Ch. 12:
"Come on. Come on," I said, while waiting in line at the Sector 4 checkpoint. After I had left Alec and Bree at my apartment, it was already seven. I hurried out of there, scrambling to put on my outfit for my date while taking a shortcut to the Sector 4 checkpoint. I glared at the three people ahead of me, blocking my attempt to get to the restaurant on time. Glancing at my watch, I groaned when it read seven forty-five. I impatiently tapped my foot as the line moved up, knocking the wait down to two people in front of me. Finally, the sector cop asked for my pass. He looked me up and down and gave me a wolfish grin as I handed him my card.
"Where you headed, honey?" he asked, still holding my sector pass. I gave him a disgusted look, but plastered on a fake smile.
"I'm going to Luigi's," I replied. "With my boyfriend." At that, the sector cop paled as he returned my sector pass. I smiled in satisfaction as I was allowed to pass the checkpoint. I hailed a cab and told the driver to move quickly. While the cab drove me towards the restaurant, I kept looking at my watch and felt my heart sink as it read eight o'clock. By the time I reached Luigi's, it was already nine. I didn't have to wait too long at the host's podium. The host, a medium sized man with a thin black mustache and smoothed down black hair, looked at me with some suspicion as I asked for the Gardener party.
"The Gardener party?" he repeated in a snotty tone.
Restraining the urge to hit the man, I gritted my teeth and said, "Yes, the Gardener party. They were supposed to be here an hour ago. They made reservations."
"Oh, yes," the host replied, opening up his guest-list and glancing at it.
"Yes, yes," he continued. "The Gardener Party checked in, miss."
"Great," I said with a strained smile. "Could you show me their table?"
"I'm sorry," the host didn't look a bit sorry as he said this. "But Mr. Gardener and his mother left fifteen minutes ago. Are you Roberta?" My nerves grated at the sound of my full name.
"Yes," I seethed. "I'm Roberta."
The host turned around and handed me a long stemmed rose. "Mr. Gardener told me to give this to you. He said you were more than welcome to order dinner at our fine establishment. He paid the bill." The host looked at me as though I was finally deserving of his respect. I took the rose and pressed it to my lips. The petals were a deep red color, my favorite kind.
"Miss? Are you ready to eat?"
I looked at the host and shook my head. "No, thank you."
"Oh, really? We're serving our finest Lobster special. It's quite a treat." The host gave me a sickly smile. Still, I shook my head.
"No, thanks. I'll eat something later. Thanks for the offer." I turned to leave the restaurant. The cab I had rode in was still standing in front of the restaurant. I walked over to the driver who was eating a pastrami sandwich and told him to take me to Sector 6, where Peter lived.
Sector 6 was a dimly lit neighborhood, like so many other residential areas after the Pulse. The houses badly needed paint and several of them had broken or boarded up windows. Peter lived in an apartment that was one of several small apartment buildings owned by his college. HCA Number 800 was Peter's apartment building number. His place was on the second floor. Luckily, several people were coming out of Peter's building, allowing me to enter. Nervously, I rang the bell and hitched my breath when I heard Peter's voice.
"I'm coming. Hold on a minute," said Peter as he opened the door.
"Bobbie," he breathed, leaning against the front door and looking at me with some surprise. "What are you doing here?" I gave him a smile and held up the rose.
"You thought I wouldn't come?" I asked.
"You weren't at the house when I came over to pick you up," said Peter, leading me into his apartment. We entered his living room where a small dining table stood on the far left corner, facing a large window. A TV stand stood against the wall next to the dining table with a sofa against the wall opposite it. I could smell chicken frying in the kitchen. Peter beckoned me to sit on the sofa. I sat down, setting the rose beside me. I looked in the direction of his kitchen, which was next to the living room. Peter looked in my direction and gave me an apologetic smile.
"The Italian food didn't set too well with Mama, so she bought some chicken for her dinner."
"That's great," I said. "I hope she's enjoying her stay here."
"She is," Peter sat down beside me. "She just came up here with her church group and I said she could stay with me while she's doing her church thing."
"What's her church group here for?" I asked. "Bingo? Revival?"
"They're doing a prayer service," Peter replied, his eyes shifting left and right. I looked at him quizzically.
"Really?" I asked. "What for?" Peter looked distinctly uncomfortable.
Obviously changing the subject, he asked, "Bobbie, you want some chicken?"
"No thanks," I said. "I'm already full."
"Ate the meal I ordered for you?"
