Page 01
It's strange to think that it's been 20 years. 20 years since I arrived in the past, or more specifically, the past from my perspective. Part of my life in one era and the rest, likely, in a very different one. I still have no clue how this happened and by now, I've really given up ever finding out.
Wait, let me start from the beginning. My name is James Landry, but I've always gone by Jim. I was born in 1989 and as I write this, the year is 1966. I'm leaving this as a testimonial that I don't intend to come out until long after I'm gone. I guess I'm hoping for understanding, forgiveness, or just that someone will know what happened one day.
The last day that I was in my "present" was July 9th, 2011. I'd just turned 22 the day before, having graduated from college the month before. I went to sleep in my parent's house, staying with them until I could move into my own apartment in three months. I don't really remember anything about that day, except for the last meal my mother made, my grandmother's lasagna.
My grandmother, Rose Landry, died the year before and I was devastated, the two of us always having been close. She had a fun sense of humor and we always hung around each other. Maybe it wasn't cool to hang around my grandmother, but even all my friends all thought she was awesome. I missed her and having her lasagna brought back good memories. I just drifted off to sleep that night, not a real care in the world.
When I woke up, I was in a field which I later learned was on the outskirts of Davenport, Iowa. I was dressed in a grey shirt and tan pants that looked old-timey. I looked around and saw nothing but farmland. I was in Nevada when I went to sleep, and I'm looking at farmland! I got up and started walking till I got to a farmhouse and saw an elderly couple on the porch straight out of 'American Gothic'. They got me into their house.
I learned they were Norma and George Avondale, and this was their farm. I introduced myself and looked around the house, noticing all the antique furniture and fixtures. At first I thought it was a restoration shop or an antique shop. I then saw a newspaper on the kitchen table dated for July 10th, 1946. And the paper was brand new! My eyes went wide, and I thought I was dreaming. They were asking me how I got there and how they could help.
I couldn't tell them I was from 65 years in the future, they'd have me hauled away to an asylum. I told them I'd gotten hit on the head as I was hitchhiking and got robbed, all my money and identification stolen. They had a doctor come take a look at me and he said I was fine. They graciously offered to put me up for a while and help me get back on my feet if I was willing to help out around the house and farm.
I readily agreed and worked on their farm for a few months while they helped me get settled. It still amazes me how easy it was to get a driver's license, Social Security Card, even a passport with no real proof of identity. I helped out around the house anyway I could, stacking hay, cleaning up, anything.
The couple knew I had done some writing (telling them about my college days) and they recommended me to the local paper. Before I knew it, I had my own column. It helps to have knowledge of the future to help inform decisions, and I was always good at history. I was one of the only columnists in the world to correctly predict that Harry Truman would be reelected in 1948.
Soon after that election, two big things happened in my new life. I got a job at the New York Times as a column writer and the Avondale's died in a wreck. Since I'd come to the past, those lovely people treated me like family at every avenue. Even after I moved out, they insisted I come for Sunday dinner, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. To them, I was the child they never had. They never pushed me about how I knew so much and never tried to pry into my past. Even now, I miss them dearly, the pain of the loss being the same as my own parents and my grandmother.
After their funeral, I was summoned to a local attorney to deal with the dispensation of their estate, them having named me executor. Since neither of them had any other family, it was all left to me, deciding it would be safest in my hands. The attorney told me that the couple actually did quite well and recommended I keep the farm. He also recommended an overseer to me, since he knew I was soon moving.
I packed up their house solemnly, missing these people who'd for no reason taken me in. I met with the overseer who assured me he'd take care of the place. With that, I left Davenport behind for new horizons.
In the time I'd been in the past, I hadn't left Davenport at all, trying to get accustomed to this new time. Being that I was originally from Connecticut before Dad moved us all to Henderson while I was in college, I'd been to Manhattan plenty of times. But now it was 1949, not 2009. I was really walking into the unknown. While I knew all the streets and whatnot, I didn't know this version of the city.
I arrived by train and checked into the hotel that the paper was putting me up in until I could get an apartment. Since the Avondale's had left me some money, and I'd been able to save pretty well, I was able to afford a great place in the Village at what I considered to be a steal. I furnished and got appliances as best I could, still missing the microwave that wouldn't be around for another 25 years.
I found a diner nearby that served all kinds of meals and became a regular there. My work at the paper was good, my columns about issues foreshadowing what was to come being popular. I faced some resistance from the old guard when I first got there, considering I was only 25 when I started there. By 1953, I was syndicated in papers all over the east coast. By 1956, I was syndicated all over the country.
So there I was, 32 years old, living in the past for ten years, and at the height of my power. The world was literally my oyster. I was respected and known, even having enough clout to meet President Eisenhower and do a column on him. I'd made friends in New York and by the time I was 32, they all seemed to have the same question for me.
When was I gonna settle down?
It was true, I hadn't dated since I'd been in the past. Some part of me thought I'd screw up the timeline or something if I did. Up to that point, work had always been enough to keep me occupied, but now, I had to admit I was starting to get a bit lonely.
It was March of '56 when my editor called me in to say I'd been nominated for another prize.
"You just keep raking 'em in, Jim, my boy," the gregarious Peter Donald said. He was a good boss and never stepped on my toes.
"Guess I must've learned something from you," I told him in my typical humble way, garnering a smile.
"Hogwash," he said, as he normally did, as if I needed to be reminded I was living in 1956, "you're just good, plain and simple. The bosses see it too and are offering you a new contract."
He placed an envelope down and I opened it up. It was a huge raise, guaranteed five years with the paper, and more syndication, Canada and Britain now being added to the mix. I was astonished.
"I uh..." I said, stunned, "I really don't know what to say."
"Well, yes would be a good start," Peter replied chuckling.
"Yes," I said, standing up and shaking his hand, big smiles on both our faces.
"Good!" Peter said while reaching for his bar. It was definitely weird to be back in the '50's where drinking in the workplace was commonplace, but I certainly wasn't complaining as Peter got out the good scotch for this. We toasted our mutual success and sat back down.
