The Abyssal Pt. 01

'Maddy, no—'

'I did what I had to do to save our house. By the time you left, the mythical Eastman family fortune was gone and all we had left was that house. If I hadn't done what I did, we would have lost it. So fuck you and your judgment, Violetta. If you don't like it, go back to L.A.'

Violetta was taken aback both by the anger from Maddy and by the revelation that the family fortune—the one she assumed would always be secure—was gone. She felt like this conversation with Maddy had taken a horribly wrong turn. Maddy had turned to her, her eyes flaring with anger, and Violetta knew now was the time that they would either bridge the gap of the last twenty years or widen it irreparably.

'Maddy, I didn't mean it—'

'No, you never mean it, do you? Things never come out how Violetta means them. Because Violetta is the only one who gets to change the rules. You change the rules without ever being sorry, without ever being wrong.'

'I'm sorry, Maddy.'

Maddy paused for a moment, her face softening, seemingly caught off guard. Then her face hardened a little, though it seemed forced.

'Maybe sorry doesn't cut it after twenty years. I did the best I could, Letti, I really did. For Mother, for our family. I've worked very hard here, when you went off to see the world and have fun. I stayed here and did what I had to do to protect us.'

'I never saw much of the world. And I never had much fun.'

'Sounds like your own problem.'

'That's so hurtful, Maddy.'

A vaguely shameful expression darkened Maddy's otherwise pretty face. 'I suppose I never had much of a problem saying hurtful things to you, did I?'

Violetta shrugged, not wanting to answer.

'You left us, Letti.'

'I know. You gave me an ultimatum.'

'Maybe that wasn't the wisest thing, not with the magnificent Violetta Eastman. Who takes an ultimatum from no man. Or woman.'

There was a long silence. Violetta did not know if they had solved anything here, but it felt like they had, just a little. Maybe not much, but maybe just enough. She supposed that in her own way, each had admitted that she was wrong. That was a step in the right direction.

'Violetta, can I ask you something?'

'Of course.'

'Do you ever regret the way things were? The way we were?'

'No. Not ever. I always regret how things turned out.'

Maddy's head dropped, that shock of white hair falling over her face, a tear running from her eye. In that moment, she looked prettier and sadder than Violetta ever remembered. Then, in a moment, the way Violetta knew she could, Maddy pulled herself back together, brushed her short hair away from her face, and any evidence of tears was gone. The sound of the door opening came from behind them.

'I lied to you once, Violetta. Just once. Do you want to know what I said?'

'What?'

'I said I wouldn't love you anymore. Do you remember?'

'Yes, I remember.'

'That was a lie.'

Violetta looked at her sister for a long moment. Did Maddy know about the relief that washed through her? Did she know how Violetta wanted to take her in her arms and show her how, deep inside, everything was okay? Maybe it all wasn't, but she wanted it to be. That was more than she had felt for years.

'We should—people are going to be showing up soon,' Maddy said. 'We should gather ourselves together, appear dignified.'

'Maddy, we've never been dignified.'

'We're old women now. Remember how we used to tease the old maids who walked around town with their noses up, boo-hooing the young folks? We're those women now.'

'You speak for yourself, Maddalena Eastman. I'm never going to grow old, and I'm never going to die.'

Maddy's face darkened again, for an almost imperceptible moment.

'Not if I have anything to do with it,' was all she said, before the parlor began to fill up.

When the viewing was over, Violetta returned to the house, promising to do anything to help Maddalena but getting only a refusal in return. She had traveled a long way, Maddy said, and she deserved a rest. She would certainly take help in setting up for the funeral and the reception tomorrow, but she could handle things now. She was happy, though, that Violetta had decided to stay with them. Violetta did not mention that it was only because Nancy forced her that she would be staying in the house. She knew Nancy would stay quiet about that as well, and if asked she would say that it was all Violetta's idea.

Violetta parked in the same spot, then walked to the house. She could not help but smile when she saw Jason Porter, the artist, relaxing in one of the big rockers on the front porch. He flashed her a charming smile, leaned forward in his chair. She stepped up on the porch and sat down in the rocker next to him.

'Well, hello, Miss Eastman—or, whatever your name is.'