"Um, no," I said, looking away from my boyfriend. He glanced at me with some suspicion. "I'm good. Really. I just stopped by to say how sorry I was- ,"
"Peter?" a woman's voice called from the kitchen, "That Bobbie I hear?" I could hear feet shuffling in the kitchen and footsteps coming towards us. A heavy set woman with dark brown skin and a warm open face, wearing a blue flower-print house dress and sky-blue slippers, stepped out of the kitchen. The woman gave me a hostile glare as Peter jumped up to help her to sit in the chair next to the sofa.
"Mama, I thought the doctor told you to stay off your feet," Peter scolded as he gently let the older woman sink into the chair. Mrs. Gardener grunted as Peter picked up an afghan blanket that was folded up on the sofa and laid it across her lap.
"Peter, I may be old, but I'm not an invalid," his mother snapped. Peter backed away, a hurt expression on his face.
"Sorry, Mama," he said. "Just wanted to make you comfortable."
His mother shook her head. "You're a good child, Peter. You can drive me crazy, but you're a good boy." She turned to glare at me. "She tell you where she's been?"
"Mama!" Peter blushed. He looked at me, embarrassed. I gave him a smile and turned to face Mrs. Gardener.
"Mrs. Gardener," I said. "I was just running late from an important meeting and I'm just so sorry that I couldn't be at the restaurant to have dinner with you and your son. I hope you had a good time. The shrimp there is delicious."
"Shrimp gives me gas."
"Oh, I'm so sorry."
"I'm sure you are. Your folks didn't teach you anything about manners, did they?" No, but they taught me how to kill and make it look natural, I thought. I kept a smile plastered on my face as Mrs. Gardener continued to look at me with hostility.
"Mama, be nice," said Peter. Mrs. Gardener grunted as she pulled the afghan blanket over her legs.
"I'll be nice when she starts showing up for you," Peter's mother grunted again and eyed me once more. "You could have called to let us know you were late, as usual."
"Ma'am, I can't tell you how sorry I am about missing the dinner, but I had a meeting and it ran over."
"I'll bet."
"Mama."
"Peter, that girl's been having meetings and they've been running over for at least a year now." Mrs. Gardener eyed me with more suspicion, if that was possible.
"Bobbie's a busy woman, Mama. You've got to understand that."
"Uh huh," Mrs. Gardener pursed her lips and sniffed as though she smelled something rotten. She looked at Peter's distraught face and softened. Patting her son's hand, she said, "All right. All right. I'll go easy on her." Peter brightened.
"Thanks, Mama."
"You're welcome, baby. Now, would you like a bit of my egg salad? I made it just for you. Bobbie can have some if she likes." Mrs. Gardener gave me a fake smile. I gritted my teeth as I forced myself to smile back. Peter looked ill at the idea of eating his mother's egg salad. He had told me that he couldn't stand egg salads, but ate them because he didn't want to hurt his mother. Looking at Peter, I decided to rescue him.
"Mrs. Gardener, I think Peter's full right now. I bet he had a big meal at the restaurant."
"We left early," she replied.
"Well," I said, "Peter told me he was full. Didn't he?" I looked at my boyfriend who squirmed as his mother looked at him as well.
"You hardly ate tonight, Peter," she said, one hand gripping her chair. "You've always loved my egg salad."
"Yes, Mama," said Peter with a strained smile. "I've always said that."
Mrs. Gardener smiled broadly as she looked at me in triumph. "No one knows Peter like I do. I'm his Mama!" She pulled Peter into a hug. Peter squirmed as he glared at me.
As soon as his mother let him go, Peter asked, "Mama, you want me to get the chicken you've been cooking?"
"Of course, baby," said Mrs. Gardener. "Bring me a little bit of the egg salad you like." She gave me a satisfied smirk as Peter left the room to go to the kitchen. When she noticed that Peter was out of earshot, she leaned close to me, her nose almost pressing against mine.
I backed away a bit, feeling my hackles rise as she hissed, "I don't know what your game is, girl, but you've been stringing my boy along for three years. He loves you. Said so himself. You're going to marry him, aren't you?"
"I don't know about that, ma'am," I answered. "I still haven't made up my mind."
"My boy isn't getting any younger. I want some grandchildren."
"You have plenty with Peter's older brothers," I replied as Peter walked back from the kitchen with a plate of one chicken wing, two pieces of chicken breast and a side of egg salad. Mrs. Gardener didn't answer as she began to eat her meal. Peter sat down beside me and grasped my hand. I squeezed it back. I looked around the living room, hoping to come up with a safe topic.