"This is really good, Pete," I told him, acknowledging the scotch.
"Anything under 12 years old is for infants," he retorted back, taking a sip. "Oh! I almost forgot. With the new contract comes money for a writing assistant."
"I don't really need one," I told him.
"Someone to help you type, organize, whatever," Peter said waiving his glass around. "I'll have my girl schedule some interviews. Let's be honest, you're not the fastest typist in the east."
Now that was true. Getting used to a typewriter had been tough for me and I still wasn't as proficient at it as a columnist of my "caliber" should be. I nodded, conceding the point as we continued drinking.
Over the next few days, while setting up the new office I also got, I had about a half dozen interviews with various women. Some were nice, but couldn't take dictation to save their life, some were clearly just there to "snag a man" and a single, successful columnist would certainly fit that bill. I figured it would just take a while to find the right match.
"Mr. Landry?" Ginger, Peter's secretary announced opening the door with a knock.
"Hey, Ginger," I said in greeting, "Peter need me?"
"No, no sir," she replied, always polite. I always insisted she just call me Jim, but Peter was rigid about formality with the women on staff. "Another girl for you, they sent her from downstairs. You have time?"
"Yeah," I said looking at the clock and seeing it was only four, "send her in."
"Yes, Mr. Landry," she said ducking back out. I got out a notepad and heard the door open. "Mr. Landry, this is Ms. Richards."
"Hello, how are..." was all I said before I saw I was face to face with my grandmother. I'd seen her picture from the old days more times than I could count, she looked at me with a smile and her dark, auburn hair flowing down. I was stunned. "Sorry," I quickly said to cover, "you looked familiar to me."
"Nice to meet you, Mr. Landry," she said politely, extending her hand.
"You as well," I got out, still stunned. "I'm Jim," I said trying to get the quiver out of my voice.
"Rose Richards," she said with her trademark, warm smile. "It's so nice to meet you, Mr. Landry. I really am a big fan of yours. You're writing, I mean," she giggled nervously. My grandmother was nervous about meeting me?! For the first time in almost ten years, I felt uneasy in the past. Up to this point, I'd had no reminders from my past anywhere near me, except my memories. Now my grandmother was in front of me, live and in color.
"Well," I said, trying to get some composure, "won't you sit down?" I said offering her a chair as Ginger left us. My grandmother handed me her resume which I looked over. I was mostly using it as a cover so that I could get a hold of myself. I really couldn't believe this! I mean, what are the odds of somehow winding up in the past, not seeking any of your family, and still encountering them?!
As I "read" her resume, I looked at the woman before me as well. She was smiling the whole time, as she always did when I was a kid, and while I could definitely see enough in her that showed me the woman I knew, it was a stark difference. Doing the math in my head, she had to be about 25 and still living with my great-grandparents in Connecticut. She was taller than I'd remembered, about 5'7" or so and not a wrinkle to be seen. Even with her conservative dress, I could tell she was in good shape, just as she'd been in her photos. The women in my family all had very full chests, and grandma was no exception, except now she was young and quite frankly, hot!
I got my mind out of the gutter and actually looked over the resume she'd given me. She was actually quite well qualified, having gone to secretarial school and typing up to 60 words per minute. It said she was also proficient in shorthand and dictation. On paper, she was a great candidate.
"So, Ms. Richards..." I said, putting the paper to the side and looking at her, trying to remember she had no idea who I was, "may I call you Rose?"
"Of course, Mr. Landry," she said quickly, almost eagerly.
"Jim, please," I said dismissively. I hated formality anyway and certainly didn't want my grandmother giving me a title. "So, what makes you want to be my writing assistant?"
"Well, Mr. Lan...JIM," she said quickly checking herself, "as I said, I've read your columns for a long time and really love your writing. I've worked at an insurance office for a while now and when I saw the advertisement for the Times, I thought I'd give it a whirl. I didn't know until I interviewed that it would be for you."
"Well, thank you for the complement," I replied, it still feeling good that my grandmother was "proud" of me. "It says here you take dictation and shorthand, is that right?"
"Yes, sir," she said quickly, before softening, "I mean, Jim. Yes, I can take dictation at a good pace." She was clearly flustered to be there.
Normally, this is when I would've tested the girl on her claim, but this was my grandmother. I was in two camps with this. Would I go to hell for not hiring my grandmother, or slip up if I did? Eventually, I decided that it was fairer to treat her like any other applicant and went forward.
"All right," I said pushing a pad of paper toward her, "would you mind a demonstration?"
"Not at all," she said, full of confidence as she took up the pencil and pad. I thought of something for her to dictate and I decided on a letter that I needed to send to Senate Majority Leader Lyndon Johnson. He'd asked me for an interview ahead of the elections and I needed to reply to him.
"All right, take this down," I said while she prepared herself to right. I felt so guilty making my grandmother go through a test, but I needed to keep the pretense up. "To Lyndon Johnson, Majority Leader of the Senate, US Capitol Building, Washington D.C." I began. Her eyes went wide when she found out who the letter was to, the most powerful Democrat in the country next to Adlai Stevenson, but she continued unfazed.
"Dear Senator, I would be very interested in meeting with you for the purposes of an article," I said in my traditional fashion. It was enough to entice, but not enough that I was desperate for the access. "If your office could furnish me with your availability, I can make arrangements to come to Washington as your schedule allows. I typically allow for a two-day period for my talks, but can adjust as necessary, if pertinent." I knew Lyndon Johnson would want to talk for hours on end and this was just to get his pride up. "Please inform me at your convenance when such an arrangement can take place. I look forward to meeting with you, etcetera," I ended.
My grandmother had taken it all down quickly and never asked me to slow down in the least. She finished and smiled at me that she was finished. I then saw the spare typewriter on the side.
"Would you mind typing it out?" I asked.
"Absolutlely," she said, immediately getting up and getting a clean sheet of paper to feed. I watched her type up her notes and was astonished. I'd never seen my grandmother use a typewriter before, but the keys seemed to fly as she hammered away. Within two minutes, she was done and tore the sheet from the machine and handed it to me.
