"Out of Touch"
Chapter 3
"In Your Head Noone Can Hear You Scream"
It was called Halloway's Hat, a jazz club with a sadly empty live stage. The speakers distributed throughout the wood-paneled walls were merrily emitting soft jazz from a playlist. The tingling of ride cymbals and the gentle dance of the clarinet cut a swath through the crowd, all seated at round tables with navy blue tablecloths, served by waiters in zoot suits without jackets. A very helpful waitress took them to a corner table. Their corner was adorned by the portraits of Charlie Parker and Dizzie Gillespie.
Rogue quickly picked the first thing that seemed to have a lot of everything in it. She was tired from the second day of the road, and from putting up with Gambit's seemingly unending chatter ("'coz de road ain' kind t' doze dat don' tell stories ta keep it comp'ny in de empty seasons.") She barely even saw the phone screen as she texted Scott that she was now in Caldecott.
The thought didn't completely register. She was thinking of New Orleans as the waitress took their order. She was thinking of Mardi Gras. She was thinking of Scott, of the bed they shared back at the Institute. She was thinking of Cody Rogers, of Mystique, of the ousting of Carol Danvers, of the embroidery on the napkins, on how the Dave Brubeck Quartet's Take Five was as close as she had gotten to jazz in any classical sense, of how dark red nail polish that nobody could see on account of her gloves looked horrid on her skin, of how dirty she felt, of how good a shower would feel...
Is this what it's like to think? Is this what it's like to think my own thoughts?
I never thought I'd miss the voices filling up the empty spaces.
A penny pinged on her plate. Rogue looked up from it to see Gambit, smiling that sly smile.
"Penny for ya thoughts, cheré."
"Classic."
"Only if it works."
"Not the case."
"C'mon, ma belle, what's a poor man like maself gotta do? See, dat's de beauty of ya Southern gals – ya mean streak run coast to coast, but ya always wonderful. An' not like e'ryone gets a chance t' treat such a beautiful one t' dinner."
"Stop it."
"I call it like I see it, Rogue."
"No. Ya don't. You're just doin the same ol' dance. This is throwaway for you. Day in the office."
"Harsh and untrue!"
"Look." Rogue sighed. Something about that sigh gave Gambit pause. "Ah'm not beautiful. Ah never was, and Ah know that." She paused, "But he... makes me feel like Ah shoulda been beautiful. Like Ah'll never be. Like Ah could be. And sometimes... like Ah am. All the people Ah touched, all those lives Ah lived... the lives Ah stole... he makes me feel like one of those lives was mine once. That Ah was beautiful, with all the things Ah should've had."
Gambit held his tongue. He had many retorts, his repertoire had dozens of comebacks just itching to be used, but he looked at her, and saw her hunger. She was starving. For openness, for honesty. For someone, maybe him, maybe the uptight Monsieur Summers, to not use her like they'd use a tool. Not treat her like she was her powers, to look beyond the clothes, the make-up, the attitude, the reluctance to touch, the distance and see what was waiting.
Their food arrived. Rogue didn't even see what it was. She didn't care. It had meat in it, some type of egg-like substance, grilled vegetables and a healthy, yet not dulling amount of spice. She began to eat, and the first bite told her that yes, she was hungry beyond the telling of it.
Gambit followed suit. For the first half, there was only the sound of a Benny Goodman song he couldn't quite recall the name of, the idle chatter of the people around them, and the clinking of the silverware. Gambit held his silence because he saw the girl he had taken out on a stroll through the Mardi Gras back in New Orleans. The girl whose conversation was as lively as it was captivating, even when just waxing bullshit on the mundane. The girl he had sat at a jazz club, not unlike this one, and had proceeded to use thereafter.
He could still, in the moments he cared to be what others always seemed to consider human, hear her voice: You used me, just like everybody else.
You only know the half of it, Rogue, he had wanted to say, because I won't tell you the rest of it.
"So don't tell me." She said, taking a bite. Gambit wondered if he had thought out loud for a fleeting second, "From you, it's just an empty compliment. Just words you'd say to anyone."
