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ke any other man or woman who ever lived； I can't say about my dreams； not for sure。 But now I'm old； and I dream awake； it seems。 My infirmities have crept up like waves which will soon take a child's abandoned sand castle； and my memories have also crept up； making me think of some old rhyme that went； in part； 'Just leave them alone/And they'll e home/Wagging their tails behind them。' I remember meals I ate； games I played； girls I kissed in the school cloakroom when we played Post Office； boys I chummed with； the first drink I ever took； the first cigarette I ever smoked （cornshuck behind Dicky Hammer's pig…shed； and I threw up）。 Yet of all the memories； the one of the man in the black suit is the strongest； and glows with its own spectral； haunted light。 He was real； he was the Devil； and that day I was either his errand or his luck。 I feel more and more strongly that escaping him was my luck…just luck； and not the intercession of the God I have worshipped and sung hymns to all my life。
As I lie here in my nursing…home room； and in the ruined sand castle that is my body； I tell myself that I need not fear the Devil…that I have lived a good； kindly life； and I need not fear the Devil。 Sometimes I remind myself that it was I； not my father； who finally coaxed my mother back to church later on that summer。 In the dark； however； these thoughts have no power to ease or fort。 In the dark es a voice which whispers that the nine…year…old boy I was had done nothing for which he might legitimately fear the devil either 。 。 。 and yet the Devil came。 And in the dark I sometimes hear that voice drop even lower； into ranges which are inhuman。 Big fish！ it whispers in tones of hushed greed； and all the truths of the moral world fall to ruin before its hunger。 Biiig fiiish！
The Devil came to me once； long ago； suppose he were to e again now？ I am too old to run now； I can't even get to the bathroom and back without my walker。 I have no fine large brook trout with which to propitiate him； either； even for a moment or two； I am old and my creel is empty。 Suppose he were to e back and find me so？
And suppose he is still hungry？
My favorite Nathaniel Hawthorne story is 'Young Goodman Brown。' I think it's one of the ten best stories ever written by an American。 'The Man in the Black Suit' is my hommage to it。 As for the particulars； I was talking with a friend of mine one day； and he happened to mention that his Grandpa believed…truly believed…that he had seen the Devil in the woods； back around the turn of the twentieth century。 Grandpa said the Devil came walking out of the woods and started talking to him just like a natural man。 While Grandpa was chinning with him； he realized that the man from the woods had burning red eyes and smelled like sulfur。 My friend's Grandpa became convinced that the Devil would kill him if he realized Grandpa had caught on； so he did his best to make normal conversation until he could eventually get away。 My story grew from my friend's story。 Writing it was no fun； but 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