It was word perfect. It was quick, efficient and perfect. I'd almost wished she'd screwed up so that I'd have an excuse not to hire her. I looked at her and she just kept smiling, knowing that she'd done a good job. At that moment, I knew I couldn't justify it to myself to deny her the job. She was perfect for the job, and I knew I couldn't live with myself if I turned her away from her dream opportunity.
"Well, I think that settles it," I said, beckoning her to stand up, Rose looking nervous. "When can you start?"
Rose squealed as she got up and hugged me, her curves pressing into me uncomfortably.
"Thank you!" my grandmother said rapidly. "I promise you won't regret this!"
"I'm sure," was all I could tell her.
And so it was that I hired my grandmother as my writing assistant. For the first four months, everything went fine. We worked together closely the whole time, her dutifully taking down all of my columns and notes I had from anything and everything. I tried to keep my distance while at the same time trying to find about as much I could about this woman that I'd known for so much of my life.
I asked about my great-grandparents, her upbringing, her ambitions, all under the auspices of being her boss. I figured if I kept it professional, I could satisfy my curiosity about my past and not get her guard up with my curiosity. To her credit, she never seemed put off by my questions or prying into her life. On the contrary, she seemed quite happy to answer any questions about herself.
As I said, for the first four months, everything was smooth sailing. Then things really took a turn for the weird.
We were in the office late one night trying to finish a piece on Vice President Nixon we were preparing in advance of the Republican convention scheduled for later that month. I touted him as a virtual shoe in for the nomination in '60 and speculated on the future of the nation with him at the helm. We were putting the finishing touches on the piece for Peter's desk when I saw on the clock how late it was.
"Oh wow," I said, looking at the clock and trying not to swear in front of my grandmother. "It's after eight, I'm sorry I kept you so late, Rose. You can head home now," I told her, worried that my great-grandparents would be getting concerned.
"No, I'll stay and help," Rose dutifully replied, always willing to work longer and help out. "I sometimes stay with a friend in the city at her apartment, so I'll do that for the night."
"Oh, all right," I said as we went back to work. Another half-hour and it was all done. Rose left to call my great-grandparents and tell her she was staying at her friend Carol's apartment for the night.
"Are your parents ok with you staying?" I asked her as she hung up.
"Oh, they're fine," she said almost dismissively. "They understand the demands of working for newspaper, even if I'm only a secretary."
"You are far more than that," I told my grandmother. This was true, as in the time she'd starting working for me, Rose had been a huge help in getting things done and really refining my writing process. She could also turn a phrase as well and had contributed with that as well.
"Thank you, Jim," she said with a warm smile as we locked up the office after putting the column on Peter's desk.
"Do you want me to call you a cab to get you to your friend's place?" I asked her.
"That's so nice of you," she said with a beaming smile. "But I think I need something to eat first."
"Right," I said, remembering that we'd worked through lunch to get everything done. "How about I get you some dinner?" I offered, "after all, it's my fault for keeping you out so late."
"Well, I wouldn't want to impose..." she said in a demure manner. It was moments like this that reminded me most of the woman I knew she would become. Grandma always did everything for everyone else and never wanted to be a bother or a burden. I remember it took Dad four times to convince her to move in with us when she needed help getting around instead of going to a retirement home.
"Not at all," I said, deciding that she deserved a good meal after all the work she'd done. I took her to high class place that I knew had good food. The owner had become a friend of mine, being a fan of my column, and always got me a table, even when the place was packed.
We got one of the best places in the house as the owner greeted us.
"So good to see you again, Mr. Landry!" Marty said, shaking my hand thoroughly.
"You too, Marty," I said with a smile.
"And who is this lovely lady?" he said looking at my grandmother.
"This is Miss Richards," I said in introduction as Marty kissed her hand.
"Lovely to meet you, madam," Marty said. "I complement Mr. Landry in his choice of accompaniment. A talented man such as he should be escorting beautiful women."
"Thank you, sir," Rose replied, which made me realize he thought this was a date.
"Oh, Miss Richards is a colleague of mine," I told Marty, trying to make it clear this wasn't a date.
"Oh?" Marty said in a tone the denoted he didn't quite believe me. "Well, I'll get you both a bottle of good wine to start out with." He left the table with a wink.
"Sorry about that," I said to Rose, "he's a bit of a flirt."
"I certainly didn't mind being called beautiful," Rose said with a smile and a wink as well. I was kinda confused by that.
We drank and ate and had a good meal in all. We talked and she started doing two things she'd never before done before. One didn't surprise me and the other did. The first was that she started asking about my background and upbringing. I had committed to telling people that I had suffered from an accident years ago and that my memory was fuzzy prior to 1946. She seemed fascinated hearing my backstory and devoured it like it was a Chandler novel.
The second thing was what really threw me off. I wasn't sure at first, but by the end of the evening I was sure.
My grandmother was flirting with me.
I really didn't know how to handle it or tamp it down. Every time I tried to keep things friendly and light, she'd ask something about my love life and what I looked for in a woman. As she asked, I noticed that she was looking at me with adoring eyes and leaning over the table a bit. As this was 1956, she was dressed conservatively, but a hint of her cleavage was notable.
While I never looked at Rose in physical terms, for very obvious reasons, I did know she had a curvy physique. Not fat, not at all. Curves like Jayne Mansfield more like. Around the office, she'd always tried to dress professionally, but somethings are impossible to hide, her generous bust being one of them.
I knew intellectually that she was attractive, the subject to wolf whistles and lewd comments around the office, typical of a 1950's America that I always tried to discourage. But now, she was using feminine charms on me!
After I paid the bill, I got her outside and immediately called her a cab to get her to her friend's place. She kissed me on the cheek and told me we had to do this again sometime. I declined a cab for myself and decided to walk home.
That night, I pondered. Eventually, I came to the conclusion that she must've had too much wine and that was what caused her behavior. I figured if she remembered tomorrow, she probably apologize for being so brazen. I went to sleep contented with my conclusion.
