I’ve never understood when writers say, “Oh, this book just wrote itself.” Maybe it was because I was pregnant at the time--I don’t know--but I’ve never had such an easy time with a story. It was really fun to write. I remember laughing almost maniacally as I was typing the man’s (Kenny’s) dialogue. Here are about five pages of it.

This story was published in Antietam Review.

                                            Eclipse

    Two days after her father's funeral, Maggie found herself on a Washington, D.C. tour bus next to a man who wore a leather jacket, combat boots, and a black beret.

"How's it goin'," he said, zipping open his knapsack.

"O.K.," she said, looking away.

"Where're you headed?"

"It's a tour bus," she said to the window. "I'm just headed around the city." Then she felt guilty, so she turned to him and nodded politely. He had taken off his hat and Maggie was stunned to see that he was perfectly bald. No hair whatsoever. And very pale with dark blue eyes. He looked like a grown baby. His eyes were that blue.

"You live here?" he said.

She had to concentrate to look straight at his face and not let her eyes explore the globe that was his head.

"My parents do. Did, I mean. My mother still does." She nodded. He was still looking at her, waiting for something. "My father just died," she explained. It was the first time she'd actually said it.

"I'm sorry." Then he took out a paperback book and began to read. She actually watched his eyes go from left to right, left to right, reading the lines.

"He killed himself," she offered.

He looked up. "Who?"

"My dad."

"Oh." He looked straight ahead. "Was he sick?"

She felt a wave of relief.  "Sort of. He'd been depressed."

He raised his eyebrows, nodded once, then said, "I guess so."

She looked at him in amazement, then felt her face turn into a snarl of disgust. She readjusted her body to completely face the window. What was wrong with people? They seemed so unbelievably rude.

The bus moved slowly through the streets. Monuments went by-- and statues with important men on horses. They lulled her to sleep until the tour guide announced that they were approaching the National Zoo. Maggie opened her eyes to the throngs of tourists waiting at the crosswalk.

"Did it just happen?" the man was saying.  "The suicide?"

She turned to him. "Why?"

"Just wondering."

"Well," she said, turning just her shoulder toward him. "All his life he was depressed. I mean, that's what we grew up with." She paused, waiting for something--she didn't know what--an apology, maybe. He just looked at her. His eyes were flat, like a pond.

"But hearing the news," she went on. "Well that's just--I mean, one minute he's alive and the next . . . well."

"All I ask is that I'm not tortured to death," he said.

Maggie squinted, hesitated. "Right."

"It's not the way I choose to go."

"Well I'm sure it won't happen then."

"You never know what's in store," he said. "The big man's got all kinds of plans."

"Uh huh." She glanced again out the window. They passed the National Cathedral which the tour guide called "a stunning work of art." Maggie found it not at all beautiful, but imposing and scary--and fake looking.

"It's called the big R," he said.

She looked at him. "Excuse me?"

"Retribution," he said. "I've done some things I'm not too proud of."

"Well, we all have," she said, sounding even to herself like a prim schoolteacher.

He was smiling in a cultish way.

"What?" she said.

"What's the worst thing you've done--stolen a Snickers Bar? A pack of Juicy Fruit?"

"What do you want me to say--that I've killed someone? Who cares? I've done plenty of things I'm not proud of."  She looked down at her cuticles.

"Like what?"

"Like--" but she couldn't think of anything.

"My point is that, up there?" He pointed to the roof of the bus. "That guy doesn't  miss a beat. What goes around comes around? That saying? It's my fucking mantra, man."

"I used to wish my parents would get a divorce," she said. "O.K.? Is that good enough for you?"

"I killed someone," the man said. The bus turned and sunlight hit his face and he squinted. "It was an accident but who cares? The point is that it happened and God doesn't give a rat's ass if you felt bad about it or not."

"How do you know?"

"Believe me, I know."

"I didn't realize God was so big into capital punishment," she said.

"This isn't about that."

"Then what's it about? Haven't you heard of forgiveness?"

"This isn't a debate. I know what I'm talking about."

"So what's the problem? You're worried you'll be tortured because--"

"Paid back. It's the way it works.  I didn't get caught for what I did, alright?" He looked exhausted now. "I got cancer."

She glanced at his bald head. "Wait a minute," she said. "You think you got--"

"Yes, I do."

She shook her head. "I don't know about that."

"Well I do." He looked past her, out her window.  He was a young man, probably mid-to late-twenties, like Maggie. He was nice looking--not the type Maggie would ever go for, but he had a certain quality about him that was interesting, she couldn't figure out what exactly. Maybe it was the eyes.  Cancer. It sounded so awful. She hadn't known anyone that young with cancer.

The bus was slowing down, getting near the final destination.

