Read Acceptable Losses for Free Online

left. But neutron bomb invented by poet, philosopher, art-lover. Sure, he say, after he finishes calculations, world going to be blown up. But neutron bomb leaves something. Sure, kills all people, but leaves buildings standing, churches, museums, libraries, still-lifes, statues, books, leave something for two or three hundred people left over, Indians on the Amazon, Eskimos on North Pole, to start over again. Big stink. Everybody want total—we go, buildings go too, books, paintings go too. You start my type parade I march with you.”
    “Gregor,” Mrs. Franklin said, speaking for the first time, “you have no children, you can talk like that.”
    “True,” Gregor said in a low voice, “we have no children, Ebba and me. Not our fault. God’s fault.” He leaned over to Ebba, who always sat as close to him as she could and kissed her cheek.
    Damon stood up. The conversation had disturbed him more than he wanted to show. He couldn’t help but wonder if in the final explosion he could be sure that Mr. Zalovsky were certain to be extinguished, he would not cheer it on. “I’d better be getting back. Sheila should be getting in any time now and she doesn’t like to come into an empty house.”
    As he walked toward home he was not sure that it had been a good idea to go over to Gregor’s that afternoon. For one thing he envied the year in Europe that lay ahead of the Khodars. How delicious it would be, he thought, just to be able to buy tickets for himself and Sheila and fly tomorrow to Paris or Rome leaving all responsibilities, contracts, business, threats, behind them, knowing that for twelve carefree months he could forget them all. The advantage of being an artist.
    And the atmosphere in the studio had not been conducive to gaiety. Bettina Lacey’s report about her daughter’s experience was disturbing, to say the least, with its shadow of hideous death, even though the daughter had been spared. And Gregor’s dark humor about the neutron bomb, if it could be called humor, had aroused fears that, like all the men and women of his time, Damon tried to suppress as much as he could.
    He’d have been better off, Damon thought, if he had not come home after lunch and found Gregor’s note, but had just gone into a bar, had a couple of drinks and watched a baseball game on television.

CHAPTER
    FOUR
    W HEN SHEILA HADN’T GOTTEN home by seven o’clock, he began to worry. She had said she’d be back by six and she was admirably prompt in her habits. He regretted that he hadn’t phoned her in the morning at her mother’s house and told her to get back before sunset, that he didn’t want her walking alone in the twilight the five blocks from the garage where she was to leave the car a friend of hers had loaned her for the trip. He could have said that there had been a wave of muggings in the Village the last few days, which wouldn’t have been that far from the truth anyway.
    By eight o’clock he was almost ready to call the police and was pacing the floor nervously when he heard the key in the lock. He hurried to the door and embraced her, holding her tight against him as she entered the small foyer. Usually their greeting was a brief peck on the cheek and she stepped back from his arms in surprise. “My,” she said, “what’s that all about?”
    “You’re late.” He picked up her small bag. “That’s all.”
    “In that case,” she said, smiling, “I’ll be late more often.”
    Her whole face changed when she smiled and even after the long years of marriage, he adored it. In repose her face was grave and dark, and made her look like the sober photographs of peasant women you were likely to see in picture books about Italy. He had once told her her smile brought her back to America. “How was it in Vermont?” he asked.
    “It’s lucky I have only one mother,” she said. “How was it here?”
    “Lonely. I kept a copy of the crossword puzzle for you.”
    “Dear man,” she said. She threw off