"So, Mrs. Gardener," I began. "What are you doing in Seattle?"
"I'm with my church group," Mrs. Gardener answered as she wiped her lips with a napkin. "We're doing a prayer service."
"For what?" I asked. A lengthy silence fell between the three of us. Peter shot me an annoyed look, but I pretended to ignore it.
Mrs. Gardener pursed her lips as she replied, "For the transgenics." The silence became an explosion.
"Transgenics," I said, trying to keep my voice neutral. "You're praying for their protection?"
"Their damnation." Mrs. Gardener's voice was cold. "They don't have souls and they weren't made by God."
"Really?" It was hard to keep the anger out of my voice.
"Yes. Really." Mrs. Gardener rose up from her chair and went back to the kitchen, carrying her empty plate.
Once she was gone, Peter asked, "Bobbie, why did you do that? You know my mama doesn't like transgenics."
"Neither do you," I snapped. "I don't hear you telling me they don't have souls." Peter rolled his eyes as he got up from the sofa and stood facing the window. He leaned against the glass as he looked out the backyard.
"Bobbie, what's with you and transgenics, huh?" he asked. "You aren't one, so why are you defending them all the time?"
"I'm not defending them," I said, a little too quickly. "I'm just wondering why you don't want them to be treated fairly. It's not their fault they were created."
"You don't understand, girl," said Peter with a heavy sigh.
"Then explain it to me." I didn't want it explained to me, but God help me, my curiosity got the best of me. Peter turned away from the window. His face was somber.
Putting his hands into his pants pockets, Peter looked down as he replied, "Bobbie, it's just how I feel. You've got to understand that."
"I don't."
Rocking back and forth on his heels now, Peter calmly answered, "Then that's your problem."
"Fine."
"Fine."
A tense silence fell between us. Absently, I listened to Peter's agitated heartbeat and shaking breath sounds.
Finally, Peter spoke, "I'm not going to be in town for a few days."
"Where are you going?" I asked.
"Washington," he replied. "My mama's church group needs someone to help them across the country and since it's the summer."
"You decided to join them," I finished. I smiled bitterly. "When were you going to tell me this, Peter? In an answering machine?" He glared at me.
"At least that's better than what you've been giving me. I said we had dinner at eight, Bobbie. You promised me you'd show."
"I had a meeting. It ran over. I'm sorry."
"Yeah, well, sorry's not good enough."
"What?"
"You heard me. I'm sick of it," Peter was pacing now. " I ask you to marry me, you won't give me an answer. I ask you to come with me to my best friend's wedding; you didn't come. I ask you to just spend one lousy dinner with me and my mama tonight and you didn't even show!"
"Peter, what do you want?" I asked. "You want me to have my entire life revolve around you? I'm sorry, that's just not going to happen."
Peter looked at me, completely befuddled. "Girl, I am not asking you for that. I'm just asking you to be a girlfriend. My girlfriend."
"I am your girlfriend!"
"You sure aren't acting like one. It's like I see your body, but you aren't there. You're in this whole other world that I can't even understand."
"Peter, I've got stuff in my life that's really hard to explain right now," I began, but Peter shook his head.
"No, Bobbie. NO!" he shouted. "That's the same damn excuse I've been hearing for days now." Peter bit his lip and clenched and unclenched his fists. Instinctively, I felt my hands curl up and my arms slowly pull up into a fighting stance. Horrified, I unclenched my hands and forced them down.
"What the hell was that?" Peter asked, looking at my hands. I looked down at my unclenched fists and then up at my boyfriend.
"What was what?" I asked, trying to look innocent. Peter didn't buy it.
"That," he said, pointing to my limp hands. Nervously, I rubbed them against my thighs.
"Peter, what are you talking about?"
"Bobbie, don't play dumb with me," he snapped. "I saw you. Your hands, you were going to punch me!"
"No!" I shouted. Peter jumped back at the force in my voice. I closed my eyes, trying to calm down. This was not good. This was so not good. "Peter, I wasn't going to hit you. How can you say that?"
He pursed his lips. "Bobbie, I saw you. Your fists.girl, you were going to fight me."
"No, I wasn't," I said quickly. Swallowing hard, I continued. "Peter, I'm the most nonviolent person you know." Peter looked at me and began to laugh. It started as a chuckle, then a guffaw, and finally escalated into full-fledged hysteria. Wiping the tears from his eyes, Peter doubled over, still laughing.
