Lancelot

know.”
    â€œOh oh oh,” she said, taking one hand in the other and actually wringing it. “Is there anything I can do? Oh my God.”
    â€œYou could have.”
    â€œMe. Just me?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWhy me?”
    â€œBecause I loved you.” That was true enough I knew even though I couldn’t remember what it was to love her.
    â€œLoved? Love?” she asked.
    â€œBecause you were the only person who knew how to turn it all into love.”
    â€œLove?”
    â€œSweetness dearness innocence singing laughing. ‘Love.’”
    â€œLaughing?”
    â€œThat may have been your secret. You had a way of laughing.”
    â€œYes, I know. I’ll tell you what.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œTake your weight off me a little. I can’t breathe.”
    â€œNeither can I. I’m not on you. It’s not the weight.”
    â€œOh, God. What is wrong? I can’t breathe.”
    â€œDon’t worry about that. It’s the storm.”
    â€œI tell you what, Lance.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œLet’s go away.”
    â€œWhere?”
    â€œAnywhere. We can start a new life. I’m the only one who can make you happy.” It is strange but she spoke offhandedly now, as if nothing mattered a great deal. She too knew that there are no longer any “great historical moments.” She even took hold of the fabric of my hunting jacket and in her old way plucked a loose thread from it.
    â€œThat’s true.”
    â€œI know that I know how to and you know that I know how to.”
    â€œYes.”
    It was true.
    We must have been poisoned by the methane because the roaring of the storm was inside my head and I could hardly hear her. She was delirious. She was talking again, but not even to me any longer, about being a child in the Texas countryside and walking to town Saturdays and taking her good shoes along in a paper bag. She would change shoes at the bridge and hide the old shoes in a culvert.
    â€œI’m nothing—” she began. “What’s the matter with me?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThat’s what you never knew. With you I had to be either—or—but never a—uh—woman. It was good for a while. Oooh. Everything’s gone black. I’m dying.”
    â€œNo. The lamp went out.”
    I sat on the bed thinking: How could the lamp go out? To this day I don’t know. Perhaps the wick was too low.
    â€œWait,” I told her and crawled on all fours to get it. Why did I say that to her? Wait. Because I wanted her to tell me how we could do it, start all over again? But not in a serious way. Yes. I was delirious too. I had forgotten about the methane and was thinking of planning a trip with her.
    Before I lit the lamp, I sat on the floor, the lamp between me and the bed. my back against the outer wall.
    â€œDo you really think—” I said, turning up the wick, and struck the match. For a tenth of a second I could see her in the flaring, lying on her side like Anna, knees drawn up, cheek against her hands pressed palms together, dark eyes gazing
    Without a sound the room flowered. All was light and air and color and movement but not a sound. I was moved. That is to say, for the first time in thirty years I was moved off the dead center of my life. Ah then, I was thinking as I moved, there are still great moments. I was wheeling slowly up into the night like Lucifer blown out of hell, great wings spread against the starlight.
    I knew everything. I even knew what had happened. Belle Isle had blown up. Why, I wondered, wheeling, hadn’t Raine’s room blown first? Was it because the duct was much smaller there or because I had left the chimney on the lamp?
    I must have been blown through the wall, with the wall, because I came down on the outer sloping thicket of the great oak where the limb swept to the ground, touched, and came up again. When I came to myself, the fire was hot against my cheek. But there was no great inferno. The roof and upper floors were gone and what flame there was was blown flat and in places separate from the building like the flame of a Bunsen burner. The south wind of the hurricane blew the heat away from me. I felt myself. Nothing was broken. I looked at myself. My hand and shoulder were bloody. I did not feel bad. I stood up, for some reason put my hands in my pockets, and walked up the front steps as I had done ten thousand times before.