Jack Kilborn - Endurance

“And I wasn’t a mother to you.” Florence said it as a statement.

“Mothers nurture.” Letti said. She felt the tear roll down her cheek. “Mothers support. Mothers show up at the goddamn funeral when their daughters lose their husbands.”

Florence said nothing. She just stood there, stoic as ever.

I might as well be talking to a statue.

“It’s so important to me for you to understand why I did it, Letti.”

“I know why you did it, Florence. But I’ll never understand it. And I’ll never forgive you for it.”

Florence opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

Point. Match. Game.

So why did it still feel like losing?

Letti walked out of the room, shutting the door behind her. She went down the hall to the Grover Cleveland room and let herself in. For a moment, she felt like giving in to the tears, crying her eyes out. But she pushed the feeling down. The last time she cried was at Peter’s funeral. She’d lost two people that day. Her husband, and her mother.

Letti wouldn’t allow herself to cry over her mother again.

She took a deep breath through her nose, let it out slow through her mouth. Like she’d been taught. All during her youth, Florence had subjected Letti to countless instructors, coaches, and senseis, in countless sports, martial arts, and disciplines. Florence thought dropping Letti off at a dojo or a yoga class was a substitute for parenting. But none of her many teachers could fill the void Letti felt, and none could teach her how to deal with her resentment.

Letti took another slower, deeper breath, letting her heart rate slow down. The room smelled strange, and the decorations were even more so.

Damn, this is one creepy place.

If Letti hadn’t known what Grover Cleveland looked like before coming to this room, she certainly did now. Everywhere she looked, there were pictures and drawings and photos of the chubby, moustached President. He was on the curtains, the walls, the bedspread, the doors, and even the lampshades.

That Eleanor Roosevelt has some issues. Hell, she has a whole subscription.

Letti undressed down to her panties, letting her clothes stay where they fell. She was exhausted, bone weary, but her mind refused to shut off. Sleep would be elusive.

She considered taking a shower, but standing up for those few extra minutes seemed like a tremendous chore. And, for some strange reason, she didn’t feel comfortable being naked.

Letti crossed her arms across her breasts, considering the feeling. It wasn’t shame. Letti had toned her body to be all it could be, and was proud of her efforts.

No, what Letti felt was something closer to fear.

What am I afraid of? I’m alone.

Still, she opened her suitcase next to the bed, and quickly tugged on a tee shirt. After a quick look around the room, checking for leering boogeymen, she took her toiletry bag into the bathroom and began to brush her teeth.

The bathroom was also funky, both in odor and in decor. The large poster of Grover Cleveland facing the toilet seemed to stare right at her. Letti had an irrational urge to hang a towel over its eyes.

The water from the sink was off-color, and tasted funny, so Letti brushed without swallowing any. She finished quickly and crawled into bed, wrapping herself up in Grover Cleveland sheets. Letti automatically reached for the remote control on the night stand next to the bed, but didn’t see it. And there was an obvious reason why; the room had no TV.

Annoyed, Letti wondered how she’d ever be able to fall asleep. Her normal ritual involved talk shows and infomercials until she couldn’t keep her eyes open anymore. The silence in this room was much too loud.

She thought about getting up, going to Kelly’s room. Maybe her daughter had a TV. Or maybe she’d let Letti borrow her iPod. YouTube was a sorry substitute for Leno, but it would have to do.

Letti was peeling back the covers when her eyes caught on something setting on the dresser.

A book.

Been a while since I read a book.

She padded over to it, and realized it wasn’t a regular book at all. It was a hardbound journal. On its cover, in detailed script, were the words The Rushmore Inn.

Letti immediately knew what it was. She’d stayed in bed and breakfasts before. The proprietors often left journals in the rooms, so people could document their stay. Curious as to what guests would say about this odd little Inn, Letti picked up the journal and climbed back into bed.

The first page was written in deliberate, ornate cursive.

10/23/1975

The Inn is practically hidden out here in the woods, but Henry and I find the accommodations and the proprietor quite charming. Henry hasn’t returned from hunting yet. While I hope he had fun, I also hope he doesn’t bring any of those ghastly birds home. They’re such a mess to prepare. Our vows said nothing about “plucking.”

I hear someone downstairs. Maybe it’s him. Maybe I’ll surprise him by being naked when he comes to bed.

He’s walking up the hall now. I’m going take off my

The last sentence just ended there, without punctuation. Letti turned to the next page, and found it was ripped out. She began reading the next entry, done in a different hand.

May 19, 1979

My second night here. I don’t like it. There are strange smells, and right now I hear something moving in the walls. It’s another two days before Blake and the other men come back from their mountain climbing, and I almost wish I went with them. Marcus’s wife has come down with something. She’s slurring her speech like she’s drunk, but she swears she hasn’t touched any liquor, and her breath doesn’t smell. I hope Blake comes back soon.

Again, more missing pages.

This is pretty creepy stuff.

Letti listened, to see if she heard anything in the walls. There was nothing but silence. Though she knew the journal was getting to her, Letti moved on to the next entry.

July 24, 1984

I can’t believe we found this place. It’s so deep in the woods I don’t know how it stays in business. Especially since our room was free, and we seem to be the only ones here. My wife thinks it’s all incredibly kitschy. I think it’s just weird. If this new job pans out, I’ll make some real money and take her on a proper honeymoon. But I love her, so it doesn’t matter where we are, as long as there’s a bed. Though last night, I could have sworn I heard something UNDER the bed.

Feeling foolish, but also a bit freaked out, Letti peeked over the side of the bed. She grabbed the dust ruffle with her hand, set her jaw, and lifted it up.

Nothing.

Florence would find my paranoia amusing. I need to get a grip.

Letti considered putting the journal down, but that would have proved it was scaring her. Instead, she skipped ahead, skimming bits and pieces. It stayed true to the theme. Brief, spooky paragraphs, followed by missing pages.

August 14, 1991

Paula is still upset about the “monster” she said she saw in the woods. Something with two heads. I think she’s seeing things. We both seem to have the flu, though neither of us has a fever. Can’t wait to get out of this place.

Two pages missing.

June 1998

Barry hasn’t returned yet. I’m getting worried. I hear noises. I hope we get the car fixed soon so we can leave.

Page missing.

9/19/02

It’s the middle of nowhere. There’s no place to run. What am I supposed to do?

Another page torn out.

6/2005

This place is really fucked up. I think we’re gonna die here.