The Future Memoir of Ann Jones

  The Future Memoir

  of

  Ann Jones

  ALEX BAILEY

  Copyright © 2018 by Alex Bailey

  This is a work of fiction. The characters and events described herein are imaginary and are not intended to refer to any persons alive or dead.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher except for brief quotations embodied in critical reviews.

  ISBN: 978-1981820368

  Cover art by: Agape Author Services

  fb.me/MaidenVoyagePublishing

  Table of Contents

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 1

  Ms. Bea Shore

  30 St. Mary’s Road

  TRISTAN DA CUNHA

  SOUTH ATLANTIC

  TDCU 1ZZ

  VIA CAPE TOWN

  Dear Bea,

  I hope you’re having a magnificent time in Tristan da Cunha. Love the postcards, especially the one of the Rockhopper penguins wearing yellow feather hats. That being said, I do miss you terribly. I know your work is incredibly important and you’re learning scads about rare wildlife. And yes, it’s only a year, but it’s a year in the most remote place on earth. No cell phones, no Internet, no way to communicate! I don’t understand how you can manage without your lifelines. But as it “is what it is,” as they say, I’m resorting to writing an old-fashioned letter and digging up a postage stamp. I simply could not wait until your return next year.

  The problem Bea, is that there’s been some, well, interesting but bizarre news of sort. And I don’t know who else to turn to. I’m contacting you because you’re my only sister and I can’t confide in any of my friends. They’d think I’ve gone mad. I need to explain the whole situation in detail and then I need your advice about what to do.

  This is about my dearest and closest friend, Ann Jones, not her real name, you know her real name, but in case this letter is intercepted by anyone…you never know—if the mail boat were taken over by pirates, this letter may be the highlight of their booty. Ann bolted through my front door the other day with a wide-eyed look of desperation; her usually perfectly-coiffed hair was tousled, as if it hadn’t seen a comb in days. And as you know, that’s quite unusual for Ann; queen of the eternally-freshly-coiffed-dos.

  It disturbed me to see her in that state. So, I sat her down with a steaming cup of black coffee; served in her favorite mug. You know the one—with a rather disheveled looking Cinderella, who oddly resembled Ann at that moment, with the quote, “Where is that damn fairy godmother when you need her?” It’s not that Ann admires Cindy so much, but it’s the largest mug I own; the bigger the better when it comes to serving Ann coffee.

  I joined her at the kitchen table with my usual cup of green tea with a single mint leaf plucked from my garden and milk from our goat, Minnie. We got Minnie shortly after you left. She’s not mini as in tiny, but she has a rather high-pitched squeak which sounds very similar to a mouse, hence: Minnie. Wait, am I rambling? Okay, back to Ann.

  At once, Ann began explaining her dilemma, slowly and reluctantly, which, for her, is a tough feat. You know how she loves to talk. Her husband Tom Jones—no relation to the crooner, and also as you know, not his real name, though his not-real full name is Todd Tom Jones—says that Ann could talk a blind man into seeing when she’s with me.

  Anyway, she said “I need your advice,” then stared straight ahead.

  “Okay, shoot,” I said, tea in hand, prepared to dole out my best recommendation. I wondered if she wanted some gardening advice since I am the expert, as we all know, or perhaps she was considering a new hairstyle. God, as much as I would love for Ann to take up gardening, at that moment I was hoping she was heading straight for Mulan’s Salon.

  She started out slow and steady, “I had a vision that Tom died.” She looked at me and I must have given her the green light, because she revved up and spilled it. Not the coffee, but her story. It came tumbling out like the Ann I know and love. “And then I moved to the East Coast, joined a knitting club, and was never so happy in my life.”

  I was stunned. What do you say to someone who confides that something as dreadful as joining a knitting club brought her great joy? “You still knit?” was all I could summon.

  She stared at me for the longest time. She was looking for that wise old matriarch in me to pop out. I blinked several times, hoping not to give away my complete bewilderment.

  “Well?” she finally asked. “What do I do? What would you do?” She drank half the mug of coffee straight down, which is closely equivalent to the amount of beer she drinks before passing out. You know Ann’s such a lightweight.

  I racked my brain, searching for the wisdom of the ages that she sought, but all I came up with was, “Do.” I made a statement, not a question, trying to bide time. I tried desperately to figure out just what the hell she wanted from me. But in perfect Ann style, she rambled on, saving me from the embarrassment of having to admit I hadn’t a clue as to what she was asking. “About joining a knitting group?”

  “About Tom,” she set her mug down and stared into it. “Should I tell him?”

  Tell Tom. That she had a vision of his death? Sounds like a plan! “Uh, Ann Sweetie,” I patted her hand across my kitchen table, “why would you want to do that? Wouldn’t you just upset him needlessly?”

  Ann looked up from her half-empty coffee mug and smiled. “I’m sure you’re right. But I could warn him, couldn’t I?”

  “Warn him?” I cocked my head to one side. Had she completely lost her mind?