"One thief to 'nodder?"
Rogue nodded after a moment's hesitation.
"I'm sorry, cheré. Never meant t' use ya like dat. I jus' didn' think you'da helped me if I jus' asked."
Rogue burst out laughing. Gambit raised an eyebrow. The harder she laughed, the more disturbed he was. She laughed until tears glistened around her eyes. She then returned to her food, chuckling still, and made short work of it. Gambit didn't touch his plate again. His appetite had left the building.
When Rogue finished, she washed it down with a glass of hard cider, and leaned back. Her eyes stared into his, and her lips curled in a wicked smile.
"Liar." She said.
Gambit was about to respond when she continued.
"Didn't have ta be me. Jean's a telepath. The prof is too. They coulda done it. They coulda given ya back-up."
"I couldn' ask dem."
"Why not?"
"Dey wouldna helped."
"And why's that? Just 'cause you one of Magneto's acolytes?"
"Former."
"Takes one ta know one, don't it?"
Gambit's eyes flew wide open.
"That's right." Rogue said, nodding, "Ah was an acolyte when Ah first met 'em. Proud member of the Bayville Brotherhood. But the X-Men never stopped tryna get to me. Yes, Ah followed Scott in, but wouldn't change it either ways. Ya needed help, they coulda given it. So why me?"
"I..."
"'cause ya figured you could use me, and not let me know it. Sure, ya did it for good reasons - Ah ain't arguin with that. But there's no reason why you couldn'ta told me the straight in the box car. Ah still woulda helped. Ah still did. So that's why it had to be me. 'cause ya thought you could. Like everybody else."
Gambit was speechless. He knew that his mouth was hanging wide open as Rogue tapped a gentle beat on the backrest of her chair. Minnie the Moocher, he recognized, but to the vocals, not any of the instruments. Hei-di hei-di hei-di-ha...
"So now's the part where ya fork over the cash ya lifted 'fore comin in here in the form of gettin the checque like the true gentleman that you ain't." Rogue said, "And before that, you gonna tell me exactly what you're doin here."
"Why not jus' take it from me?"
"Ah don't want you in mah head."
Gambit's shoulders dropped. He tore his napkin from his neck and threw it onto the table. Rogue was unimpressed, still.
"Yes." He said, "Yes, you exactly righ', cheré. I tought it betta mebbe dat you didn' know nuttin' 'bout it. Mebbe if ya knew, ya wouldna helped dis Cajun."
"Still can't answer mah question."
"'cuz you, ma belle, back den as it is now, you wuz already gon' away." He smiled slightly at the way she looked like she had just been struck. "I watch ya fo' some time. You was gonna split wi' de X-Men, or was thinkin' t'. Don' take nuttin t' be free, chere. I thought, mebbe, wen dat deal was over, I'da taken ya wi' me."
"Ah swear, you got a talent for not answerin no questions. Give it to me straight or you can hike it, Cajun."
"'coz ya ain' like de others." Gambit fished out his pack from his coat pocket and lit up a cigarette with the tip of his finger, "I look at you, I seez a rogue. I seez a wanderer. Ne'er a home, always de road. You was perfectly good in Westchester, an' here you are, havin' dinner wi' me."
"Ah got mah reasons."
"Which ya won' tell. Dat's fine. But if ya takin' me along, mebbe you oughta gimme a hint, non?"
"Gambit." Rogue said.
"Yes?"
"That's your hint. Now, get the checque. Ah'll be right back."
She stood up and left a very confused Gambit behind.
Rogue walked out of the front door and circled around back. She got to the kitchen exit.
She took a deep breath as half-forgotten, half-erased memories of her childhood flooded her.
She'd often find herself in this alley after sneaking out of her room, having been sent there without supper for asking too many questions. For asking where her mama was, when she was coming back. It hadn't been a conscious choice the first time – she had gone wherever the street seemed to be leading her, and that had landed her right where she was standing now, the kitchen exit of Halloway's Hat. She had sat down by the trash containers, holding her knees. Her ears had picked up the somewhat faint yet audible music then. She had listened intently, without really comprehending what those sounds were. There had been no music in her aunt's house, no TV, scant few books and little else. There had been a radio, but her aunt had an affinity for the Evangelists, particularly a man with a smooth voice, Father Stryker, and his teachings. The radio was off-limits for her, and the one time she had tried to find something else on, she had been rewarded with a very thin stick to the wrist.