"That's rich, Bobbie," he gasped in between laughter. "That's real rich. You.nonviolent. God, that's something else." I glared at him.
"What's so funny?" I asked. "I don't fight." Then I paused, "Not unless they were really looking for an ass-kicking." Peter shook his head.
"Girl, remember a year ago when you first met my family?"
"The family reunion?"
"That's the one. Remember Cousin Dexter?"
"Big, stocky guy with a beer belly and really cheap taste in clothing?"
"That's him."
"He kept making passes at the girls in the reunion," I wrinkled my nose in disgust. "He made a pass at me, I recall."
"That's right," said Peter. "What did you do?"
"I told him to leave me alone," I replied, looking away from my boyfriend.
"That's not all," he said, looking at me directly. "You broke his leg and his arm."
"He's lucky that was all I broke," I muttered. Peter's face darkened.
"Dexter was the minister of Mama's church!" Peter scolded. "You're lucky the churchwomen didn't hang you from a tree!"
"I was defending myself!" I yelled. "You expect me to let a guy make a pass at me and just accept it?" Peter looked undecided. I shook my head in disbelief. "I don't believe you! You expect me to be helpless and wait for you to rescue me?! That's sick!" Peter remained impassive. I closed my eyes only to see a red haze dance underneath my eyelids. I snapped them open, only to find Peter still standing, unmoving, still dark with barely suppressed anger.
"Peter, let's talk calmly and rationally," I said. Breathing deeply to slow my heart rate and crossing my arms, I continued, "Washington. As in D.C., what's up with that?" Peter frowned at me as I blatantly changed the subject.
His dark eyes wore a resentful look as he replied, "Mama and her group are going to support the transgenic bill. I'm helping them get there safely."
"Transgenic bill, huh," I said. "That's the one that's going to segregate transgenics across the country."
"That's the one," said Peter. His face was unreadable now and it frustrated me to no end. All right, if he wanted to play hardball, let's play hardball.
"How can you support that?" I asked. "How can you support that when your own great-grandmother escaped the South from Jim Crow? How can you do that?"
"Bobbie, that's different!"
"How can it be different?" I shot back. "How can segregating transgenics be different from what happened to your relatives a century ago? How can you support something like that damn bill?"
"Our people are human, Bobbie," Peter replied. "Transgenics are freaks."
"They're not freaks!" I smashed my fist into the sofa's arm, breaking it slightly. I blanched a bit before staring back at Peter.
"Bobbie, what do you me want to call them?" Peter asked. "They got animal DNA in them. Last time I checked, that's not in the human genome."
"All transgenics want to do is to live in peace," I said, shaking with anger. "You're making it damn hard for them to live."
"Bobbie, they're killers. Some of them don't look human."
"The X-Series," I said triumphantly. "They look human. They've got some human in them, they have to." Peter shook his head.
"Bobbie, don't you get it? The X-series are dangerous. They're killers."
"Charles Manson killed a whole bunch of people and he was human," I said, staring at Peter.
"Bobbie, you're not listening."
"I'm listening all right. You want to spread the hate and that's just wrong. I won't be a part of it, Peter. I can't."
Peter frowned. "Bobbie, you got it all wrong. This bill's all about protecting the country. We humans can't let a bunch of freaks take us over. We've got to fight back."
"Transgenics aren't looking out to kill you in your bed, Peter," I snapped.
"Oh, yeah?" he said. "I keep telling you this, girl, but you don't listen! They're killers! That's what the reports say. These freaks were hired guns. They've been trained to kill from the time they could walk. Damn, Bobbie, can't you admit that's scary?" I remained silent. God. Damn. Him. God. Fucking. Damn. Him.
Peter had to keep talking. "They aren't normal, Bobbie. The DNA alone proves it."
"Peter, I'm going to bed." Mrs. Gardener's voice rang out from the back of the apartment. Peter and I stared at each other for the longest time.
Finally, Peter answered, "Night, Mama."
"Night, baby. Bobbie staying for a while?" Peter looked stonily at me. I pressed my lips together as I could feel my body tremble with anger.
"It's okay, Mrs. Gardener," I said. "I'm just leaving."
"Oh, well. Good night, Bobbie."
"Good night, Mrs. Gardener," I said, while picking up the rose from the restaurant I had set down on the sofa. Peter followed me as I walked to the front door.
Opening it and turning to face Peter, I said, "Look, let's just talk about this tomorrow. I think we'll both feel better in the morning." Peter nodded and he leaned forward to press his lips against mine. As usual, it was sweet. I backed away from him and left the apartment.