She looked at him. She wanted to get this straight.  "So you're saying anything wrong you do you'll get punished for it."

His eyes moved slowly from the window to her. "That's what I'm saying."

"What about people in war?"

"You think those vets don't pay the price?"

She sighed. She didn't know what she thought. She didn't know why she was even having the conversation.

"You strike me as a very selfish person," he said suddenly

"Excuse me?"

He put on his beret and zipped up his knapsack. "Life is quick," he said. "It's like--" and he snapped his fingers three times--"that quick."

She gave him a disgusted look. "What are you--some kind of prophet? You think you can sum me up after five seconds? You don't know anything about me."

He stood. "Strange things happen when you're faced with death. For one, your eyesight improves dramatically."

Good for you, she thought. Good for your stupid eyes. She opened her big black bag, looked in it, and closed it.  She had that faraway sensation where she felt that she was no longer part of her body. She was outside of it, treading a little frantically, trying to pretend she was just fine, that nothing touched her, that there was no problem whatsoever.

He hoisted his knapsack on his back and with the movement she got a whiff of stale cigarette smoke again.

She looked up at him. "You killed," she said meanly.

"Yes I did."

The bus stopped and the doors opened.

He was still standing in the aisle looking at her. It occurred to Maggie that he was waiting for her to say something. She felt a pang of embarrassment for having gotten so drawn in and defensive.

She looked up at him. "Well I hope everything goes alright with you."

"Oh it will."

She looked down. "Well, good." She buttoned her coat, wishing she hadn't said anything. Then she was glad she had said something.

"I hope everything goes alright with you, too," he said.

She stood. "Don't worry." She began to walk down the aisle.

"I am," he said in back of her.

"Please," she said. "I think I can handle my life, alright?"

Maggie stepped off the bus and the fall air engulfed her. She pulled back her thick hair  with the rubberband she kept around her wrist.

The bald man was looking at her as if he were engrossed in a movie.

"Excuse me," she said. "I need to be somewhere," although, of course, there was no place she needed to be. There was nothing she needed to be doing.

"Can I ask you something?" he said.

"Oh great," she said. "I can't wait for this one."

He was silent.

She looked up at him. He looked different outside--a little healthier maybe.

"Why aren't you married?" he said.

"Who says I'm not?"

"For one, there's no ring. And two, it's your dad's funeral. I hope the guy would've made a little effort."

"Maybe I'm about to be married. Maybe I don't wear a ring." She glanced down at the sidewalk. "Maybe I'm like, a little young to be married?"

"Maybe you're waiting for something."

"Maybe." She glared at him. "What are you--a psychic?" She was annoyed and intrigued. "Why aren't you married? Or wait--do you want me to guess?" She  closed her eyes, then opened them, and in a mocking palmreader's voice, said, "You met someone many years ago. You fell in love. Now you ride around on buses telling strangers  what you think about them."

"That was good," he said, nodding. "Very accurate."

"Thank you."  She smiled slightly.

"So, is marriage something you want?" he said. "Is it a goal?"

"A goal? You make it sound like a business deal."

"Well."

"What about you? We didn't get to you yet. You never answered my question."

"About why I'm not married?"

She nodded.

He gave her an incredulous look. He glanced around quickly as if a joke were being played on him.

"Because I'm dying?" he said.

"Well that's--" but she didn't know what to say. She counted the zippers on his jacket.

"There was someone but that's over with."

Maggie looked down at her shoes. She felt a strange relief. "Oh."

"We were together eight years.  I'm not saying there weren't problems."

"So what happened?"

He took a deep breath and as it seemed that he was about to explain, he started coughing. He turned away from her and it kept coming. His back went up and down with each cough. She wondered very intensely now what kind of cancer it was.

When he stopped coughing  she said, "You shouldn't smoke."

He looked at her. "You shouldn't wear lipstick."

"What?"

"You'd look better without it."

"Well," she said, scanning in her mind which color she applied that morning. "I'll take that into consideration."

They stood there for a minute without saying anything. Then she looked into his blue eyes. "Are you really dying?"

He didn't look a bit surprised by this question. "Unless someone hurries up and wins that Nobel Prize."

She smiled. "Are you scared?"

"No."

"No?" She didn't believe him.

"Why would I be scared?" he said. "I've had this thing for six years. I've had time to deal with it. Believe me, it's no picnic. I didn't grow up facing any kind of truths."

Suddenly she remembered he had killed someone. She pictured him as a little bald boy sitting too close to the t.v., getting yelled at by an abusive father. She felt a surge of warmth  toward him and she wanted to hug him, tell him if he's had it six years then he'll live six more--sixteen more.

"Would you mind sitting with me somewhere for a warm drink?" he said. "I get cold easily."

"Oh." She thought a second about what to do. "Sure," she said...