Night after night, whenever she had escaped, she had come to the alley. At first it was just because that was the only place she knew – and since she knew it, she also knew the way back. She'd sit down in the same spot and listen. The music, the strange arrangement of sounds had seemed magical to her. She had liked the strange intangibility of it all – no matter how hard she listened, she could never quite catch the music. It was all scattered, syncopated rhythms and improvised, drawn-out passages; the energy of swing, the over-the-top bombast of the Big Bands.
It made her forget, every time, how hungry she was.
She'd hide whenever someone came out. A cook or a waiter, out for a smoke or just to take out the trash. It was easy to hide when you weren't confined to a house, she had discovered – her aunt had always found her the first try, no matter where she had hidden to escape punishment, the severest of which would come if she got close to the toys sitting on the living room carpet. Toys meant for a boy. But there was no boy, or had they just lost him?
One night, Rogue hadn't hidden very well, delirious with hunger and worn out from trying to keep up with whatever was playing (years later, she'd learn that it was a live band playing a rendition of Miles Davis' "Spanish Key.") A woman with boy-shirt hair and a thin, long cigarette between her fingers had stepped out of the doors and had seen her.
Rogue remembered that first encounter, where her eyes had made her heart stop.
"Hey, kid." She had said in between drags, "You lost?"
Rogue, too scared to speak, had shaken her head.
"Ya look hungry." She said, "Why don'tcha lemme finish this, give ya somethin ta eat?"
What was it that her aunt always told her to say to every single person that even acknowledged her existence?
"T-t-thank you, m-ma'am." Rogue had stammered out.
"Jesus Christ..."
Her name was Stella. She was a sous chef at Halloway's Hat, had a real knack for the Creole cuisine. She had been born in the New Orleans bayou, ran away to Caldecott in her early teens. She spoke French like nobody's business, and often made Rogue laugh by teaching her how to curse in that language. The others in the kitchen didn't mind the scruffy kid, so long as she followed by Stella's ground rules: don't touch anything. Don't eat anything that wasn't given to you. Don't bother the chefs or the waiters. Don't go out into the dining area.
Rogue had obeyed, word-for-word. She knew what happened when you broke the rules.
Stella had seen the marks on her arms and hands. She hadn't needed a story to understand why this girl was hanging around in the kitchen of a jazz club almost every night. Why she brought her fresh flowers she had undoubtedly plucked from some neighbor's garden. Why her dinner had to be whatever they could put together in the kitchen without tipping the boss off. How to hide her from her aunt if she came knocking, which she did, most every night she was there. The first time, Rogue remembered, had been the worst. It had been like getting caught with one hand in Satan's.
Rogue had known that Stella had seen her aunt slap the daylights out of her.
So she had devised a scheme: every night, when it was time for Rogue to go, she'd have a waiter take her to a familiar place. A butcher shop, a deli, whatever they had, who'd call her aunt and deliver Rogue to her, as if she had been there all night.
"Here's your rogue, Miss..." they'd say.
Stella had explained to Rogue that this would keep her aunt from looking for her in any one place and finding her. Rogue had laughed. Not like she would, and at the end of the day, it'd be another round of punishments no matter what. But still, what Stella had arranged for her had been the beginning of some of the happiest nights she had spent in Caldecott as a child.
Now, standing in front of the kitchen door, it was occurring to her that Stella might not even be there.
The kitchen door opened then.
She was older, as was Rogue, but Rogue couldn't help but notice the laugh lines around her lips, the circles around her eyes. The cigarette was thicker now, a different brand, and her boy-short hair had been shaved clean off to almost nothing.
Rogue found that she couldn't speak. Upon lighting her cigarette, Stella noticed her. It gave her pause, she held her breath for but a moment before exhaling and smiling wearily.
