DRAFT Mariah Drove to Canada:

A Song in 14 Movements

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ISoft silken stone, hue deep green, almost obsidian, captureslight, washes out the mauve fabric around it, not right, a little grey mixed in, to capture the light that pours in during the morning, get out of bed, stand by the window, see the sky, even in the winter when it's flat matte, that's what will work.Mariah stretched her neck, fluttered her eyes into focus, andlooked all around the room, then back to the empty pine planksand the window."Green stone, Mark, we need something green, deep green, here, that lifts up from the carpet, it's going to be so big, you know?"Mark said something quietly behind her. She rubbed hercupped palm briskly over the knuckle of her thumb."The big lights for over the kitchen island are coming in a hour," Mark repeated."Oh," Mariah whispered. "I can feel the thrum."IIThe first notes sound like raindrops.Tap the charcoal stick, once, twice, then a third time.The horn comes in like licorice, tugged out a strand at a time.Stroke, bold upstroke, shoulder pushed down into the finish,a brow furrowed, then stroke again, with a big rush, hard down,ahead of the horn now, and the raindrops curve into a struck chordand then the slow, swagger-out walk-walk of the piano.Michael threw the charcoal down at the pad. It bounced off tothe floor and rolled against a pile of rough lumber. He yanked his hands against his hair."Fuck, fuck, fuck fuck fuck!""It's ok, baby." Mariah whispered."Did you see it? Did you see the light? It was right there!"Michael stared in her eyes. His were a soft kind of green, likea green you'd see at the distant horizon on a murky ocean day.They quivered.

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Mariah pursed her lips, thin threads pressed flat and dry. Shecould twist them, run the corners up, make him smile. She movedacross the floor.The first notes plunked again. A slow knell."Turn the fucking music off, for Christ's sake. You aretrying to drive me nuts."Michael bowed his head down, pushed out his lip, went stonestill.Mariah fumbled for the remote."It's ok, baby. It's going to be ok," she murmured.IIIThe big latte hot on her hand through the cardboard sleeve,the cold grey winter air pressed down on the dull silver of her car ,the long filaments of branches inked around her, a throb at thefront of her head, all dried out.She squinted. The asphalt lightened in tone and ran into theconcrete walk. A smoothing out of what was around her.Cars pulled into the lot, men, women, couples decamped, ranin for their coffee, tea, whatever. Costigan was late. Sunday afternoon. A football game, maybe.His car pulled in. Always a black Jaguar. "Your old mancar," she teased one time, early on, and never said it again, no, not with the blank hard stare, the cups of his cheeks pale and tight.She never said that again and she kept a list inside her, not her head really, but in someplace that was all her own that shecould tuck things that would help her away in, that list had all thethings that she could do or say that made him go cold, pulled theanger out to cover his eyes, send him away.The back door first. Theo stepped out. There was light in thetossed blond hair, the deep brown hair, that Michael wanted to see.Her little boy looked around the lot, then fixed her, waved, brushed his hands against his jacket, stilled.Oh her heart wanted to burst every time all of a sudden whenshe saw him. Her head cleared. Her smile reached down to her breasts, warmed her all around the edges.