'You can call me Violetta and quit straining yourself.'

'Alright,' he said, then his face softened a bit. 'How was it?'

'It was what you would expect.'

'Well, my condolences.'

Violetta waved this away. 'Don't get all soft and sensitive on me. I hadn't seen or heard from my mother in twenty years. We were never that close in the first place. She was more like... an acquaintance.'

'I'm sorry to hear that, too. Seems like a shame.'

'I don't know,' Violetta said, 'I guess I wish I had known her better. She was just always so strange to me.'

'And your sister? I take it I wasn't entirely off the mark, she is your sister, right? Maybe a twin. I've never really seen her up close, just in passing.'

'No, you were right, she's my twin. And no, I was always close to my sister. I think more so because my mother was the way she was.'

'You said you were close to your sister,' Jason said, 'not anymore?'

'My, you are inquisitive, aren't you?'

'I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry. It's just very quiet out here, and I've been working pretty much non-stop since I got here. It's nice to have someone to talk to.'

Violetta reached into her purse and pulled out her cigarettes. She thought she deserved another one on a day like today. She held the pack out to Jason.

'Do you smoke?'

'Those things will kill you,' he said. 'Yes, please.' He smiled at her again and took a cigarette. She lit it for him, and he inhaled then released a satisfied sigh. 'Thank you, so much.'

'Sure.' She lit her own.

'So,' he said, 'what's your deal?'

'What's my deal?'

'Yeah. As long as we're out here on this beautiful evening in this beautiful place, why don't you tell me about your life?'

Violetta laughed and flipped her hair back. She felt like deep down this was a deliberately flirtatious move, and she did not care.

'Oh, honey, you don't want to know about my life unless you have a few free hours.'

'I do.'

She watched the tip of her cigarette burn orange for a moment. It seemed like it was coming close to time to quit them. Except for the health benefits, she did not know why. She did not know why a lot of things were the way they were these days.

'My life... is not something I like to discuss these days. You know how sometimes things happen and you wish you could take them back? Well, it turns out you can never take them back, you just have to forget them.' She saw on his face an expression that indicated to her that he did not quite understand. 'Well, you're young,' she said, 'someday you'll understand.'

He laughed. 'That's plenty condescending, isn't it?'

'What do you mean?'

'Well, I mean, are you pulling the wise older woman thing on me? Like I, being a baby, could never understand your life?'

Violetta, for the second time today, found herself saying, 'I didn't mean it that way.' Instead of getting angry like Maddy, however, Jason seemed amused.

'I've done some things in my life that I regret,' he said. 'I'm an artist, tragedy is part of my mystique. Personally, I think you're taking too much on yourself. You have the look of someone who does that.'

'Do I?'

'You do. You have the look of someone who needs to relax, kick back, not take everything to heart. Forgive yourself.'

The final two words hit Violetta like a bolt from nowhere. Roger, the man she had been with for twenty years, was her greatest source of advice. It's not your fault, shit happens, get over it, stop feeling sorry for yourself. That was his usual piece of wisdom, stop feeling sorry for yourself. Somehow she felt worse when that little nugget slipped out, it made her feel small and pathetic. But never, ever forgive yourself. No one had ever told her that.

'Say it again,' she said, looking into his pretty brown eyes.

'Which part?'

'The last part.'

'Forgive yourself?'

'That's it.'

'You act like it's some kind of revelation.'

'It is,' she said.

'Well then do it. You can't go on kicking yourself forever.'

'I've been kicking myself for so long I don't know if I know how to stop.'

Jason laughed. 'You move on. Let the past stay in the past. If there's something you want to solve, then solve it. Otherwise, just let it go.'

'I shall try then, oh eminent sage.' Violetta laughed too, surprised by how easy it was to talk to him.

Jason leaned back in his rocker, took a long drag of his cigarette and looked up at the sky.

'Looks like it's going to be stormy,' he said.

'I guess so. Hopefully we've missed hurricane season.'

'From what I hear, the haunts in this place start up more when it's storming. Was the place haunted when you lived here?'

Violetta turned and looked at him with shocked amusement. 'You believe that crapola?'

'Sure I do. You don't?'

'Not for a minute. I think it's a crazy scheme my sister came up with.'

