sk.everythingseventual-第16部分

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　I　went　on　with　it；　anyway。　Sometimes　stories　cry　out　to　be　told　in　such　loud　voices　that　you　write　them　just　to　shut　them　up。　I　thought　the　finished　product　a　rather　humdrum　folktale　told　in　pedestrian　language；　certainly　miles　from　the　Hawthorne　story　I　liked　so　much。　When　The　New　Yorker　asked　to　publish　it；　I　was　shocked。　When　it　won　first　prize　in　the　O。　Henry　Best　Short　Story　petition　for　1996；　I　was　convinced　someone　had　made　a　mistake　（that　did　not　keep　me　from　accepting　the　award；　however）。　Reader　response　was　generally　positive；　too。　This　story　is　proof　that　writers　are　often　the　worst　judges　of　what　they　have　written。
　　　
　　　
　　　
　　　ALL　THAT　YOU　LOVE　WILL　BE
　　　CARRIED　AWAY
　　
　　
　　It　was　a　Motel　6　on　I…80　just　west　of　Lincoln；　Nebraska。　The　snow　that　began　at　midafternoon　had　faded　the　sign's　virulent　yellow　to　a　kinder　pastel　shade　as　the　light　ran　out　of　the　January　dusk。　The　wind　was　closing　in　on　that　quality　of　empty　amplification　one　encounters　only　in　the　country's　flat　midsection；　usually　in　winter…time。　That　meant　nothing　but　disfort　now；　but　if　big　snow　came　tonight…the　weather　forecasters　couldn't　seem　to　make　up　their　minds…then　the　interstate　would　be　shut　down　by　morning。　That　was　nothing　to　Alfie　Zimmer。
　　He　got　his　key　from　a　man　in　a　red　vest　and　drove　down　to　the　end　of　the　long　cinder…block　building。　He　had　been　selling　in　the　Midwest　for　twenty　years；　and　had　formulated　four　basic　rules　about　securing　his　night's　rest。　First；　always　reserve　ahead。　Second；　reserve　at　a　franchise　motel　if　possible…your　Holiday　Inn；　your　Ramada　Inn；　your　fort　Inn；　your　Motel　6。　Third；　always　ask　for　a　room　on　the　end。　That　way；　the　worst　you　could　have　was　one　set　of　noisy　neighbors。　Last；　ask　for　a　room　that　begins　with　a　one。　Alfie　was　forty…four；　too　old　to　be　fucking　truck…stop　whores；　eating　chicken…fried　steak；　or　hauling　his　luggage　upstairs。　These　days；　the　rooms　on　the　first　floor　were　usually　reserved　for　non…smokers。　Alfie　rented　them　and　smoked　anyway。
　　Someone　had　taken　the　space　in　front　of　Room　190。　All　the　spaces　along　the　building　were　taken。　Alfie　wasn't　surprised。　You　could　make　a　reservation；　guarantee　it；　but　if　you　arrived　late　（late　on　a　day　like　this　was　after　4　P。M。）；　you　had　to　park　and　walk。　The　cars　belonging　to　the　early　birds　were　nestled　up　to　the　gray　cinder　block　and　the　bright…yellow　doors　in　a　long　line；　their　windows　already　covered　with　a　scrim　of　light　snow。
　　Alfie　drove　around　the　corner　and　parked　with　the　nose　of　his　Chevrolet　pointed　at　the　white　expanse　of　some　farmer's　field；　swimming　deep　into　the　gray　of　day's　end。　At　the　farthest　limit　of　vision　he　could　see　the　spark　lights　of　a　farm。　In　there；　they　would　be　hunkered　down。　Out　here；　the　wind　blew　hard　enough　to　rock　the　car。　Snow　skated　past；　obliterating　the　farm　lights　for　a　few　moments。
　　Alfie　was　a　big　man　with　a　florid　face　and　a　smoker's　noisy　respiration。　He　was　wearing　a　topcoat；　because　when　you　were　selling　that　was　what　people　liked　to　see。　Not　a　jacket。　Storekeepers　sold　to　people　wearing　jackets　and　John　Deere　caps；　they　didn't　buy　from　them。　The　room　key　lay　on　the　seat　beside　him。　It　was　attached　to　a　diamond　of　green　plastic。　The　key　was　a　real　key；　not　a　MagCard。　On　the　radio　Clint　Black　was　singing　'Nothin'　but　the　Tail　Lights。'　It　was　a　country　song。　Lincoln　had　an　FM　rocker　now；　but　rock…and…roll　music　didn't　seem　right　to　Alfie。　Not　out　here；　where　if　you　switched　over　to　AM　you　could　still　hear　angry　old　men　calling　down　hellfire。
　　He　shut　off　the　engine；　put　the　key　to　190　in　his　pocket；　and　checked　to　make　sure　he　still　had　his　notebook　in　there；　too。　His　old　pal。　'Save　Russian　Jews；'　he　said；　reminding　himself。　'Collect　valuable　prizes。'
　　He　got　out　of　the　car　and　a　gust　of　wind　hit　him　hard；　rocking　him　back　on　his　heels；　flapping　his　pants　around　his　legs；　making　him　laugh　a　smoker's　surprised　rattlebox　laugh。