"It's you, isn't it?" she said, and then she smiled, "The Rogue."
What to say now? In Rogue's head, there was a hole where what she wanted to say should be. No other words to fill that space, no notions, no lifetimes and lifetimes upon experience to make other people's words come out of her mouth and let her get on.
Nothing but the Rogue.
"It's me." Rogue said.
"My, you've grown. And... changed. What happened to the skinny kid that I used to feed cocktail meals to?"
"Ah grew up."
"I can see that. You filled out nicely."
Silence.
"Ah like your hair. Ah mean... what you've done with it."
She ran a hand through her almost bare scalp.
"Not a pretty story, kid."
"What happened?"
Stella sighed. Rogue saw her exhale a thousand wounds with the smoke.
"They took me in for questioning when you guys went public. All they knew, they said, was you were from Caldecott, and that's it. Ya auntie pointed 'em in my direction." She took a drag from her cigarette, "Never liked me, that woman... anyway, 't was a weird coupla weeks."
Rogue felt like she had just gotten punched in the gut. She noticed that the pinky finger on Stella's left hand was bent to the side at the second knuckle. The remnant of a scar was peeking out of the landscape of short-cropped hair, right in the middle of her forehead.
"Not your fault, kiddo." Stella said, "Hey, don't matter. I never could hate my little Rogue, so nobody else gets to. Anyway, they shaved my head the first day. Liked it so much I decided to keep it that way. Even less hassle than my old style, has to be said."
"Stella, Ah..." Rogue felt a lump in her throat. "Ah'm sorry. Ah'm so sorry, Ah-"
"Ya didn't ask for it." Stella said, "Can't say I was surprised, though. I mean, there had to be a reason why your auntie was so keen on the stick and not so much on the carrot."
"Ah don't think she knew."
"She might surprise you, that one." Stella stomped out her cigarette and lit another, "So what brings you back to Halloway after all this time? I mean I just assumed that you'da forgotten all about this place. About me."
"It's... kinda hard to explain. Did they tell ya what Ah could do?"
Stella nodded.
"The first time Ah touched this boy, by accident... Ah forgot everythin. Ah thought Ah was him. It passed, but when it did, Ah had no name. Ah had no childhood, just what happened after auntie'd given me to somebody else. It started to come back, bit by bit but... Ah mean Ah remember more now, almost everythin Ah can be rememberin –Ah remember you-... but somethin's missin."
"And that is..?"
"Mah name."
Silence lingered. Stella smoked calmly, sizing her up. Whatever happened to that kid..?
"Ah don't remember it, Stella. It's gone."
"What do people call ya by, then?"
"Rogue."
Stella burst out laughing. Her laughter, she noticed, choked by the amount she was smoking, was still as hearty, crystalline and beautiful as she remembered.
Rogue shifted her weight, unsure if the name just sucked or if Stella thought something-or-other of it.
"Ya didn't forget after all." Stella said with a weary smile, "Ya didn't forget."
Something in her voice broke Rogue's heart.
"I was the one who called you that." She said, "When your auntie first came 'round. It stuck... I'm..." she took a deep breath, swallowed, chuckled, "I'm glad. Sorry."
Rogue shook her head.
"Thing is..." Stella said, her face growing sullen, "I don't know ya name, either. Ya never told me. For all her talk of manners, ya auntie didn't teach ya to introduce yourself."
Rogue's heart sank. Now what? The clarity of Halloway's Hat was all that she had to go on. Dead ended, she had nowhere else to go. For a moment, she felt like that hungry kid again, hiding behind the dumpster.
"I know where ya auntie is, though." Stella said, smiling, "Still alive and kickin', after all these years. Got a pen?"
Rogue fished out her cell phone and opened up a blank message. She tapped down the address, thanking silently for the borrowed, lingering muscle memory of Kitty.
Stella stomped out her cigarette as Rogue slid her phone back into her pocket. They stood there, swing jazz emanating from the club, far and wee. Stella took the two steps down and drew Rogue in for a hug. Her arms were desperate, almost belonging to a belief that if she held on tight enough, she might take a piece of Rogue with her.