"Come on. Come on," I said, while waiting in line at the Sector 4 checkpoint. After I had left Alec and Bree at my apartment, it was already seven. I hurried out of there, scrambling to put on my outfit for my date while taking a shortcut to the Sector 4 checkpoint. I glared at the three people ahead of me, blocking my attempt to get to the restaurant on time. Glancing at my watch, I groaned when it read seven forty-five. I impatiently tapped my foot as the line moved up, knocking the wait down to two people in front of me. Finally, the sector cop asked for my pass. He looked me up and down and gave me a wolfish grin as I handed him my card.
"Where you headed, honey?" he asked, still holding my sector pass. I gave him a disgusted look, but plastered on a fake smile.
"I'm going to Luigi's," I replied. "With my boyfriend." At that, the sector cop paled as he returned my sector pass. I smiled in satisfaction as I was allowed to pass the checkpoint. I hailed a cab and told the driver to move quickly. While the cab drove me towards the restaurant, I kept looking at my watch and felt my heart sink as it read eight o'clock. By the time I reached Luigi's, it was already nine. I didn't have to wait too long at the host's podium. The host, a medium sized man with a thin black mustache and smoothed down black hair, looked at me with some suspicion as I asked for the Gardener party.
"The Gardener party?" he repeated in a snotty tone.
Restraining the urge to hit the man, I gritted my teeth and said, "Yes, the Gardener party. They were supposed to be here an hour ago. They made reservations."
"Oh, yes," the host replied, opening up his guest-list and glancing at it.
"Yes, yes," he continued. "The Gardener Party checked in, miss."
"Great," I said with a strained smile. "Could you show me their table?"
"I'm sorry," the host didn't look a bit sorry as he said this. "But Mr. Gardener and his mother left fifteen minutes ago. Are you Roberta?" My nerves grated at the sound of my full name.
"Yes," I seethed. "I'm Roberta."
The host turned around and handed me a long stemmed rose. "Mr. Gardener told me to give this to you. He said you were more than welcome to order dinner at our fine establishment. He paid the bill." The host looked at me as though I was finally deserving of his respect. I took the rose and pressed it to my lips. The petals were a deep red color, my favorite kind.
"Miss? Are you ready to eat?"
I looked at the host and shook my head. "No, thank you."
"Oh, really? We're serving our finest Lobster special. It's quite a treat." The host gave me a sickly smile. Still, I shook my head.
"No, thanks. I'll eat something later. Thanks for the offer." I turned to leave the restaurant. The cab I had rode in was still standing in front of the restaurant. I walked over to the driver who was eating a pastrami sandwich and told him to take me to Sector 6, where Peter lived.
Sector 6 was a dimly lit neighborhood, like so many other residential areas after the Pulse. The houses badly needed paint and several of them had broken or boarded up windows. Peter lived in an apartment that was one of several small apartment buildings owned by his college. HCA Number 800 was Peter's apartment building number. His place was on the second floor. Luckily, several people were coming out of Peter's building, allowing me to enter. Nervously, I rang the bell and hitched my breath when I heard Peter's voice.
"I'm coming. Hold on a minute," said Peter as he opened the door.
"Bobbie," he breathed, leaning against the front door and looking at me with some surprise. "What are you doing here?" I gave him a smile and held up the rose.
"You thought I wouldn't come?" I asked.
"You weren't at the house when I came over to pick you up," said Peter, leading me into his apartment. We entered his living room where a small dining table stood on the far left corner, facing a large window. A TV stand stood against the wall next to the dining table with a sofa against the wall opposite it. I could smell chicken frying in the kitchen. Peter beckoned me to sit on the sofa. I sat down, setting the rose beside me. I looked in the direction of his kitchen, which was next to the living room. Peter looked in my direction and gave me an apologetic smile.
"The Italian food didn't set too well with Mama, so she bought some chicken for her dinner."
"That's great," I said. "I hope she's enjoying her stay here."
"She is," Peter sat down beside me. "She just came up here with her church group and I said she could stay with me while she's doing her church thing."
"What's her church group here for?" I asked. "Bingo? Revival?"
"They're doing a prayer service," Peter replied, his eyes shifting left and right. I looked at him quizzically.
"Really?" I asked. "What for?" Peter looked distinctly uncomfortable.
Obviously changing the subject, he asked, "Bobbie, you want some chicken?"
"No thanks," I said. "I'm already full."
"Ate the meal I ordered for you?"
