Mommy, is Beethoven dead?
Yes. I throw a quick glance at the five year old standing beside me as the lemon scent of Dawn detergent rises from the kitchen sink.
Is he in the grave?
Yes. I continue scouring the speck of burnt oil from the frying pan.
Where?
In Germany. I am rinsing the cookware with hot water.
I thought Germany was blown up.
Well, the cities got blown up during the war. But the country is still around.
Was Beethoven bad?
He did a lot of good things as a great composer. I turn off the faucet.
If he is good, why is his movie rated R?
I pretend not to hear him as I place the pots and pans on the rack to dry. (I watched “Immortal Beloved” some nights ago and told him he couldn’t watch it with me.)
Is he going to heaven?
I stop, turn around, and look at him intently. His face is contorted, struggling to contain something that is about to boil over. I take his hand and lead him to kitchen table. I pull a chair, and cradle his thin body onto my lap. He buries his face on my chest and sobs.
I can’t do what I want. Lee tells me what to do all the time. I don’t like pre-school. The kids are bad. I want to see Jesus now.
He wipes his face with my blouse, breathing hard, as I rock him gently to the tense rhythm of my heartbeat, feeling there is more.
I wait for a few minutes, then I ask, are you angry about the divorce?
He stifles a sob, gulps for air, and says softly, Yes.
Why? I prod, stroking his hair.
Because we’re not a family anymore.
I wince. That’s not true! I say sharply, hugging him tighter.
When you, your brother, and I are together, we are a family. When you two are with your Dad, you are a family.
Lee’s footsteps stops at the corner. What’s going on, he asks. I motion for him to come closer. He joins us, pats his younger brother’s shoulders, and Vic quiets down.
I put my arms around the boys, look into their eyes, and I say, it’s going to be okay.
In the silence, I could hear Beethoven’s “Pathetique” Sonata, and I imagine him pounding on his piano, fast, furious, and sad.