The only problem with that was that my conclusion was completely and utterly wrong. Over the course of the next two weeks, she flirted more and harder. I also noticed that she began wearing bolder dresses. Not impropriate, just ones that seemed to show off her figure better than others. She'd flirt, wink, casually touch my hand or find an excuse to bend over near me.
Peter saw some of this too and just winked, calling me a lucky bastard. I rolled my eyes and tried to figure out what to do about this. I didn't want to lose my connection to family after all this time without them, but this couldn't go on. Finally, I decided that enough was enough and I would have to act.
It was a Friday, and we were working on a column, and she mentioned that she was staying at her friends for the weekend as her parents were going out of town for the weekend. She decided to be bold apparently.
"Say, Jim," she said after she'd finished typing something up. "Can I ask you a question?"
"Sure," I said, taking a sip of coffee.
"When was the last time you had a homecooked meal?"
"Uh..." was all I could get out. I thought back and realized the last homecooked meal I'd had would've been with the Avondale's. "It's been a while."
"Well, than let me cook you a meal tonight," she offered, beaming from ear to ear. I quickly tried to retreat.
"Oh, that's really not necessary," I said trying to be cordial.
"But I insist!" Rose said again. "I want to thank you for the opportunity you've given me in working for you."
"That's really not necessary," I told her. "You're hard work is all the reward necessary."
"Well, thank you, Jim," she said grinning, "but really, let me do this for you. You wouldn't be so rude as to refuse, would you?"
Fuck! She had me and she knew it. Reminiscent of my grandmother of old, she always knew how to get someone to agree to something. I needed another tactic.
"Well, I don't exactly have much in the fridge," I told her, "and even if I did, I don't really have any pots or..." was all I could get out.
"Leave it to me," she said dismissively, waiving her hand. "Seven o'clock?"
"Uhhh..." was all I could think of to get out and she quickly took that as a yes.
"Good!" she said brightly, "I'll see you then!" as she turned and left my office.
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, FUCK!
I normally didn't drink at the office, but I poured a glass of bourbon and slammed it down. I was no fool. I knew that my grandmother was planning to make a move on me that night.
Now, contrary to modern belief of the 21st century, people were just as horny and willing to engage in pre-marital sex in the 1950's as in the 2000's. It just wasn't talked about or acknowledged as much. I'd been to many of backrooms with plenty of men talking about affairs and what not with various women and found some of the depictions they made crude by even modern standards.
I did my best to avoid Rose for the rest of the day and went to Peter's office.
"Got a minute?" I asked Peter who quickly waved me into his office.
"What's up, Jim?" he asked, pouring us both a drink. I guess he figured I was worried about something. Good ole Pete.
"I could use some advice," I told him, taking the drink from his hand and taking a healthy sip.
"Of course, kid," he said slapping me on the back, "writer's block?"
"No," I told him, "It's a bit personal."
"Ohhhh," he said nodding his head, "that, huh?" he said taking a sip from his own drink. "Finally looking for my advice about how to lay Rose, huh? It's about time."
"NO!" I said more forcefully than I should've considering he was my boss. "No, that's not what I meant, Pete."
"Why not?" Peter said perplexed. "She's a bombshell! You got something else going on?"
"No, that's not it," I told him waiving my head.
"You're not a fruit, are ya?" he asked, derisively asking if I was gay.
"No, no," I told him waiving my hands, which made him relax.
"Then what's the problem?" Peter said, seemingly confused. "I think you're golden, personally. I see how she is around you, and I think you've got it made there."
"Pete, I'm trying to discourage her, not encourage her."
"What the hell for?" Pete said incredulously.
"Isn't there an old saying about dipping pens in company ink?" I asked him flatly. He waived his hand at me again.
"Hogwash!" he said. "That's just idiocy! Who would use their own ink when they could use the company's?"
"Pete..." I said, trying to get him to focus.
"Grow up, Jim," he said in a paternalistic way, "there's nothing wrong with a little side action at the office." He used his head to indicate toward Ginger, which surprised me. "It's good to get the edge off. What's the harm?! You're not even married, for heaven's sake."
"Yeah, but if things go south," I tried to explain to him. "I'll lose one hell of an assistant."
"Nah, I wouldn't worry," Pete said. "She's a trooper. Besides, it'll be good for you!"
I knew that Pete wouldn't be any help to me, so I dropped it. He shouted, "good luck!" to me as I left his office, chuckling.
I went home and took a cold shower, trying to figure out how to get Rose off of me. I scrubbed harder than I'd ever scrubbed in my life. I paced and paced until Rose showed up at seven o'clock.
I opened the door and there was Rose in her coat and two bags. I also noticed that she'd applied fresh makeup to herself.
"Aren't you gonna let me in or help me with the bags?" she asked, in such a way as to denote sensuality.
"Right, sorry," I said opening the door and taking one of the bags. She placed the other on the table in the kitchen.
"Oh, what a lovely place, Jim," she said looking around a bit.
"Thanks," I replied.
"Well?" she said looking at me.
"Well, what?" I replied back.
"Aren't you going to take my coat and offer me a drink?"
"Oh!" I said, "yeah, sure."
She unfastened the sash around her and removed her coat. I didn't really look at her as I took it from her and hurriedly put it on my coat rack. When I turned back, I was certainly looking.
She was wearing a skintight dress that hugged every curve she had. A strapless dress that showed off her bare shoulders and seemed to ooze sexuality.
"Uh..."
"Like my new dress?" she asked, spinning around a bit.
"It's very..." I said trying to think of the right word, "flattering."
"Why thank you, Jim," she said walking over to the kitchen.
"A little fancy to cook in, isn't it?"
"I have an apron in the bag here," she said holding up a white apron from the bag in the kitchen.
"Oh," was all I could say as she put it on. I saw her looking at me still and I realized why.
"Sorry," I said walking over to the bar, "what would you like?"
"Gin, please," she replied, "straight up."
I made our drinks while my grandmother made us dinner. Now, back in my old life, my grandmother made me dinner all the time, but now she was 25, dressed to kill, and seemed to be putting the moves on me.