"Um, no," I said, looking away from my boyfriend. He glanced at me with some suspicion. "I'm good. Really. I just stopped by to say how sorry I was- ,"
"Peter?" a woman's voice called from the kitchen, "That Bobbie I hear?" I could hear feet shuffling in the kitchen and footsteps coming towards us. A heavy set woman with dark brown skin and a warm open face, wearing a blue flower-print house dress and sky-blue slippers, stepped out of the kitchen. The woman gave me a hostile glare as Peter jumped up to help her to sit in the chair next to the sofa.
"Mama, I thought the doctor told you to stay off your feet," Peter scolded as he gently let the older woman sink into the chair. Mrs. Gardener grunted as Peter picked up an afghan blanket that was folded up on the sofa and laid it across her lap.
"Peter, I may be old, but I'm not an invalid," his mother snapped. Peter backed away, a hurt expression on his face.
"Sorry, Mama," he said. "Just wanted to make you comfortable."
His mother shook her head. "You're a good child, Peter. You can drive me crazy, but you're a good boy." She turned to glare at me. "She tell you where she's been?"
"Mama!" Peter blushed. He looked at me, embarrassed. I gave him a smile and turned to face Mrs. Gardener.
"Mrs. Gardener," I said. "I was just running late from an important meeting and I'm just so sorry that I couldn't be at the restaurant to have dinner with you and your son. I hope you had a good time. The shrimp there is delicious."
"Shrimp gives me gas."
"Oh, I'm so sorry."
"I'm sure you are. Your folks didn't teach you anything about manners, did they?" No, but they taught me how to kill and make it look natural, I thought. I kept a smile plastered on my face as Mrs. Gardener continued to look at me with hostility.
"Mama, be nice," said Peter. Mrs. Gardener grunted as she pulled the afghan blanket over her legs.
"I'll be nice when she starts showing up for you," Peter's mother grunted again and eyed me once more. "You could have called to let us know you were late, as usual."
"Ma'am, I can't tell you how sorry I am about missing the dinner, but I had a meeting and it ran over."
"I'll bet."
"Mama."
"Peter, that girl's been having meetings and they've been running over for at least a year now." Mrs. Gardener eyed me with more suspicion, if that was possible.
"Bobbie's a busy woman, Mama. You've got to understand that."
"Uh huh," Mrs. Gardener pursed her lips and sniffed as though she smelled something rotten. She looked at Peter's distraught face and softened. Patting her son's hand, she said, "All right. All right. I'll go easy on her." Peter brightened.
"Thanks, Mama."
"You're welcome, baby. Now, would you like a bit of my egg salad? I made it just for you. Bobbie can have some if she likes." Mrs. Gardener gave me a fake smile. I gritted my teeth as I forced myself to smile back. Peter looked ill at the idea of eating his mother's egg salad. He had told me that he couldn't stand egg salads, but ate them because he didn't want to hurt his mother. Looking at Peter, I decided to rescue him.
"Mrs. Gardener, I think Peter's full right now. I bet he had a big meal at the restaurant."
"We left early," she replied.
"Well," I said, "Peter told me he was full. Didn't he?" I looked at my boyfriend who squirmed as his mother looked at him as well.
"You hardly ate tonight, Peter," she said, one hand gripping her chair. "You've always loved my egg salad."
"Yes, Mama," said Peter with a strained smile. "I've always said that."
Mrs. Gardener smiled broadly as she looked at me in triumph. "No one knows Peter like I do. I'm his Mama!" She pulled Peter into a hug. Peter squirmed as he glared at me.
As soon as his mother let him go, Peter asked, "Mama, you want me to get the chicken you've been cooking?"
"Of course, baby," said Mrs. Gardener. "Bring me a little bit of the egg salad you like." She gave me a satisfied smirk as Peter left the room to go to the kitchen. When she noticed that Peter was out of earshot, she leaned close to me, her nose almost pressing against mine.
I backed away a bit, feeling my hackles rise as she hissed, "I don't know what your game is, girl, but you've been stringing my boy along for three years. He loves you. Said so himself. You're going to marry him, aren't you?"
"I don't know about that, ma'am," I answered. "I still haven't made up my mind."
"My boy isn't getting any younger. I want some grandchildren."
"You have plenty with Peter's older brothers," I replied as Peter walked back from the kitchen with a plate of one chicken wing, two pieces of chicken breast and a side of egg salad. Mrs. Gardener didn't answer as she began to eat her meal. Peter sat down beside me and grasped my hand. I squeezed it back. I looked around the living room, hoping to come up with a safe topic.
