Plague

Nicola Prescott drove through the Holland Tunnel at daybreak. The empty road ahead of her seemed eerie. It felt as though she were in another world. She had never experienced as straightforward a trip. Only one vehicle proceeded her while two followed at a distance.

Milt Kromesky died a week previously. The news upset Nicola. When she first arrived in Manhattan, the elderly gentleman befriended her. Somehow, the city felt empty without him. Social distancing put a proper funeral out of bounds. Although her group of friends gathered on Zoom, his remembrance wake seemed flat, unreal. Nicola wished she could have provided him with a better send-off.

Nic desired companionship. However, the plague spread quickly, preventing get-togethers. Facetime did not take the place of real time. Stephanie Malone and Gabby Sanchez kept in touch. The rest of her companions dropped off.

Nic's fiction writing kept her busy. Cricket Madison and Chadwick Mars became the closest people in her life. However, they lived solely in her imagination. In Nic's opinion, fictional characters never took the place of real ones. However, they were her bread and butter. She could take them to Florida if she wished.

And she wished. Beyond the grave, Milt Kromesky convinced her. Nicola did not wish to stay in NYC if Milt were not there. Florida beckoned. Therefore, she packed up her three cats and hit the road.

Exiting the tunnel, Nicola navigated onto the Garden State Parkway. She intended to travel to Cape May, New Jersey, then cross on the ferry to Delaware. Interstate 95 would take her to her home state.

Muffin, Tangerine, and Samantha rode in their carriers on the backseat. Their endless caterwauling came to a halt with a soft whimper from Sam. The cats provided good company once they settled down. Nic spoke softly to soothe them. Usually, she flew when she transferred homes, and her furry companions traveled in the hold. The road trip might prove challenging. However, with many flights canceled, driving seemed the better option.

“Good kitties,” Nic gently crooned. “Good kitty kitties.”

Muffin ma-wrawled in return. Then he began to purr softly. Peering into the rearview, Nic smiled. Tange groaned and stretched; Sam rolled over on her belly. Nicola could only see a little of the tuxedo's white chin in the dark carrier. The rest of her black fur blended into the shadows.

“At least they won’t argue over their tablets and snacks,” Nic spoke to herself. She considered the cats her children.

Smiling, Nicola Prescott thought of her childhood vacations. Forced to spend hours on the backseat, she and her sister, Noelle, often fought over trivial things. Boredom drove them to it. The punch buggy game provided the catalyst for many a backseat fight.

“Yellow punch buggy,” Noelle screeched, peering out the window. Turning on her sister, she hauled back her arm and punched.

Nicola took it squarely on the upper arm. By the evening, a blue-black bruise would appear. It would remain for the entirety of their summer vacation. She would look stupid in tank tops and bathing suits.

“Watch what you’re doing,” Nic hissed, slamming her younger sibling in the same place. ‘There, now we’re even,’ she gleefully thought.

"MOM!" Noelle yelled, grasping her arm. Tears stood out on her honey-colored lashes.

“What did I tell you about hitting each other?” Nadine Prescott, their mother, sharply asked. Hoisting herself between the front bucket seats, she glared at her daughters.

“Noelle started it,” Nicola answered, pouting. Her younger sister usually started their fusses.

“You don’t have to finish it,” their mother retorted, sitting back into her front seat.

“Yeah, whatever,” Nic muttered, slumping into the back seat.

“Yeah, whatever,” the adult Nicola told her dashboard.

Occasionally, the desire for real children overcame her. She should marry and settle down, she admonished herself. After all, Oliver Talbot had nothing substantial to give her. A fling—that was all he was. He called, and she flew merrily into his arms. Often, Nicola admonished herself for doing it.

“Give it up,” Nicola stated out loud. Cringing, she realized she spoke to herself. Then, she shrugged and said, “I won’t give Ollie up. I don’t care if he’s married. I want him.”