　　His　samples　were　in　the　trunk；　but　he　wouldn't　need　them　tonight。　No；　not　tonight；　not　at　all。　He　took　his　suitcase　and　his　briefcase　out　of　the　backseat；　shut　the　door；　then　pushed　the　black　button　on　his　key　fob。　That　one　locked　all　the　doors。　The　red　one　set　off　an　alarm；　what　you　were　supposed　to　use　if　you　were　going　to　get　mugged。　Alfie　had　never　been　mugged。　He　guessed　that　few　salesmen　of　gourmet　foods　were；　especially　in　this　part　of　the　country。　There　was　a　market　for　gourmet　foods　in　Nebraska；　Iowa；　Oklahoma；　and　Kansas；　even　in　the　Dakotas；　although　many　might　not　believe　it。　Alfie　had　done　quite　well；　especially　over　the　last　two　years　as　he　got　to　know　the　market's　deeper　creases…but　it　was　never　going　to　equal　the　market　for；　let's　say；　fertilizer。　Which　he　could　smell　even　now　on　the　winter　wind　that　was　freezing　his　cheeks　and　turning　them　an　even　darker　shade　of　red。
　　He　stood　where　he　was　a　moment　longer；　waiting　for　the　wind　to　drop。　It　did；　and　he　could　see　the　spark　lights　again。　The　farmhouse。　And　was　it　possible　that　behind　those　lights；　some　farmer's　wife　was　even　now　heating　up　a　pot　of　Cottager　Split　Pea　Soup　or　perhaps　microwaving　a　Cottager　Shepherd's　Pie　or　Chicken　Fran？ais？　It　was。　It　was　as　possible　as　hell。　While　her　husband　watched　the　early　news　with　his　shoes　off　and　his　sock　feet　on　a　hassock；　and　overhead　their　son　played　a　video　game　on　his　GameCube　and　their　daughter　sat　in　the　tub；　chin…deep　in　fragrant　bubbles；　her　hair　tied　up　with　a　ribbon；　reading　The　Golden　pass；　by　Philip　Pullman；　or　perhaps　one　of　the　Harry　Potter　books；　which　were　favorites　of　Alfie's　daughter；　Carlene。　All　that　going　on　behind　the　spark　lights；　some　family's　universal　joint　turning　smoothly　in　its　socket；　but　between　them　and　the　edge　of　this　parking　lot　was　a　mile　and　a　half　of　flat　field；　white　in　the　running…away　light　of　a　low　sky；　atose　with　the　season。　Alfie　briefly　imagined　himself　walking　into　that　field　in　his　city　shoes；　his　briefcase　in　one　hand　and　his　suitcase　in　the　other；　working　his　way　across　the　frozen　furrows；　finally　arriving；　knocking；　the　door　would　be　opened　and　he　would　smell　pea　soup；　that　good　hearty　smell；　and　hear　the　KETV　meteorologist　in　the　other　room　saying；　'But　now　look　at　this　low…pressure　system　just　ing　over　the　Rockies。'
　　And　what　would　Alfie　say　to　the　farmer's　wife？　That　he　just　dropped　by　for　dinner？　Would　he　advise　her　to　save　Russian　Jews；　collect　valuable　prizes？　Would　he　begin　by　saying；　'Ma'am；　according　to　at　least　one　source　I've　read　recently；　all　that　you　love　will　be　carried　away'？　That　would　be　a　good　conversation　opener；　sure　to　interest　the　farmer's　wife　in　the　wayfaring　stranger　who　had　just　walked　across　her　husband's　east　field　to　knock　on　her　door。　And　when　she　invited　him　to　step　in；　to　tell　her　more；　he　could　open　his　briefcase　and　give　her　a　couple　of　his　sample　books；　tell　her　that　once　she　discovered　the　Cottager　brand　of　quick…serve　gourmet　delicacies　she　would　almost　certainly　want　to　move　on　to　the　more　sophisticated　pleasures　of　Ma　Mère。　And；　by　the　way；　did　she　have　a　taste　for　caviar？　Many　did。　Even　in　Nebraska。
　　Freezing。　Standing　here　and　freezing。
　　He　turned　from　the　field　and　the　spark　lights　at　the　far　end　of　it　and　walked　to　the　motel；　moving　in　careful　duck　steps　so　he　wouldn't　go　ass　over　teakettle。　He　had　done　it　before；　God　knew。　Whoops…a…daisy　in　half　a　hundred　motel　parking　lots。　He　had　done　most　of　it　before；　actually；　and　supposed　that　was　at　least　part　of　the　problem。
　　There　was　an　overhang；　so　he　was　able　to　get　out　of　the　snow。　There　was　a　Coke　machine　with　a　sign　saying；　USE　CORRECT　CHANGE。　There　was　an　ice　machine　and　a　Snax　machine　with　candy　bars　and　various　kinds　of　potato　chips　behind　curls　of　metal　like　bedsprings。　There　was　no　USE　CORRECT　CHANGE　sign　on　the　Snax　machine。　From　the　room　to　the　left　of　the　one　where　he　intended　to　kill　himself；　Alfie　could　hear　the　early　news；　but　it　would　sound　better　in　that　farmhouse　over　yonder；　he　was　sure　of　that。　The　wind　boomed。　Snow　swirled　around　his　city　shoes；　and　then　Alfie　let　himself　into　his　room。　The　light　switch　was　to　the　left。　He　turned　it　on　and　shut　the　door。
　　He　knew　the　room；　it　was　the　room　of　his　dreams。　It　was　square。　The　walls　were　white。　On　one　was　a　picture　of