"So, Mrs. Gardener," I began. "What are you doing in Seattle?"
"I'm with my church group," Mrs. Gardener answered as she wiped her lips with a napkin. "We're doing a prayer service."
"For what?" I asked. A lengthy silence fell between the three of us. Peter shot me an annoyed look, but I pretended to ignore it.
Mrs. Gardener pursed her lips as she replied, "For the transgenics." The silence became an explosion.
"Transgenics," I said, trying to keep my voice neutral. "You're praying for their protection?"
"Their damnation." Mrs. Gardener's voice was cold. "They don't have souls and they weren't made by God."
"Really?" It was hard to keep the anger out of my voice.
"Yes. Really." Mrs. Gardener rose up from her chair and went back to the kitchen, carrying her empty plate.
Once she was gone, Peter asked, "Bobbie, why did you do that? You know my mama doesn't like transgenics."
"Neither do you," I snapped. "I don't hear you telling me they don't have souls." Peter rolled his eyes as he got up from the sofa and stood facing the window. He leaned against the glass as he looked out the backyard.
"Bobbie, what's with you and transgenics, huh?" he asked. "You aren't one, so why are you defending them all the time?"
"I'm not defending them," I said, a little too quickly. "I'm just wondering why you don't want them to be treated fairly. It's not their fault they were created."
"You don't understand, girl," said Peter with a heavy sigh.
"Then explain it to me." I didn't want it explained to me, but God help me, my curiosity got the best of me. Peter turned away from the window. His face was somber.
Putting his hands into his pants pockets, Peter looked down as he replied, "Bobbie, it's just how I feel. You've got to understand that."
"I don't."
Rocking back and forth on his heels now, Peter calmly answered, "Then that's your problem."
"Fine."
"Fine."
A tense silence fell between us. Absently, I listened to Peter's agitated heartbeat and shaking breath sounds.
Finally, Peter spoke, "I'm not going to be in town for a few days."
"Where are you going?" I asked.
"Washington," he replied. "My mama's church group needs someone to help them across the country and since it's the summer."
"You decided to join them," I finished. I smiled bitterly. "When were you going to tell me this, Peter? In an answering machine?" He glared at me.
"At least that's better than what you've been giving me. I said we had dinner at eight, Bobbie. You promised me you'd show."
"I had a meeting. It ran over. I'm sorry."
"Yeah, well, sorry's not good enough."
"What?"
"You heard me. I'm sick of it," Peter was pacing now. " I ask you to marry me, you won't give me an answer. I ask you to come with me to my best friend's wedding; you didn't come. I ask you to just spend one lousy dinner with me and my mama tonight and you didn't even show!"
"Peter, what do you want?" I asked. "You want me to have my entire life revolve around you? I'm sorry, that's just not going to happen."
Peter looked at me, completely befuddled. "Girl, I am not asking you for that. I'm just asking you to be a girlfriend. My girlfriend."
"I am your girlfriend!"
"You sure aren't acting like one. It's like I see your body, but you aren't there. You're in this whole other world that I can't even understand."
"Peter, I've got stuff in my life that's really hard to explain right now," I began, but Peter shook his head.
"No, Bobbie. NO!" he shouted. "That's the same damn excuse I've been hearing for days now." Peter bit his lip and clenched and unclenched his fists. Instinctively, I felt my hands curl up and my arms slowly pull up into a fighting stance. Horrified, I unclenched my hands and forced them down.
"What the hell was that?" Peter asked, looking at my hands. I looked down at my unclenched fists and then up at my boyfriend.
"What was what?" I asked, trying to look innocent. Peter didn't buy it.
"That," he said, pointing to my limp hands. Nervously, I rubbed them against my thighs.
"Peter, what are you talking about?"
"Bobbie, don't play dumb with me," he snapped. "I saw you. Your hands, you were going to punch me!"
"No!" I shouted. Peter jumped back at the force in my voice. I closed my eyes, trying to calm down. This was not good. This was so not good. "Peter, I wasn't going to hit you. How can you say that?"
He pursed his lips. "Bobbie, I saw you. Your fists.girl, you were going to fight me."
"No, I wasn't," I said quickly. Swallowing hard, I continued. "Peter, I'm the most nonviolent person you know." Peter looked at me and began to laugh. It started as a chuckle, then a guffaw, and finally escalated into full-fledged hysteria. Wiping the tears from his eyes, Peter doubled over, still laughing.