Nicola clicked on her turn signal and pulled off the parkway into a fast food drive-thru. She did not look to see which one it was. It all boiled down to the same thing. And she only wanted a large coffee.

Paying for her drink, Nic pulled into a parking slot. Lifting the lid, she sat back and allowed the steam to escape. Then, she added three sugar packets and four creamers. She took a sip.

"Hot!" Nicola exclaimed, plunking the cup into the car's cupholder.

Nic backed out of her space and hit the road again. Traffic remained light all the way down to Cape May. Four cars plus her own pulled onto the ferry. If the situation continued, she’d make it home in record time.

However, vehicles began to back up as Nicola Prescott neared the D.C. area. She dreaded navigating in bumper-to-bumper traffic. Nevertheless, after Richmond, VA, it would lighten up again. Still, it proved easier to get around the capital than she expected.

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Finally, Nic pulled into a Hampton Inn near Santee, South Carolina. Weary from the drive, she stumbled into her room and dropped onto the bed. She felt lucky they accepted her pets. With the plague preventing travel, perhaps they were eager for lodgers.

Rising, Nicola set up a litterbox and freed her companions. Muffin, her grey cat, wove a joyful figure eight around her legs. Samantha leaped at her leg, dragging long scratches from her knees to her ankles. Although she winced at the sudden pain, Nic bent down to give her little girl a soothing pet. Orange and white Tangerine flopped onto the bed and stretched out.

“Love you guys,” Nic sang, throwing kisses. She fell back onto the bed and played with her frisky cats.

Following a quick nap, Nic pulled up Door Dash on her smartphone and ordered dinner. It arrived in good time, and she ate hungrily. Then she fed the cats.

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The following morning, Nicola Prescott hit the road again. The roads remained clear, and she jogged merrily along. The interstate cut through Georgia and deep into Florida. She exchanged I-95 for I-4 and met traffic in Orlando. By mid-afternoon, she arrived in Spring Hill.

Parking her car neatly in the garage, Nic entered through the kitchen and kicked off her sandals. She breathed a sigh of relief and swung open the fridge. Connie Maitland, her friendly neighbor, stocked it during the previous night.

Nicola considered herself fortunate to have a good friend next door. The older woman treated her like a daughter. If she called, Connie eagerly provided the assistance she required.

A tapping sound drew her attention as Nic drew out a half-gallon of milk. Looking up into the kitchen window, she discovered Connie smiling at her. Swiftly, she unlatched the sliding lanai door and invited her friend inside.

"You made good time," the elderly woman exclaimed, breezing in. "I didn't expect you until much later. No speeding, I hope." Playfully she shook in index finger in Nicola's face.

“No, nothing like that,” Nic answered, grinning. “Clear sailing almost all the way. No traffic. The plague is keeping everyone at home.”

“Excellent,” Connie returned, grasping the milk. Extracting two glasses from an upper cabinet, she poured. Then, pulling out a stool, she perched at the kitchen island.

“Hang on a minute,” Nic called, heading toward the garage. “I haven’t brought my babies in yet. They’ve been in their carriers for two days. You know how they hate it.”

Within moments, the two women carried in the three cats. Releasing them, Muffin and Sam charged around the house. Playfully, they leaped over each other and dashed into the open lanai. Tangerine appeared in the open carrier door, sniffed the air, and lumbered out. Taking four steps, he plopped on the tiled floor and stretched out.

“Lazy boy,” Nicola chided her middle cat.

"So what brings you down to FLA?" her neighbor asked, regaining the kitchen stool.

Nic joined her and sipped her milk.

“The city was driving me crazy,” the writer responded. She did not wish to speak of Milt’s passing. It still saddened her. “It became depressing with everyone on lockdown.”

"It isn't any more exciting in the southland," Connie wistfully responded. "The theaters are closed, and the club canceled our bridge games."