I finished making the drinks and handed her one. She smiled at me as I handed her the glass and clinked our glasses together. I noticed that she looked into my eyes the whole time as she took a sip.
"Would you mind putting on a record while I get dinner ready?" she asked. I went over to my stereo and put on a Bing Crosby album, knowing it wasn't too romantic. She made a comment immediately. "Do you have a Frank Sinatra album?" she asked. I relented and put on Sinatra. "Much better," she said happily as she went back to work.
She made us a roast with baked potatoes that looked delicious. I asked her if she wanted me to get out a bottle of wine and she pulled one from her tote bag. She handed it to me to open as she started plating the food and placing it on my modest table.
"Dinner is served," she said with a smile while taking off her apron. We sat down and Rose raised her glass. "To the best columnist in the 48!" she said clinking her glass to mine.
"Best in earshot, anyway," I replied, a bit uncomfortable.
I took one bite and knew my grandmother had not acquired her cooking skills later in life. All sorts of memories came flying back to me of so many amazing family dinners. It was so moist and juicy.
"Well?" Rose asked me with a confident smile.
"It's great," I told her honestly causing her to smile wider while taking another sip of wine.
"Thank you," she said politely. "Never underestimate the power of a home-cooked meal."
"If you say so," I said focusing on the food.
"Well, just think," Rose said while taking small bites of her own food, "you could eat like this every day if you finally settle down."
I rolled my eyes a bit and tried to just keep eating, but Rose was having none of it.
"Why haven't you settled down yet?" she asked me flat out. I threw and eyebrow toward her and remembered that I was her boss and might be able to use that to get her off this kick.
"Miss Richards, do you really think that's your business?" I said in a way that denoted playfulness, but also an indication that she was stepping over some lines. Apparently, it didn't work, cause she didn't lay off.
"Well, Mr. Landry," she said, clearly putting on fake airs behind it, "I was nice enough to cook for you. It seems to me that answering a little question is a fair trade for that."
I wasn't buying it at all, but I had to think about this. If I told her I hadn't found the right girl yet, that old trope, I ran the risk of her trying to fill that role when I was trying to dissuade her. I finally chose my shot.
"I'm not sure I'll ever settle down," I said plainly. She looked like she'd just been hit by lightning.
"What do you mean never?" she said almost confused.
"I like my life and I like my freedom," I said, not entirely dishonestly, "why would I want to give that up?"
"But you don't want a house, or kids, or a wife?" she said, almost insulted that I could want to live the life of a bachelor.
"Maybe someday, we'll see," I said, trying to desperately move the subject to something else.
"Well, what if it's too late by then?" Rose said.
"Too late for what?"
"What if there was a woman that would've been a good wife for you, but you were too busy being a playboy?"
"I wouldn't exactly call myself a playboy," I told her honestly when I noticed the album had run out. I got up and flipped it over as Rose continued.
"So, you don't go out on dates with lots of women?" She was again getting back slightly into the inappropriate territory.
"Not that its really your business, but no," I told her, hoping she'd move onto another topic, any topic.
"So, what are you looking for?" Rose asked
"Who says I'm looking?" I said in a snarky manner, sitting back down and taking a sip of wine.
"Come on," she urged, "what do you look for in a girl?"
I took a deep breath and tried to figure out a way to make this an inappropriate question for her to ask her employer. The problem was it really wasn't at all.
"Smart, funny, bright, kind," I said rattling off the usual things men said. Not good enough apparently according to the look Rose was giving me.
"Do you want me to call up Miss America, sir?" she said in a smart-ass tone.
"Thanks," I replied wryly.
"Be serious now," she enjoined, "what are you looking for?"
"Salt at the moment," I said getting the saltshaker from the center of the table. Even Rose laughed.
"Why don't you want to tell me?" she asked, with what looked like a sparkle in her eyes.
"Why do you want to know?" I replied, starting to get tired of this game.
"It's just a conversation," my grandmother said, trying to defuse her intent, very badly.
"Well, then what are you looking for?" I asked, trying to turn the tables. I was very unsuccessful as she leaned over the table and looked directly into my eyes.
"I think you know exactly what I'm looking for," she said with a mix of determination, desire, and who knows what else. Now that it was in the open, however, I felt like I could tackle the issue head on.
"Rose," I said pleasantly, but with enough timber to let her know I was serious, "I don't know that that's appropriate."
"What do you mean?" she said, now resting her head on the palms of her hand, looking at me while still smiling and "trying" to be coy.
"You know what I mean," I said while eating more food.
"Do I?" she said in a flirty voice while fluttering her eyes.
"Yes," I said more firmly as she lifted up and took a sip of wine.
"Look, Jim," she said now more with determination in her voice, "you know I'm interested in you. I haven't exactly been subtle. Is it that you don't like me?" she asked with an impish grin.
"Rose, it's inappropriate," I said as if it were obvious. "You work for me."
"Which just means that I have better access to you and know you better," she said with a grin. "What's the point of having a sexy assistant if you don't use her?"
I was shocked my grandmother was saying these things. On the one hand, it was the 1950's so sexual harassment suits weren't a thing yet. But my grandmother had also always been pretty progressive for her age, especially when it came to equality and women's rights. The contradiction that was happening in my mind was distracting to say the least.
"Jim?" Rose said, getting my attention back.
"Sorry," I said more on reflex than anything.
"So, what do you think?" she asked again. "Do you like me?" she asked, refilling my wine.
"Rose, I like you very much," I told her honestly. "But again, we work together."
"Which just means we know each other very well," she replied with a twinkle in her eyes. "Is it that you don't find me attractive?"
"No!" I said faster than I should've in any circumstances. Even today, I don't know what caused me to react that way so quickly. "You're a very beautiful woman." She smiled wide at that.
"Thank you," she said with adoration, "it's nice to know I can turn the eye of a world-famous writer."
"I don't think I'm world-famous," I offered back. She shook her head.
"You're published in Canada now, so yes you are," she said firmly. "What do you think is beautiful about me?"