"That's rich, Bobbie," he gasped in between laughter. "That's real rich. You.nonviolent. God, that's something else." I glared at him.
"What's so funny?" I asked. "I don't fight." Then I paused, "Not unless they were really looking for an ass-kicking." Peter shook his head.
"Girl, remember a year ago when you first met my family?"
"The family reunion?"
"That's the one. Remember Cousin Dexter?"
"Big, stocky guy with a beer belly and really cheap taste in clothing?"
"That's him."
"He kept making passes at the girls in the reunion," I wrinkled my nose in disgust. "He made a pass at me, I recall."
"That's right," said Peter. "What did you do?"
"I told him to leave me alone," I replied, looking away from my boyfriend.
"That's not all," he said, looking at me directly. "You broke his leg and his arm."
"He's lucky that was all I broke," I muttered. Peter's face darkened.
"Dexter was the minister of Mama's church!" Peter scolded. "You're lucky the churchwomen didn't hang you from a tree!"
"I was defending myself!" I yelled. "You expect me to let a guy make a pass at me and just accept it?" Peter looked undecided. I shook my head in disbelief. "I don't believe you! You expect me to be helpless and wait for you to rescue me?! That's sick!" Peter remained impassive. I closed my eyes only to see a red haze dance underneath my eyelids. I snapped them open, only to find Peter still standing, unmoving, still dark with barely suppressed anger.
"Peter, let's talk calmly and rationally," I said. Breathing deeply to slow my heart rate and crossing my arms, I continued, "Washington. As in D.C., what's up with that?" Peter frowned at me as I blatantly changed the subject.
His dark eyes wore a resentful look as he replied, "Mama and her group are going to support the transgenic bill. I'm helping them get there safely."
"Transgenic bill, huh," I said. "That's the one that's going to segregate transgenics across the country."
"That's the one," said Peter. His face was unreadable now and it frustrated me to no end. All right, if he wanted to play hardball, let's play hardball.
"How can you support that?" I asked. "How can you support that when your own great-grandmother escaped the South from Jim Crow? How can you do that?"
"Bobbie, that's different!"
"How can it be different?" I shot back. "How can segregating transgenics be different from what happened to your relatives a century ago? How can you support something like that damn bill?"
"Our people are human, Bobbie," Peter replied. "Transgenics are freaks."
"They're not freaks!" I smashed my fist into the sofa's arm, breaking it slightly. I blanched a bit before staring back at Peter.
"Bobbie, what do you me want to call them?" Peter asked. "They got animal DNA in them. Last time I checked, that's not in the human genome."
"All transgenics want to do is to live in peace," I said, shaking with anger. "You're making it damn hard for them to live."
"Bobbie, they're killers. Some of them don't look human."
"The X-Series," I said triumphantly. "They look human. They've got some human in them, they have to." Peter shook his head.
"Bobbie, don't you get it? The X-series are dangerous. They're killers."
"Charles Manson killed a whole bunch of people and he was human," I said, staring at Peter.
"Bobbie, you're not listening."
"I'm listening all right. You want to spread the hate and that's just wrong. I won't be a part of it, Peter. I can't."
Peter frowned. "Bobbie, you got it all wrong. This bill's all about protecting the country. We humans can't let a bunch of freaks take us over. We've got to fight back."
"Transgenics aren't looking out to kill you in your bed, Peter," I snapped.
"Oh, yeah?" he said. "I keep telling you this, girl, but you don't listen! They're killers! That's what the reports say. These freaks were hired guns. They've been trained to kill from the time they could walk. Damn, Bobbie, can't you admit that's scary?" I remained silent. God. Damn. Him. God. Fucking. Damn. Him.
Peter had to keep talking. "They aren't normal, Bobbie. The DNA alone proves it."
"Peter, I'm going to bed." Mrs. Gardener's voice rang out from the back of the apartment. Peter and I stared at each other for the longest time.
Finally, Peter answered, "Night, Mama."
"Night, baby. Bobbie staying for a while?" Peter looked stonily at me. I pressed my lips together as I could feel my body tremble with anger.
"It's okay, Mrs. Gardener," I said. "I'm just leaving."
"Oh, well. Good night, Bobbie."
"Good night, Mrs. Gardener," I said, while picking up the rose from the restaurant I had set down on the sofa. Peter followed me as I walked to the front door.
Opening it and turning to face Peter, I said, "Look, let's just talk about this tomorrow. I think we'll both feel better in the morning." Peter nodded and he leaned forward to press his lips against mine. As usual, it was sweet. I backed away from him and left the apartment.