close Pushkin's vision had been to what Katerina herself went through, before she was enchanted in that magic place. He wondered also how Pushkin could have known. What influence did the bear still have in the world, at the time when Pushkin wrote?
Ruthie's voice brought him back to the present. "I'd like to take you on a picnic for the Fourth."
"A picnic?" It sounded bizarre. But if you looked at it another way, it was rather sweet, too. "That would be nice, but - "
"The three of us, of course. I still think of you as a friend, Ivan. Can't I? Is that wrong?"
"Not wrong, no, of course not. I wish we could, but we need to stay home, kind of a family thing - "
"No, no, I understand. I'm not part of the family, and she is, and that's that. I really am fine with it, Ivan. I don't pretend I understand what happened - maybe that's part of why I want to spend a little time with the two of you."
"She doesn't really speak much English yet," said Ivan.
"You can translate. What if we do it the day before? The third. Ivan, don't turn me away empty-handed."
No way were he and Katerina going to leave the safety of Mother's protected house. And yet it seemed churlish to turn down this overture of reconciliation. "The third, all right, but why don't you come over here? I know Mother and Father would like to see you again."
A moment's hesitation on the other end of the phone. "But you have to let me bring the food," she finally said.
"Mother won't hear of it," said Ivan.
"Then who's inviting whom? It's my picnic, Ivan. Even if we have it in your back yard."
Why did he have such a creepy feeling about this? I should tell her no, Ivan thought. This is wrong, this is a mistake. It's dangerous.
But he couldn't think why it was dangerous. And he had wronged her. He owed her a debt of guilt. If she wanted to mend fences, how could he let some vague, unnameable fear stand between them now?
Truth to tell, there was another reason he didn't want to have this picnic: In the weeks since returning to America, since seeing her at the airport, Ivan had come to realize that he didn't really miss Ruthie. That in fact he probably had never loved her. Now that he could compare his feelings toward Ruthie with his feelings toward Katerina, he knew there was no comparison. He hadn't been ready for marriage at all. It would have been a struggle to make it work with Ruthie. They would have bored each other so quickly.
And if he was completely honest with himself, he had to admit she had bored him already, before he left for Kiev. He was glad to leave her behind, he realized that now. He didn't miss her. He had never really loved her.
And that made him feel so guilty that it overrode any other consideration. "Your food, my house, noon. This is sweet of you, Ruthie."
"Don't patronize me, Ivan. I'm still not sure that I don't want to put the potato salad over your head. And maybe rub it in a little."
The breath of honesty came as a relief to him. "Whatever you think is right," said Ivan. "I won't protest that I don't deserve it. But not Katerina, please. She didn't know about you when she said yes to me."
"Oh. Well, you really are a two-faced son-of-a-bitch," said Ruthie cheerfully.
"There it is," said Ivan. "But at least I saved you from being married to one."
Ruthie laughed lightly. "I'll come by at noon on the third."
"We'll be here with bells on," said Ivan. Only after they hung up did he feel a twinge of embarrassment at his own phoniness. Be there with bells on? What B movie from the thirties did he get that line from? There wasn't an honest moment in that whole conversation, except when she talked about shampooing him with potato salad.
I don't want her here. There'll be a scene. Someone will cry. Someone will swear. No one will enjoy the food. If I had any spine at all, I'd have said no.
But what's done is done.
Yes, Esther was afraid for her son, for her new daughter-in-law, for the whole family. Yes, she worried about how her husband feared and hated the magic that had intruded into his life, and how he resented her for having known it all along. The power