Jack Kilborn - Endurance

“Absolutely. But no one will come out here this late. It will have to wait until tomorrow.”

“We have to check in at the race tomorrow morning,” Letti said.

“Not a problem. I can have one of my boys take you into town.”

“We have three bikes we need to take with.”

“We have a truck. It will be fine.”

Florence thought she saw something—a shadow—over Eleanor’s shoulder. It disappeared behind the inn.

“Do you have many animals in these parts?” Florence asked.

Eleanor lowered her voice an octave. “All sorts of nasty things run around in these woods. Bear. Wild boar. Even mountain lions. All the more reason for us to go inside. Come on, now. Y’all must be exhausted after your long trip. From Illinois, isn’t it? The Land of Lincoln? Just follow me.”

Eleanor walked off, taking big strides. Florence shot her daughter a look and saw Letti grin. Her daughter was amused by Eleanor. Florence wasn’t amused so much as disturbed. Something wasn’t right about that woman. Something that went beyond mere eccentricity.

They unpacked the trunk, Eleanor not making good on her promise to help them. Florence shouldered hers and Kelly’s backpacks, then stared into the woods. While the foliage and scent were different, the atmosphere eerily mirrored the jungles of Vietnam. The quiet. The stillness. The darkness that seemed to seep into your very pores. After a lifetime of traveling and missionary work, Florence still wasn’t comfortable in the wilderness. She’d borne witness to countless cases of man’s inhumanity to his fellow man. But that was a known danger. The woods whispered of the unknown. Of unseen things that wanted to eat you.

Letti and Florence hefted their gear over to the inn, Kelly in tow with JD. Eleanor stood on the porch with her creepy smile, holding the door open. The building itself was three stories, made of logs. Wooden shutters covered the windows. The roof was hard to see, as not a single exterior lamp was on.

“Welcome to the Rushmore Inn,” Eleanor said again. The woman apparently liked to repeat herself.

Upon stepping inside, all the creepy feelings Florence had toward Eleanor tripled. The interior—lit by murky, low-watt bulbs—was a cross between a museum and a junk shop. Presidential memorabilia decorated the walls and furniture in a most haphazard way. Paintings. Posters. Newspapers. Photos. Election signs and buttons. Rather than charming, the effect was overwhelming. Florence tried to find something, anything, that didn't have a President's name or image on it. Her eyes fixed on a plain white ashtray. Being curious, she looked closer. Inside were the smiling faces of Richard and Pat Nixon.

“This just went from quirk to fetish,” she whispered to Letti.

“She’s way past fetish. This is full-blown psychosis.”

Florence also noted a strange odor in the house. Beneath the strong scent of incense were notes of body odor, and something else. A rotting smell, like carnations gone bad.

“I see you admiring the decorations,” Eleanor said, her arms making grand, sweeping gestures.

“It’s very presidential.” Letti barely containing her smirk.

“Indeed.” Eleanor’s face took on a solemn cast. “Presidents are the most important people in the world. They're like royalty. After all, what could be more important than running a country? All that power. All that responsibility. As Americans, we should proudly revere our Presidents, for they're so much better than we are.”

“Didn’t Jefferson say all men are created equal?” Florence asked.

“Presidents are more than mere men. They’re born to lead. Did you know all forty-three Presidents have carried European royal bloodlines? Thirty-four of them are genetic descendants of the French ruler, Charlemagne. Nineteen are related to England’s Edward the Third.”

Eleanor produced a handkerchief from the cuff of her long-sleeved dress and mopped at the sweat on her neck.

“If you go back far enough, everyone is descended from the same people,” Letti said.

“Of course they are, dear. Adam and Eve. But only a small minority of these descendants have carried the royal bloodline and were fit enough to lead nations. I have to ask... is Letti short for Leticia?”

“Loretta.”

“Too bad. Leticia Tyler was married to our tenth President, John Tyler. Not a very dynamic first lady, and a cripple at the end of her years. But she had eight children. Only seven survived. How many have you had?”

“Just Kelly.”

Eleanor fanned her face with the handkerchief, a dainty movement incongruous with her massive frame. “Only one child? Such a shame. God told us to be fruitful and multiply. Did you know there was a woman in the eighteenth century who had sixty-nine children? She gave birth to sixteen pairs of twins, seven sets of triplets and four sets of quadruplets. How blessed her family must have been.”

“I’m surprised her uterus didn’t run off and hide,” Letti said.

Eleanor turned to Florence. “How sad that both of us are past our child bearing years, isn't it Florence? It would be so lovely to have a few more.”

“I only needed one because I did it right the first time,” Florence said. Out of the corner of her eye she caught her daughter smiling.

Eleanor turned her attention to Kelly.

“But this young lady here. She has many children in her future. Her breasts are just coming in. I can picture them, swollen with milk. ready to suckle her young.”

“Yuck,” Kelly said. “If I have kids, they’re getting formula.”

Florence didn’t like the woman talking to her granddaughter. Letti didn’t seem to like it either, and put a protective hand on Kelly’s shoulder. Eleanor apparently didn’t notice, and moved closer to the girl.

“And what’s your name, precious one?”

“I’m Kelly. This is JD.”

JD was staring at Eleanor like she was a rabbit he was ready to chase.

“And what does JD stand for?”

“Jack Daniels. Mom named him. We got him when my dad died.”

“He looks very protective of you. How old is he?”

“Eleven.”

“Our thirty-fifth President, John F. Kennedy, had a German Shepherd named Clipper. Such a good-looking animal.” Eleanor tucked her handkerchief away and went tsk tsk tsk. “Too bad JD is near the end of his life. Shepherds don’t live much longer than eleven years.”

Kelly’s eyes got wide.

“We really do appreciate the free rooms,” Letti said, stepping between Kelly and Eleanor. Florence noted the forced smile on her daughter’s face. “We’re very tired, so if you could please show them to us.”

Eleanor raised up her nose, as if she just smelled something she didn’t like. “Of course. Please follow me.”

The large woman strolled past the living room and up the stairs, moving at a quick clip. Florence and Letti, hauling the bags, had to march double-time to catch up. Like the walls, the stairs were made of naked wood, the banisters iron. There was a gap between the opposing flights, so it was possible to look straight up between them and see the roof. The stairway was slathered with more Presidential stuff, including a large poster of Mt. Rushmore. When they reached the second floor, Eleanor was standing in front of a closed door, tapping her foot. Her boots were vintage like her dress, black leather with hooks for the laces.

“This is the Abraham Lincoln Bedroom. It will be perfect for Kelly. You other ladies are on the third floor.” She handed Kelly a key, then began walking back to the stairs.

Letti voiced her objection before Florence could. “We’d like to all stay on the same floor, if possible,” she called to Eleanor’s back.

Eleanor turned and offered a mirthless smile. “That’s impossible. I’m afraid I haven’t made up any of the other rooms.”