  “You know. About his impending death,” she said as casually as if she were talking about informing him the electric bill was overdue. So he could simply just take care of it.

  “Ann, this vision you had. Were you, um…” I didn’t know how to say this delicately, so I whispered, “Sober when you had it?” I scrunched my eyes in anticipation of her reaction.

  She glared back in my direction. “I’m serious, Alex, this is serious. I’m extremely serious about this.”

  She seemed really serious about this vision, but I wasn’t buying it. “You don’t know this will come true. This vision of yours. You don’t know what this…vision was. Maybe it was just a bad dream.”

  Her eyes grew dark, almost as dark as her coffee. “Alex, my dearest friend on earth, have you ever had a vision?” She asked the question sincerely, as if my entire understanding depended on the answer.

  Had I? What exactly is a vision? I’ve had a tele-vision. But I didn’t think the look on Ann’s face could take a joke right now. “Um, no, I don’t believe I have,” I finally relented.

  “Well, then. Let me explain,” she said in typical Ann style. For the next three hours. “I was awake for one thing. And it was a bright sky. Daylight even!” she said with an attitude. “W
alking Honey back from errands. First, to the dog groomer. You know how good she smells afterward. And then to the knitting store.”

  “The knitting store?” This was the second mention of knitting in a matter of minutes. I didn’t think Ann had knitted anything since our eighth-grade home economics teacher, who was rumored to be ninety but probably more like eighty, made us knit a roll of toilet paper. He said it was the one thing everyone could use. “Ann, when did you take up knitting again?”

  “Again?” She seemed confused that I was even asking the question. “I made the twins blankets when they were born.”

  I wanted to point out that her twins were eighteen years old and therefore, the question was relevant, but that wouldn’t help Ann finish her story. So, I let it go.

  Ann continued, “And suddenly, it was like I was watching a movie, right there while I stood on the sidewalk. And no matter how much I wanted to get up and make popcorn or take a potty break,” ever since Ann had kids, she has referred to the restroom as the potty, “I just couldn’t move. I tried blinking. I even closed my eyes completely, but the movie just kept playing.”

  And then she paused, with a curious look as if what she had just said sounded bizarre, not that having a vision of her husband’s death and being overjoyed about joining a knitting club was totally ordinary, she then explained, “There wasn’t really a screen; I just saw it in the air in front of me.” Of course, that made so much more sense!

  Ann continued for the next several hours explaining every detail of what she saw on the “screen” in the air. And this is Ann’s story, told by her, in her own words. And although she told it to me in first person, I’m relaying it in third person, to make it a little easier on you to read. Plus, you know how I can’t help but tell stories, so I’ve filled in her thoughts. You know, I do this with my own characters all the time. It’ll be like the old days when I made you read all my stories. I’ve mostly kept it intact as it was disclosed to me.

  So now you understand why I must change the names of everyone in this story, including my own, except for the pets, because no one could possibly guess a pet’s owner from names like Spot or Fluffy. If Tom were ever to find out that he is the subject of this vision, it could be devastating. He could walk around with this cloud of worry hanging over him for his entire life. Or worse, it could become a self-fulfilling prophecy.

  Make of it what you will. I certainly have my own opinion, but I need to know what you think, and most importantly, what…

  … to do …

  …about it…

  Chapter 2

  As Ann changed her life from the West Coast to a small town on the East Coast, she worried. She worried about everything, for starters, finding a job, would Honey—her blonde, just like Ann—cocker spaniel would make friends, and most importantly, could the East Coast brew a decent cup of coffee. She’d never been a worrier before, but then again, she’d never been a widow before either.

  Stepping off the plane in an airport named for a U.S. president, she rented a car and drove several hours. She had sold her car before the move, not wanting to drive it out from the West Coast alone, and figured she’d just buy a new one. This, of course, was one more thing to worry about.

  When she arrived in her new town of maple-lined streets, Burrburgh, known for its bitter cold winters, she stopped first at her realtor’s office and picked up the key to her new home. She’d bought it over the Internet, flown out once to attend the settlement and felt instantly at home in the two-story brick, Victorian house. She’d been so excited that day she’d forgotten to retrieve the key. Her realtor offered to express-mail it to her, but she declined. Ann would stop in to see her again.

  Ann lowered her windows a few inches for Honey. Since it was a lovely fall day, and she’d only be a minute, Honey would be fine. She gave her a big squeeze around the neck and kissed the top of her head. “Be right back, Honey.”

  This didn’t dispel Honey’s look of apprehension as her owner shut the door.

  Seeing as she was in mourning over the loss of her husband, Ann wore a Black Sabbath t-shirt and jeans. She’d recently cut her thick blond hair to shoulder length, but it was still long enough to slip into a ponytail.

  She liked the feel of her ponytail swinging from side to side as she pranced up the walk to the realtor’s office. It made her feel like a teen again.

