by Jack Kilborn
In the beginning, she was grateful for not being able to conceive.
Now, she almost wishes she could. Just to connect with another human being.
To hold a baby, just for a moment. To hold anyone at all.
She wants so to see her family. Hell, to see herself. She hasn’t looked in a mirror for so very long.
And the sun. She’d give anything to see the sun again.
She tries to maintain hygiene. They give her soap. She washes herself with the cold well water from the pump. Washes the few articles of clothing she has. They give her toothpaste but no toothbrush. She uses her finger.
Escape is impossible. Resistance is met with violence.
But there’s always the possibility of rescue.
Her hope has dimmed as the months have dragged by. But it isn’t fully dead yet. There’s still a tiny flicker of hope left.
Because she knows that he’s looking for her. She knows he’ll never give up.
And when he comes, she wants to be ready.
So she tries to stay healthy. Tries to hang on. Tries to endure it all.
But she realizes, deep down, she won’t last much longer.
There aren’t as many prisoners. That means they’re using her, more and more.
It won’t be long before they use her all up. The scars on her arms attest to that.
She does another set of push-ups, her fingernails filthy from the dirt floor. Drinks some water, wincing at the taste. It makes her light-headed. Dizzy.
Then she hears the footsteps.
They’re coming. Again.
She tries not to cry. She needs to save her strength. There’s nothing she can do to stop it.
The tears come anyway.
Then her cell door opens, and the endless nightmare is about to get horribly worse.
# # #
JD was going nuts, scratching at the front windshield and barking so fast and loud Florence wondered how the animal was able to breathe. The older woman reached forward into the front seat and grabbed his collar.
“Down, boy!”
The German Shepherd whined, then sat. The night was dark and quiet and seemed to press down on their car.
“What happened, Grandma?”
Florence patted Kelly’s leg. “Front tire blew out.”
“How? Did we hit something?”
“I’m not sure, dear.”
It was an odd blowout, for sure. Their previous flat was the result of running over a nail, causing a slow leak. This was more like an explosion.
Almost as if...
The knock on their window made all three women jump. A flashlight beam hit Florence in the eyes, forcing her to squint. The dog went supernova, pouncing toward the beam and the figure who controlled it, slobber splattering all over the passenger-side window.
“Are y’all okay in there?”
Letti hit the interior light, and Florence stared out at the woman who asked the question. The stranger was tall, easily over six feet, built like a linebacker. It was too dark and she stood too far away to make out anything else.
“JD, shush!” Letti said.
JD kept barking.
Florence tapped the dog on the head. “JD!”
The dog shut up, but its lips remained curled in a snarl. Letti hit the power window, opening it a crack.
“Welcome to the Rushmore Inn,” the large woman said. Her voice was unusually high for someone so big. “Y’all must be the Pillsburys. We been expecting you. I’m the owner. Can I help with any of your luggage?”
The woman put her round face near the window and smiled, revealing a set of gigantic dentures. It looked like she had a mouth full of Chiclets. This close, Florence saw the crow’s feet, the neck waddle, and guessed her to be mid-sixties. She wore a blue floral print dress that had a lace collar and looked antique. Her gray hair couldn’t be described as a beehive, but it was twisted and piled up on top of her head pretty high, hairsprayed into a helmet. Perched on top, of all things, was a pillbox hat, the kind made famous by Jackie O.
But the thing that really caught Florence’s attention was the woman’s eyes. Big and brown and bulging like a frog’s. The mouth might have been smiling wide, but the eyes seemed vacant.
Letti turned around and looked at Florence, both women exchanging an expression of doubt. But before Florence could say anything, Letti told Kelly to put on JD’s leash, and then she opened the door.
Florence got out of the car, and found herself standing face-to-face with the innkeeper. Well, face-to-bust anyway. The woman had at least six inches on Florence.
“I’m Eleanor Roosevelt,” she said in a sing-song, southern belle voice. “My grandfather was second cousin to Theodore Roosevelt, the twenty-sixth president of the United States. But, of course, I was named after Mrs. Franklin Delano Roosevelt. FDR was the only President to serve three terms in the White House.”
Her bug eyes blinked, and she offered a fake smile and her hand. Florence shook it, and found herself in a power struggle of who could squeeze harder. Eleanor’s hand was large, meaty, and she had formidable strength. But Florence had been sticking to a strict exercise routine for more than forty years, and could knock off a hundred fingertip push-ups without breaking a sweat. Though she didn’t have leverage on her side, her fingers had the power to crush a soup can.
The two women remained locked like that for several seconds, neither of them betraying anything in their faces.
“And you are?” Eleanor asked, her voice steady as her grip increased.
