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All You Love Will Be Carried Away
By Steven King
(part 2 of 7)
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 Francais? 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 PlayStation and their daughter
sat in the tub, chin_deep in fragrant bubbles, her hair tied
up with a ribbon, reading"The Golden Compass," 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,
comatose 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 (ABC) meteorologist in the
other room saying, "But now look at this low_pressure system
just coming 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
Mere. 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 tea kettle. 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 a
small boy in a straw hat, asleep with a fishing pole in his
hand. There was a green rug on the floor, a quarter inch of
some nubbly synthetic stuff. It was cold in here right now,
but when he pushed the Hi Heat button on the control panel
of the Climatron beneath the window the place would warm up
fast. Would probably become hot. A counter ran the length of
one wall. There was a TV on it. On top of the TV was a piece
of cardboard with "One_Touch Movies!" printed on it.
There were twin double beds, each covered with bright_gold
spreads that had been tucked under the pillows and then
pulled over them, so the pillows looked like small covered
corpses. There was a table between the beds with a Gideon
Bible, a TV_channel guide, and a flesh_colored phone on it.
Beyond the second bed was the door to the bathroom. When you
turned on the light in there, the fan would go on, too. If
you wanted the light, you got the fan, too. There was no way
around it. The light itself would be fluorescent, with the
ghosts of dead flies inside. On the counter beside the sink
there would be a hot plate and a Proctor_Silex electric
kettle and little packets of instant coffee. There was a
smell in here, the mingling of some harsh cleaning fluid and
mildew on the shower curtain. Alfie knew it all. He had
dreamed it right down to the green rug, but that was no
accomplishment, it was an easy dream. He thought about
turning on the heater, but that would rattle, too, and,
besides, what was the point?
All You Love Will Be Carried Away (Part 3 of 7)
(next page)
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