  Gloria Stonehenge met her with a bear hug. “Fabulous to see you again, Ann!” she said in a thick British accent. Gloria was a busty woman with a gleaming dark skin tone, who wasn’t afraid of showing an enormous amount of cleavage.

  “Yeah, I made it! Still can’t believe I forgot the key.” Ann shook her head in disbelief.

  “Well you had quite a lot on your mind at the time,” Gloria forced a cheerful smile.

  Ann nodded. It had only been a few months since she’d buried her husband when she found the house on the Internet. And as a coincidence, it was the first one that popped up on the search engine the very first time she made the query. Ann had felt lucky at the time that she didn’t have to pore through house after house. It was perfect; a Victorian with a front porch, hanging baskets of flowers, a small yard, with an established vegetable garden. A brick patio and large trees toward the back of the yard were all in perfect order.

  Ann loved trees, especially of the palm variety. But she’d left those behind for her future filled with beautiful, mature maple trees.

  After retrieving the key, she gave Gloria one final hug and scampered back down the sidewalk carrying her welcome package, which included a Burrburgh phone book of Gloria’s recommendations.

  Ann thought how friendly it was of her and climbed back into her rental car to be greeted by glad-to-see-you-didn’t-leave-me-forever licks from Honey. Ann rubbed the fur on Honey’s head and took off down the street, excited to start her new life.

  She was going to miss her West Coast friends, but she had a laptop with a camera, so she’d be able to keep up with everyone. It was the kids, Adam and Adrien, who were the most upset by her move.

  “Mom, we just lost Dad, and now you’re leaving us too,” Adrien had moaned when she left.

  “I’m not leaving you,” Ann had tried to reassure her. “I need to get away. The pain is too intense here. The memories are too fresh.”

  Adam put an arm around his mom and said, “We understand, Mom. We’re just going to miss you.” He glared at his sister, daring her to say another word.

  “Besides, you guys don’t need me anymore. You’re away at Berkeley now.”

  But when she stuck the key into the lock of her new life, she passed over the threshold with more immediate worries. Would her furniture arrive on time? Where was the best pizzeria? And she was right to be concerned about pizza, because come on, it’s pizza!

  Ann checked out the house, moving from room-to-room, like she’d examined her babies when they were born, counting toes and fingers. Only now she was counting windows and the number of steps to the bathroom. Just in case she woke up at night. She was grateful the previous owner had left a bit of toilet paper on the roll. And it was the nice plush type, instead of the cheap stuff. Ann couldn’t stand wiping sand paper on her bottom.

  When she’d made sufficiently sure she’d have no problem in the middle of the night, the doorbell rang. Right on time. The movers had arrived. She’d timed her arrival perfectly, by staying with Alex a few days before she left. They’d had a good visit together—reminiscing over fun times their families spent on vacations, cookouts, white water rafting, and wiping snotty noses with anything they could muster, including the table skirt at a wedding they once attended.

  When the movers finished unloading the truck, Ann was surrounded by boxes. She spent the rest of the day unboxing her belongings. First things first, the kitchen. Honey needed food and water and having her drink out of the plastic cup Ann had stashed in her purse was getting old. And Honey had just finished the kibble she’d stored with the cup.

  After she fed her pooch, Ann made p
asta she had brought from her favorite market back home and brewed a fresh pot of coffee. Honey watched her eat but kept her distance. She’d been trained early on that unless she wanted Ann taking her food, she wouldn’t beg for Ann’s.

  When she had cleaned up the dishes, Ann collapsed onto the sofa, surrounded by boxes. She thought she had gotten rid of most everything, since she was downsizing, and was surprised at how much was still left. How much stuff does it take to maintain a single woman and a four-year-old dog?

  When the doorbell rang again, Ann had just made the decision to get started unpacking her bedroom. She had everything she needed for the night in her suitcase, but unless she wanted to sleep on the sofa, she’d need to find the bed sheets.

  She walked across the shiny wooden floors and opened the front door. A large chocolate cake stared at her. She instantly fell in love with whoever was behind it.

  Ann reached for it, and behind the cake was just as large a smile, on a tiny woman with straight black bangs and a bob haircut. Ann never was any good at guessing ages, but to her the woman seemed 60ish. She had a pointy chin with a large mole in the center that screamed of the Wicked Witch.

  “Welcome to the neighborhood,” an unusually vociferous voice came from this petite little thing.

  “Why, thank you very much. Come in, come in.” Ann stepped aside to allow the woman to pass.

  Ann set the cake on the coffee table in the living room and stuck out her hand, “I’m Ann Jones.”

  “Freda Gout,” she shook Ann’s hand with a firm grip. “So, where you from? Married? Got kids?”

  Ann knew all too well the neighborhood had elected this woman to scout her out, for she herself had been the designee when they’d had a newcomer to her old neighborhood.

  “I’m from a small town on the West Coast, Hotlandtown. A widow, two kids, twins, in college in California.” Ann had a feeling Freda would appreciate her getting straight to the point rather than beating around the bush and making her dig for information.