Oh, my god. You knew? Why didn’t you say something? Sweet mother of Mozart, Janice! I think I’m going to be sick.
Do you have any idea how awkward tonight was? I was knee-deep into my anecdote about the Raindrop Prelude—do you know how many times I’ve told that story, Janice?!—when Ricky raised his hand. He actually raised his hand, Janice, like a second grader asking for a hall pass to use the bathroom, a little embarrassed to have to say it out loud but finding it necessary nonetheless. And I’m all, like, “I think I know how to pronounce the name of my favorite composer, Ricky.” Haha.
Yeah, ha freaking ha. But no one was laughing, Janice. Do you want to know why? Because no one could imagine that a forty-two-year-old man could have spent a whole forty-two years mispronouncing the name of one of the greatest and most celebrated composers of all time. Certainly not a forty-two-year-old man with a master’s degree in music theory, a plaque recognizing fifteen years of support from the Friends of the Grand Rapids Symphony, and not one, but two I LISTEN TO DEAD PEOPLE T-shirts. No one would believe that, Janice. Because it couldn’t happen, Janice. Unless someone, Janice, never bothered to tell him.
I remember reading those Peanuts comic strips as a kid, with the words written out in little cartoon bubbles, representing what Schroeder was saying to Lucy over that tiny little piano. Beethoven, Bach, Chopin, etc. I wasn’t hearing him say those names, Janice. I was hearing them in my own head as I read them. How am I supposed to know that what I am hearing isn’t what I should be hearing if no one bothers to mention it, Janice?
Ricky, Janice. Apparently, Ricky is the one person in my life who really cares. At first, I couldn’t quite make sense of what he was trying to tell me. I thought he said, “Show Pam.” Which, Pam wasn’t even at the party and wouldn’t know a nocturne from an étude. Show her what, exactly, Ricky? But no. Oh, no, Janice. That wasn’t it.
In hindsight, Ricky was actually really sweet about it. He stood up and moved slowly, gently toward me, all the while holding my attention with eyes that said, “I’m sorry, sweetie. Mittens isn’t here anymore. She’s in kitty-heaven, but we’ll keep her memory in our hearts and her ashes in that little vase on the bookshelf.” Just like you might have done, Janice. Just like you might have done, I don’t know, on any number of private occasions over the last nine years. Like anyone might have done, Janice, and should have done, Janice, when I was the same age as a little girl who is going to have to learn a hard but necessary lesson about life and death and how to dust very carefully around one particular vase.
Do you remember our honeymoon? We went to Poland, Janice. Here’s what I would like to know: How is it possible to visit a national museum dedicated to preserving the memory and legacy of a singular artistic genius, Janice, without anyone clarifying the proper pronunciation of his name? That’s messed up.
What about my book, The Trouble with Treble? I narrated the audio book, Janice. Aloud. Into a microphone.
The eulogy I gave at my father’s funeral, Janice. My lecture series at the library, Janice. The father-son presentation at the school assembly, Janice.
Oh, my god, Janice. Little Choppy…
What am I going to tell our son?