"Rose, I don't think..." I said, trying again to show her this was inappropriate.
"Come on," she urged. "A girl likes to know what men find attractive." I hesitated but realized there was no way out.
"You have a beautiful face, kind eyes, a lovely smile," I said trying to get back to focusing on the food.
"Thank you," she said nodding at me, "what about my figure?"
"Huh?" I asked nearly dropping my fork.
"Well maybe I'm a little more gifted in certain areas than most men like," she said shifting a bit so show me angles. Now this was not an understatement. Rose, my grandmother, had very large breasts. They had to be DDD's at least and she had an ass to match. Maybe some would've found her too big, but I wasn't one of them. I then mentally slapped myself for checking out my own grandmother.
"I don't think that's true," I replied, "look at Russell and Monroe," eliciting another smile from her.
"Thank you, Jim," she said softly, she said finishing up her food. I was done too, and she took my plate in an instant. I thought this would be a good way to wrap the night up when she put a stop to that. "I'm going to brew some coffee for us. Why don't you change the record?"
Ugh, fuck!
"What would you like to hear?" I asked.
"Do you have any Nat King Cole?" Rose asked, washing up the dishes and starting up the percolator.
"Yeah," I said changing out the record and putting on Cole. His smooth voice soon filled the apartment, and the aroma of coffee also did as well. My grandmother went over to the bar to find something to add to our coffee. I sat in my easy chair, hoping I could get a bit of distance between me and my randy grandmother.
She poured out the coffee, adding some sambuca into each, and brought them over to the couch. She saw me in the easy chair and smiled.
"You won't sit with me?" she asked in a cutesy voice. Ironically, she was the one who taught me to be a good host, so I got up and sat on the couch, giving her as much distance as possible as I took up my coffee. She kept scooting closer to me. "Isn't this nice?" she said sweetly.
"It was a nice evening," I said taking a sip, "thank you for cooking."
"Oh, it was nothing," Rose said with a wave of her hand. "I'm glad I could get you that homecooked meal you needed."
"Needed may be a bit strong," I countered.
"Nonsense," she said, "a man like you needs to be looked after."
"A man like me?" I replied.
"Someone with so much talent and responsibility," she said leaning ever closer to me, "it's easy to see that they would neglect themselves."
"I do ok," I replied.
"But you could do better with a little help," she said, now sitting millimeters from me. "Someone who can support you."
"You support me just fine," I retorted.
"But I could do more," she said now putting one of her legs on me. "Much more..."
"Uhhh," was all I could get out with my grandmother's eyes bearing down on me. I was trapped and I knew it. I had two options at this point: give in or convince her this was a mistake which I'd been trying to do all evening. It's said that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing repeatedly and expecting a different result. Nonetheless...
"Rose, we do make a good team," I admitted. "But don't you think if we did this, we'd hurt our working relationship?" I was desperate, I admit, but I figured if I convinced her that going further would hurt our working relationship, she'd back off.
Wait, let me start from the beginning. My name is James Landry, but I've always gone by Jim. I was born in 1989 and as I write this, the year is 1966. I'm leaving this as a testimonial that I don't intend to come out until long after I'm gone. I guess I'm hoping for understanding, forgiveness, or just that someone will know what happened one day.
The last day that I was in my "present" was July 9th, 2011. I'd just turned 22 the day before, having graduated from college the month before. I went to sleep in my parent's house, staying with them until I could move into my own apartment in three months. I don't really remember anything about that day, except for the last meal my mother made, my grandmother's lasagna.
My grandmother, Rose Landry, died the year before and I was devastated, the two of us always having been close. She had a fun sense of humor and we always hung around each other. Maybe it wasn't cool to hang around my grandmother, but even all my friends all thought she was awesome. I missed her and having her lasagna brought back good memories. I just drifted off to sleep that night, not a real care in the world.
When I woke up, I was in a field which I later learned was on the outskirts of Davenport, Iowa. I was dressed in a grey shirt and tan pants that looked old-timey. I looked around and saw nothing but farmland. I was in Nevada when I went to sleep, and I'm looking at farmland! I got up and started walking till I got to a farmhouse and saw an elderly couple on the porch straight out of 'American Gothic'. They got me into their house.
I learned they were Norma and George Avondale, and this was their farm. I introduced myself and looked around the house, noticing all the antique furniture and fixtures. At first I thought it was a restoration shop or an antique shop. I then saw a newspaper on the kitchen table dated for July 10th, 1946. And the paper was brand new! My eyes went wide, and I thought I was dreaming. They were asking me how I got there and how they could help.
I couldn't tell them I was from 65 years in the future, they'd have me hauled away to an asylum. I told them I'd gotten hit on the head as I was hitchhiking and got robbed, all my money and identification stolen. They had a doctor come take a look at me and he said I was fine. They graciously offered to put me up for a while and help me get back on my feet if I was willing to help out around the house and farm.
I readily agreed and worked on their farm for a few months while they helped me get settled. It still amazes me how easy it was to get a driver's license, Social Security Card, even a passport with no real proof of identity. I helped out around the house anyway I could, stacking hay, cleaning up, anything.
The couple knew I had done some writing (telling them about my college days) and they recommended me to the local paper. Before I knew it, I had my own column. It helps to have knowledge of the future to help inform decisions, and I was always good at history. I was one of the only columnists in the world to correctly predict that Harry Truman would be reelected in 1948.
Soon after that election, two big things happened in my new life. I got a job at the New York Times as a column writer and the Avondale's died in a wreck. Since I'd come to the past, those lovely people treated me like family at every avenue. Even after I moved out, they insisted I come for Sunday dinner, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. To them, I was the child they never had. They never pushed me about how I knew so much and never tried to pry into my past. Even now, I miss them dearly, the pain of the loss being the same as my own parents and my grandmother.
After their funeral, I was summoned to a local attorney to deal with the dispensation of their estate, them having named me executor. Since neither of them had any other family, it was all left to me, deciding it would be safest in my hands. The attorney told me that the couple actually did quite well and recommended I keep the farm. He also recommended an overseer to me, since he knew I was soon moving.