'So, you haven't seen the videos the ghost guys caught?' he asked.

'No.'

'You should, it's great stuff. Miss Eastman put the DVD of the show downstairs in the parlor, suggests to any visitors that they watch it when they first come in. People flock from all over the country for that stuff. It's a great watch, especially when you're staying in one of the rooms where the stuff happens. Which, of course, you and I are.'

'That's great. I'm so pleased.'

He gave her a smile that was more smug than anything else. 'You afraid of ghosts?'

'No.'

'Do you believe in them?'

'No, not particularly.' Although this was a bit of a lie. She did believe in ghosts a little, though she had never seen one for herself. Could she honestly say she had never felt anything in her old house? No, she could not. Not after some of the strange things she and Maddy had found when they were young, but as far as Violetta knew those things were nothing more than they were, things they could not explain. The whims of an eccentric family who had been in the same house for a long, long time.

'Why don't you come downstairs tonight and watch with me?' Jason asked.

Violetta paused for a moment, thinking that this might be some kind of move on his part, but she did not sense any double meaning in his voice or his expressions. Not that she would have exactly rejected him... or would she? She did not know. She had to admit to herself that she was attracted to him, but he was so much younger than she was. A big part of her thought this was a piss poor excuse, and the only excuse she would have had to turn him down. If he was hitting on her, that was. She had not received that kind of attention in so long, she was not positive she would be able to identify it if she had.

'If you insist. I still think the whole thing is ridiculous.'

'Well, maybe you'll change your mind. The spirits shall decide.'

'Are all artists as weird as you are?'

'Most, yeah.'

Violetta went upstairs, considered taking another nap—how tired she had been over the past days—and decided against it. Right at this moment, she felt particularly energetic. There was a small, lurid part of her that suggested she could work off some of that extra energy with Jason Porter in bed. If he was so interested in noises in the night, she could show him some he'd like a lot better than ghosts.

She laughed, shook her head in embarrassment. She did not know what was getting her so worked up lately, other than the fact that she had not been laid in... how long was it now? A year, at least. Maybe longer if she took into account that the last couple of times with Roger had been less than earth shattering.

Then there was the actor in L.A., who was almost equally as forgettable. In the midst of the divorce was when this had been, Violetta at a party in the hills slightly toasted and being hit on by a naïve, pleasing young struggling actor. And they had slipped out of the party, had gone back to his rathole little apartment in town, him groping her the entire way, her enjoying being groped, enjoying him telling her over and over how beautiful she was as if what was going to happen was not a sure thing.

He had been a strapping, corn-fed boy like so many of them were, but at that moment, in the midst of the chaos of her life, Violetta decided to make his short Hollywood experience complete. The affair with the older woman, somewhat of a Hollywood player herself. The promise of work and parts and on and on and on. She had dropped to her knees as soon as his door shut behind him, she had sucked him hard in the doorway without even taking his pants all the way off. His hands gripped tightly in her hair, pulling her mouth onto him, giving him the illusion of control. That was what they liked, she knew, the control of it, but they never stopped to realize that when their most sensitive and adored part was in her mouth, she had all the control. She liked the illusion, this arrogant young thing thinking that he was drilling some famous Hollywood whore, when in fact it was she who was doing the drilling, the using, the fucking.

Sure enough, in less than a minute he achieved in her mouth, in his panic pulling away from her and ending up on her face, in her hair. She almost laughed at the look of shocked embarrassment on his face, and then the confusion when she smiled at him and licked the hot mess off her lips. No doubt old Mary Jane Rottencrotch back home had never done that, probably never done much more than give him a Saturday night handjob in the back of his truck. A word not unlike ohmygodi'msorry came spilling out of his mouth all in a single panicked mumble.

Violetta only shook her head, then in a fit of sexual brilliance she never would have expected from herself, she hiked up her short skirt, removed her silky black panties, and used them to wipe his semen from her face. He was spent, of course, but by God she was the sexy older woman, the experienced goddess of fornication leading this boy into his first—and probably only—great Hollywood story, the one he'd tell all the guys back home when his short and utterly unspectacular career fell through. She'd sure as hell make herself one to remember, and she'd make him a celebrity in his hometown if not in this town.