A conservator of the arts, Connie frequented the local theater companies. She donated both her money and time to the endeavors of the performers. She played cards at their gated neighborhood's small community center in her spare time. Nicola accompanied her to many plays and musicals but reneged on joining the club. Playing bridge and gin bored her.

“Looks like we have to entertain ourselves at home,” Nic answered, idly spinning her empty milk glass.

"Easy for you to say," Connie stated with a sigh. "I've crocheted twenty doilies. Tell me, Nic, what will I do with twenty doilies?"

“Give them as Christmas gifts,” Nicola offered.

“Very funny. Blah.” The older woman put out her tongue. “I can’t even get my hair done.” Pointing upwards, she indicated her unruly silver curls.

"I see what you mean," Nic responded, propping her elbows on the counter. "First thing tomorrow morning, I'm going to shut all the blinds. And set up a 'do not disturb sign' on the doorknob. I want to get in at least twenty pages of 'Cricket Madison.'"

“Your new book?”

"Hmmm, mmm," the writer conceded. "Cricket's in a mess. Her boyfriend, Chadwick Mars, is a control freak. She just clocked him with a baseball bat. Writer's block set in. I figured I could clear my head down here. Then, I'll move the story forward."

“Tap tap tap. Ding. Thack. Zzzzhip.” Connie imitated an old-fashioned typewriter perfectly.

Nicola laughed for the first time since Milt died. In a way, she felt relieved. After receiving the news, Nic cried herself out. Moreover, she could not focus on her work. As she tried to move her story forward, the words hung blankly in her mind. The white MS Word page stared at her accusingly.

“Thank heavens for laptops and MS Word,” Nicola exclaimed, grinning broadly.

“In my day, we had typewriters and pencils,” her neighbor remembered. “Lining up paper and carbons took up a great deal of time. We started over on every typo. The younger writing generation sure is lucky.”

"We're spoiled," Nic conceded. "But it's just as tough to get your foot in the door as in your day. I consider myself lucky enough to have an agent."

“True,” Connie replied, recalling her days as a novelist. “You’re further ahead than I was. You have three best sellers. The fourth one will sell like hotcakes.”

“I hope so. Cricket is a real character. So is Chad if you’re into control freaks.”

"As long as they each play off the other, you've got it made."

A loud series of meows startled Nicola and Connie. Leaping to their feet, the two women dashed for the lanai. Muffin and Tangerine lay tangled together at the edge of the pool. As Nic rushed toward them, the two cats rolled over and splashed into the cold water.

Nicola threw herself down at the pool's edge and fished Muffin out. Bellowing out a screech, the bedraggled cat dove for the house. Tangerine surfaced and paddled toward the shallow end. Connie lifted him into her arms and hurried into the bathroom. Emerging moments later, she held the orange cat wrapped in a towel. Samantha sat on a white wrought iron table, preening herself.

“Rescue accomplished,” Nic exclaimed and laughed.

Her neighbor handed over Tange and plunked down at the table. Sucking in air, Connie gasped for breath. After a few moments, she felt better.

"Too much exercise for this old gal," she sputtered. It became difficult to breathe.

“You okay?” Nicola queried, worried about her friend.

“Sure, just give me a minute.”

Nicola and Connie sat by the pool. After a while, Muffin reemerged and groomed himself at Nic's feet. Tangerine curled up on the fluffy towel. After a while, Connie said goodbye, and Nic waved.

The long day drew to a close. Nicola suddenly felt exhausted after the long drive. She grabbed a bite, then a shower, and fell into bed.

For a while, the writer in her emerged. She thought about Cricket Madison and Chadwick Mars. A few scenarios crossed her mind, including a hostage situation. Then, Nicola's mind drifted to Oliver Talbot.

“Elysian Fields Cancelled,” she muttered, rolling over. Pulling the comforter over her head, she repeated, “Elysian Fields Cancelled, indeed.”

Perhaps she would cancel Lt. Col. Oliver Talbot and get on with her life.