I packed up their house solemnly, missing these people who'd for no reason taken me in. I met with the overseer who assured me he'd take care of the place. With that, I left Davenport behind for new horizons.
In the time I'd been in the past, I hadn't left Davenport at all, trying to get accustomed to this new time. Being that I was originally from Connecticut before Dad moved us all to Henderson while I was in college, I'd been to Manhattan plenty of times. But now it was 1949, not 2009. I was really walking into the unknown. While I knew all the streets and whatnot, I didn't know this version of the city.
I arrived by train and checked into the hotel that the paper was putting me up in until I could get an apartment. Since the Avondale's had left me some money, and I'd been able to save pretty well, I was able to afford a great place in the Village at what I considered to be a steal. I furnished and got appliances as best I could, still missing the microwave that wouldn't be around for another 25 years.
I found a diner nearby that served all kinds of meals and became a regular there. My work at the paper was good, my columns about issues foreshadowing what was to come being popular. I faced some resistance from the old guard when I first got there, considering I was only 25 when I started there. By 1953, I was syndicated in papers all over the east coast. By 1956, I was syndicated all over the country.
So there I was, 32 years old, living in the past for ten years, and at the height of my power. The world was literally my oyster. I was respected and known, even having enough clout to meet President Eisenhower and do a column on him. I'd made friends in New York and by the time I was 32, they all seemed to have the same question for me.
When was I gonna settle down?
It was true, I hadn't dated since I'd been in the past. Some part of me thought I'd screw up the timeline or something if I did. Up to that point, work had always been enough to keep me occupied, but now, I had to admit I was starting to get a bit lonely.
It was March of '56 when my editor called me in to say I'd been nominated for another prize.
"You just keep raking 'em in, Jim, my boy," the gregarious Peter Donald said. He was a good boss and never stepped on my toes.
"Guess I must've learned something from you," I told him in my typical humble way, garnering a smile.
"Hogwash," he said, as he normally did, as if I needed to be reminded I was living in 1956, "you're just good, plain and simple. The bosses see it too and are offering you a new contract."
He placed an envelope down and I opened it up. It was a huge raise, guaranteed five years with the paper, and more syndication, Canada and Britain now being added to the mix. I was astonished.
"I uh..." I said, stunned, "I really don't know what to say."
"Well, yes would be a good start," Peter replied chuckling.
"Yes," I said, standing up and shaking his hand, big smiles on both our faces.
"Good!" Peter said while reaching for his bar. It was definitely weird to be back in the '50's where drinking in the workplace was commonplace, but I certainly wasn't complaining as Peter got out the good scotch for this. We toasted our mutual success and sat back down.
"This is really good, Pete," I told him, acknowledging the scotch.
"Anything under 12 years old is for infants," he retorted back, taking a sip. "Oh! I almost forgot. With the new contract comes money for a writing assistant."
"I don't really need one," I told him.
"Someone to help you type, organize, whatever," Peter said waiving his glass around. "I'll have my girl schedule some interviews. Let's be honest, you're not the fastest typist in the east."
Now that was true. Getting used to a typewriter had been tough for me and I still wasn't as proficient at it as a columnist of my "caliber" should be. I nodded, conceding the point as we continued drinking.
Over the next few days, while setting up the new office I also got, I had about a half dozen interviews with various women. Some were nice, but couldn't take dictation to save their life, some were clearly just there to "snag a man" and a single, successful columnist would certainly fit that bill. I figured it would just take a while to find the right match.
"Mr. Landry?" Ginger, Peter's secretary announced opening the door with a knock.
"Hey, Ginger," I said in greeting, "Peter need me?"
"No, no sir," she replied, always polite. I always insisted she just call me Jim, but Peter was rigid about formality with the women on staff. "Another girl for you, they sent her from downstairs. You have time?"
"Yeah," I said looking at the clock and seeing it was only four, "send her in."
"Yes, Mr. Landry," she said ducking back out. I got out a notepad and heard the door open. "Mr. Landry, this is Ms. Richards."
"Hello, how are..." was all I said before I saw I was face to face with my grandmother. I'd seen her picture from the old days more times than I could count, she looked at me with a smile and her dark, auburn hair flowing down. I was stunned. "Sorry," I quickly said to cover, "you looked familiar to me."
"Nice to meet you, Mr. Landry," she said politely, extending her hand.
"You as well," I got out, still stunned. "I'm Jim," I said trying to get the quiver out of my voice.
"Rose Richards," she said with her trademark, warm smile. "It's so nice to meet you, Mr. Landry. I really am a big fan of yours. You're writing, I mean," she giggled nervously. My grandmother was nervous about meeting me?! For the first time in almost ten years, I felt uneasy in the past. Up to this point, I'd had no reminders from my past anywhere near me, except my memories. Now my grandmother was in front of me, live and in color.
"Well," I said, trying to get some composure, "won't you sit down?" I said offering her a chair as Ginger left us. My grandmother handed me her resume which I looked over. I was mostly using it as a cover so that I could get a hold of myself. I really couldn't believe this! I mean, what are the odds of somehow winding up in the past, not seeking any of your family, and still encountering them?!
As I "read" her resume, I looked at the woman before me as well. She was smiling the whole time, as she always did when I was a kid, and while I could definitely see enough in her that showed me the woman I knew, it was a stark difference. Doing the math in my head, she had to be about 25 and still living with my great-grandparents in Connecticut. She was taller than I'd remembered, about 5'7" or so and not a wrinkle to be seen. Even with her conservative dress, I could tell she was in good shape, just as she'd been in her photos. The women in my family all had very full chests, and grandma was no exception, except now she was young and quite frankly, hot!
I got my mind out of the gutter and actually looked over the resume she'd given me. She was actually quite well qualified, having gone to secretarial school and typing up to 60 words per minute. It said she was also proficient in shorthand and dictation. On paper, she was a great candidate.
