bright one, too,' just the way Uncle Ira did. But there's something missing, and the same thing is true of Aunt Aleda, lately." Wilma stopped, staring at nothing again, face intent, wrapped up in this, then she continued. "Uncle Ira was a father to me, from infancy, and when he talked about my childhood, Miles, there was - always - a special look in his eyes that meant he was remembering the wonderful quality of those days for him. Miles, that look, 'way in back of the eyes, is gone. With this - this Uncle Ira, or whoever or whatever he is, I have the feeling, the absolutely certain knowledge, Miles, that he's talking by rote. That the facts of Uncle Ira's memories are all in his mind in every last detail, ready to recall. But the emotions are not. There is no emotion - none - only the pretence of it. The words, the gestures, the tones of voice, everything else - but not the feeling."
    Her voice was suddenly firm and commanding: "Miles, memories or not, appearances or not, possible or impossible, that is not my Uncle Ira."
    There was nothing more to say now, and Wilma knew that as well as I did. She stood up, smiling, and said, "We'd better break this up or" - she nodded toward the lawn - "he'll begin wondering."
    I was still confused. "Wondering what?"
    "Wondering," she said patiently, "if I don't suspect." Then she held out her hand, and I took it. "You've helped me, Miles, whether you know it or not, and I don't want you to worry too much about me." She turned to Becky. "Or you either." She grinned - "I'm a toughie; you both know that. And I'll be all right. And if you want me to see your psychiatrist, Miles, I will."
    I nodded, said I'd make an appointment for her with Dr. Manfred Kaufman, in Valley Springs, the best man I know of, and that I'd phone her in the morning. I muttered some nonsense about relaxing, taking it easy, not worrying, and so on, and Wilma smiled gently and put her hand on my arm the way a woman does when she forgives a man for failing her. Then she thanked Becky for coming over, said she wanted to get to bed early, and I told Becky I'd drive her home.
    Going down the walk