And so she had crept back onto his couch, slid her skirt up, opened her legs to expose herself to him. He watched with a somewhat shameful and dogged look on his face as she brushed her hand over her crotch, fingers slipping between her lips. She spread wider, pressed deeper, watched his erection throb back to life. She made her fingers wet, made her pussy wet, promised him more joy inside than he could imagine. She pressed a finger to her anus and moaned, she promised him here something he could never have imagined in his dirtiest dreams, something Mary Jane from Cowpaddy, Iowa only whispered about with her girlfriends over a flashlight at the sleepover.

She promised him penetration and violation, she promised him the unimaginable. There was a flurry of activity as he approached her, tore open her blouse to expose her breasts, tore off her skirt. He mounted her there on the sofa amidst the evidence of his still vital dreams. She became his dream that night. She took him into her, accepted him in, without allowing him the control he wanted. When he entered her it was because she allowed it. He lasted only a few minutes then, and she let him come inside her. She let him fall back on the sofa, surprised him again by taking his penis into her mouth only moments after he had been inside her. Mary Jane would choke and gag and revile this, Mary Jane in her checkered dress and her pigtails. Violetta Vincent, Violetta Eastman did not care a bit. She had tasted of herself before and found it intoxicating.

Not a single time did she orgasm with the actor, whose name she could not even remember. There was pleasure, of course, but the most pleasure came from what she knew she was giving him, not taking for herself. The stories he would tell, the faces of his friends from back home, slack-jawed as he spoke of it, some of it too far-fetched to even believe.

And as a final great act, the last hurrah, she turned around, turned away from him. She sat atop him, and when he grew hard again, still slick with her juices, she took him inside the other place, deep, unspeakable. Nothing for her still, but she moaned anyway, mingling the proper amounts of discomfort and pleasure. She looked out his window at the city as she rode him like this, slow, clenching tightly. She spoke softly, allowing her voice to break in all the right places. She spoke of how she had never done this, ever, of how, oh, how she loved the feel of his cock in her asshole. She spoke like a filthy porno film, the way he wanted to hear it, how big he was inside her, how he was oh, how he was fucking her in the ass and how it hurt and felt good all at once.

And still nothing. Nothing but anger for Roger, who had no love left for her, no lust even. And she was glad to let this stranger fuck her every way and in every hole, if anything to spit on the years she had wasted with Roger. Roger, who was done with her now. Roger, who did not want her anymore because as far as he was concerned, she was incomplete. It was not just the fact that she could not have children, that might have made things okay. Maybe not okay, but understandable. No, what Roger was missing was something more, it was the other half of her, the other half of Violetta.

Chapter 4

Violetta released a deep sigh. Without realizing it, she had fallen back onto the bed, hand pressed between her legs. She was masturbating for the second time that day, for the second time in as long as she could remember. The memory of that night with the actor had made her foggy headed and distracted, and although she had not come all that night, she wanted to come now, over and over again if she could. She forced the hand away from her warm crotch and sat up, wondering at what could be making her like this. A forty-two year old woman—probably on the verge of menopause—as horny as... well, as horny as she had been when she was a teenager. And this long forgotten memory of a night that had not been about sex, but about spitting in her soon-to-be ex-husband's face, of offering up something to someone that she would never offer up to Roger again.

As she climbed into a comfortable pair of cotton pajamas, she decided that it must be the house making her feel like this. It was in this way that the memories were coming back, the memories of the things she had done here, the lustful and lurid things. But those things had not been done in spite, they had been done in love. Acts of lovemaking so great and tender that they could never be forgotten. She thought she must be blocking out those memories with the others because she was too ashamed to acknowledge them.

She slid her feet into a pair of slippers, checked herself in the mirror, checked to make sure she did not have too much of her own scent on her. She went into the bathroom and misted herself lightly with a flowery body spray, then headed downstairs to the parlor. The room was as she remembered it, squared off with two large, comfortable leather sofas, although she thought these must have been replaced at some point. A gas fireplace was lit, warming the room against the chill of the ocean breeze. A couple of elegant Tiffany lamps provided warm light. Better yet, Jason was sitting on one of the sofas, back to her.