“Florence. I’m not named after anybody. I find it refreshing to be my own person.”
Eleanor tilted her head to the side. “You look to be about my age, Florence. Are you certain you’re fit enough to compete in Iron Woman? It would be a shame if you keeled over from a heart attack. Do you remember when President Dwight D. Eisenhower had a heart attack in 1955?”
“I never liked Ike.”
Eleanor’s eyes narrowed, and she released Florence’s hand, wiping it on her bulging stomach. “Yes. Well then. It’s certainly a pleasure to meet you.” She turned. “And you must be Letti. I spoke with you on the phone. I’m Eleanor Roosevelt. My grandfather was second cousin to Theodore Roosevelt, the twenty-sixth president of the United States.”
“I caught that earlier. Nice to meet you, Eleanor.”
Florence watched as Eleanor tried to mash Letti’s hand, and was pleased when Eleanor let out a yelp at her daughter’s strength.
That-a-girl, Letti.
Eleanor couldn’t pull her hand away quickly enough.
“We seem to have run over something in your driveway and gotten a flat tire,” Letti said, her face betraying nothing.
Eleanor clucked her tongue. “Yes. It happens a lot out here. We try to keep the driveway clear, but there are sharp rocks everywhere.”
Letti folded her arms—her victory pose. “We lost our spare on the trip up. Do you have the number of a garage around here? Someone who sells tires?”
“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. S
omething 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.”
“I’ll take this one,” Florence offered.
Kelly already had the key in the door and had opened it. The light was on, and as expected, Lincoln memorabilia was the dominating motif.
“This room is cool! I did a school report on Lincoln. Remember, Mom?”
“I’d feel better if you stayed in a room next to me or Grandma.”
“Aw, c’mon. I’ll be fine. JD will be with me.”
“I’m a fan of Lincoln too, dear,” Florence said. “I was actually at Ford’s Theater when he was shot. Other than that, it was a pretty good play.”
Kelly pouted. Florence considered correcting her on her pouting—pouting wasn’t a useful habit to pick up—but she wasn’t going to usurp Letti’s authority and start making rules. That had been one of many conditions Florence had agreed to when she asked to move in with them. In truth, if Letti had asked that Florence wear a bag on her head and never speak again, she would have agreed to that as well. Repairing her relationship with her daughter, and building one with her granddaughter, were the most important things in her life.
Funny how priorities change when circumstances change.
“You should room next to Mom,” Kelly told her. “It will give you a chance to pa
tch things up.”
Florence gave Letti a look that said, Did you tell her? and Letti gave her the same look right back.
“I’m not stupid,” Kelly said, putting her hands on her hips. “I don’t know what the deal is between both of you, but now is a good time to work it out. I’ll be in here with JD, eating granola bars and playing with my iPod. G’night.”
Kelly smiled brightly, stepped into the Lincoln bedroom with the dog, and shut the door behind her. Florence heard the lock turn.
“She takes after you,” Florence said.
Letti folded her arms. “Meaning she never listens?”
“Meaning she’s strong willed and a smart observer.”
“I don’t have all day.” This from Eleanor, still waiting at the stairs.
Letti pursed her lips and walked after the woman. Florence followed.
After another flight of stairs, and another poster of Mt. Rushmore, the women arrived on the third floor. More low-lighting. More odd memorabilia on the walls.
This woman must spend all of her free time on eBay.
“Letti, this is the Grover Cleveland room. I believe you’ll find it quite comfortable. And for you, Florence, the Ulysses S. Grant room, right next door.”
“Thank you, Eleanor.”
Eleanor handed her the key, but hung onto the key ring.
“If you’re hungry tonight, the kitchen is on the first floor. There’s food in the icebox. I made cupcakes earlier. But be careful walking the halls. Rumor has it the inn is haunted. This property used to be a tobacco plantation. The owners had six slaves, and they treated them harshly. Lashings. Thumb screws. Are you familiar with strappado? They would tie a rope around a slave’s wrists, fasten it to this iron banister right here. It’s actually a gate. See?”
Eleanor touched the railing, unlatching it. It swung inward on hinges, revealing the twenty-five foot drop to the first floor.
“When the slave fell, the rope would pull taut and dislocate his shoulders.”
“Charming,” Florence said, her voice flat.
“Legend says one slave, after his fifth drop, lost both of his arms when they ripped from his sockets. He’s said to roam the hallways at night, looking for his missing limbs. One wonders what infraction he committed to deserve such treatment. Or why his owner would risk the loss. After all, slaves cost money.” Eleanor closed the gate. “Did you know twelve of our Presidents were slave owners?”