Her skin made contact with the smallest of exposed spots.
In a flash, Rogue learned everything about the other side of the alley.
Stella drew back, tears glistening in her eyes, as she looked into Rogue's eyes and saw her knowing. Stella's eyes were full of pleading, please don't hate me for this, I did'nt know what else to do. Please.
Please don't hate me for feeling like you were the daughter I lost. Like you were my could have been... my should have been.
You're not her. I know you're not her. I am an adult. It was years ago. Before his drinking, before that punch, before this club took pity on me, 'cause I could only cook three dishes, and they felt sorry because of the black eye and the bruises and the gossip.
I know she's dead. I was there when she died. She leaked out of me, through that thing between my legs that made her possible. The Lord giveth, the Lord fucking taketh away. She was dead before she was ever born.
I know you're not her.
But when I saw you that night, old clothes and trembling lips, I couldn't help but think you might be. Might have been.
Because I had no daughter, and you looked like you had no mother. Perfect fit.
I cared about your laughter here, about you pissing off old Johnny 'cause he didn't like you arranging the tickets from the latest to the earliest.
You never asked me anything. Except for my hair. And the tattoo on my neck. You never asked me, so I never asked you. "What a rogue," Jane said once when you drew crosses on the tickets so that the customers would have thanked the Lord without even knowing it.
That's what you are – my little rogue.
I could've killed your auntie when she slapped the daylights out of you the first time she found you here. How dare she lay a hand on you? I'da cut her fucking hand off and fed it to her, one finger at a time, dipped in marinara sauce and on toothpicks, with her choice of two sides.
Because she had you. Sugar and spice and a bit of dressing.
I had no-one, and she had you, and all she did was to make you go hungry, drive you away, slap you around in front of everyone. Put the fear of God in you, but it'd turn to hatred of God in time, I knew. I had been there. Sitting in a pool of my own blood and what would have been –should have been, damn you, she should have been- my daughter made me believe in Him, and hate Him with everything of myself.
I don't want you to feel the same hate. God is love, they say. Let it be love, at least for you.
I couldn't keep you safe, but I could make sure you wouldn't be afraid to come here. So I made the system. Hid you everywhere, played hide-and-seek. Made Caldecott your playground. You were all around Caldecott all at once, and nobody knew you were here all the time, drawing twinkling stars on the menus, listening to Harry's lectures about syncopation and rag-time and learning how to curse in French.
I knew you'd grow up. I knew you'd go. I knew you'd forget me, forget this place, forget lecturing me about how cigarettes were bad for me because they gave you cancer, and nice people shouldn't get cancer.
Your auntie should get cancer. Maybe she will. Maybe she ought to.
And every night, when you left for some cover place around the time she'd come around to look for you, you went, thanking me, over and over again, like a sinner thanks his maker when she's forgiven. As if a simple kindness was the most precious thing in the world to you. Maybe it is. You knew her cruelty. You knew our kindness. You knew the difference.
And every night, I returned home, thanking the God I hated for another night. One more. One more. One more.
And then, no more.
You'll never know what it meant to me, because I'll never tell. It's a stranger's world, it's a stranger's thoughts. My burdens, not yours. You don't need it. It's you against the world now, against those who held me down when they shaved my head, those that starved me, those that beat me worse than he ever did, who threatened to break my fingers and did, who pulled my fingernails out one by one, who did everything they could to make sure I wasn't even human anymore.
It's you against all of them, and I can't make it harder for you.
I told them nothing. I told them nothing at all. They could've killed me or worse, but I wouldn't have said a damn thing to them, because the only thing about you that I knew, is something you will never know: I love you.
I'm sorry. I'm so sorry for loving you because you left, like you would and just like her, you broke my heart.
And it wasn't even your fault.
"Chin up, Rogue." Stella said, her voice strained, "And hey, come by sometime, yeah? Be nice to make you a cocktail plate again."
She disappeared behind the kitchen door, leaving Rogue standing in the alley.