"So, Ms. Richards..." I said, putting the paper to the side and looking at her, trying to remember she had no idea who I was, "may I call you Rose?"
"Of course, Mr. Landry," she said quickly, almost eagerly.
"Jim, please," I said dismissively. I hated formality anyway and certainly didn't want my grandmother giving me a title. "So, what makes you want to be my writing assistant?"
"Well, Mr. Lan...JIM," she said quickly checking herself, "as I said, I've read your columns for a long time and really love your writing. I've worked at an insurance office for a while now and when I saw the advertisement for the Times, I thought I'd give it a whirl. I didn't know until I interviewed that it would be for you."
"Well, thank you for the complement," I replied, it still feeling good that my grandmother was "proud" of me. "It says here you take dictation and shorthand, is that right?"
"Yes, sir," she said quickly, before softening, "I mean, Jim. Yes, I can take dictation at a good pace." She was clearly flustered to be there.
Normally, this is when I would've tested the girl on her claim, but this was my grandmother. I was in two camps with this. Would I go to hell for not hiring my grandmother, or slip up if I did? Eventually, I decided that it was fairer to treat her like any other applicant and went forward.
"All right," I said pushing a pad of paper toward her, "would you mind a demonstration?"
"Not at all," she said, full of confidence as she took up the pencil and pad. I thought of something for her to dictate and I decided on a letter that I needed to send to Senate Majority Leader Lyndon Johnson. He'd asked me for an interview ahead of the elections and I needed to reply to him.
"All right, take this down," I said while she prepared herself to right. I felt so guilty making my grandmother go through a test, but I needed to keep the pretense up. "To Lyndon Johnson, Majority Leader of the Senate, US Capitol Building, Washington D.C." I began. Her eyes went wide when she found out who the letter was to, the most powerful Democrat in the country next to Adlai Stevenson, but she continued unfazed.
"Dear Senator, I would be very interested in meeting with you for the purposes of an article," I said in my traditional fashion. It was enough to entice, but not enough that I was desperate for the access. "If your office could furnish me with your availability, I can make arrangements to come to Washington as your schedule allows. I typically allow for a two-day period for my talks, but can adjust as necessary, if pertinent." I knew Lyndon Johnson would want to talk for hours on end and this was just to get his pride up. "Please inform me at your convenance when such an arrangement can take place. I look forward to meeting with you, etcetera," I ended.
My grandmother had taken it all down quickly and never asked me to slow down in the least. She finished and smiled at me that she was finished. I then saw the spare typewriter on the side.
"Would you mind typing it out?" I asked.
"Absolutlely," she said, immediately getting up and getting a clean sheet of paper to feed. I watched her type up her notes and was astonished. I'd never seen my grandmother use a typewriter before, but the keys seemed to fly as she hammered away. Within two minutes, she was done and tore the sheet from the machine and handed it to me.
It was word perfect. It was quick, efficient and perfect. I'd almost wished she'd screwed up so that I'd have an excuse not to hire her. I looked at her and she just kept smiling, knowing that she'd done a good job. At that moment, I knew I couldn't justify it to myself to deny her the job. She was perfect for the job, and I knew I couldn't live with myself if I turned her away from her dream opportunity.
"Well, I think that settles it," I said, beckoning her to stand up, Rose looking nervous. "When can you start?"
Rose squealed as she got up and hugged me, her curves pressing into me uncomfortably.
"Thank you!" my grandmother said rapidly. "I promise you won't regret this!"
"I'm sure," was all I could tell her.
And so it was that I hired my grandmother as my writing assistant. For the first four months, everything went fine. We worked together closely the whole time, her dutifully taking down all of my columns and notes I had from anything and everything. I tried to keep my distance while at the same time trying to find about as much I could about this woman that I'd known for so much of my life.
I asked about my great-grandparents, her upbringing, her ambitions, all under the auspices of being her boss. I figured if I kept it professional, I could satisfy my curiosity about my past and not get her guard up with my curiosity. To her credit, she never seemed put off by my questions or prying into her life. On the contrary, she seemed quite happy to answer any questions about herself.
As I said, for the first four months, everything was smooth sailing. Then things really took a turn for the weird.
We were in the office late one night trying to finish a piece on Vice President Nixon we were preparing in advance of the Republican convention scheduled for later that month. I touted him as a virtual shoe in for the nomination in '60 and speculated on the future of the nation with him at the helm. We were putting the finishing touches on the piece for Peter's desk when I saw on the clock how late it was.
"Oh wow," I said, looking at the clock and trying not to swear in front of my grandmother. "It's after eight, I'm sorry I kept you so late, Rose. You can head home now," I told her, worried that my great-grandparents would be getting concerned.
"No, I'll stay and help," Rose dutifully replied, always willing to work longer and help out. "I sometimes stay with a friend in the city at her apartment, so I'll do that for the night."
"Oh, all right," I said as we went back to work. Another half-hour and it was all done. Rose left to call my great-grandparents and tell her she was staying at her friend Carol's apartment for the night.
"Are your parents ok with you staying?" I asked her as she hung up.
"Oh, they're fine," she said almost dismissively. "They understand the demands of working for newspaper, even if I'm only a secretary."
"You are far more than that," I told my grandmother. This was true, as in the time she'd starting working for me, Rose had been a huge help in getting things done and really refining my writing process. She could also turn a phrase as well and had contributed with that as well.
"Thank you, Jim," she said with a warm smile as we locked up the office after putting the column on Peter's desk.
"Do you want me to call you a cab to get you to your friend's place?" I asked her.
"That's so nice of you," she said with a beaming smile. "But I think I need something to eat first."
"Right," I said, remembering that we'd worked through lunch to get everything done. "How about I get you some dinner?" I offered, "after all, it's my fault for keeping you out so late."
"Well, I wouldn't want to impose..." she said in a demure manner. It was moments like this that reminded me most of the woman I knew she would become. Grandma always did everything for everyone else and never wanted to be a bother or a burden. I remember it took Dad four times to convince her to move in with us when she needed help getting around instead of going to a retirement home.
"Not at all," I said, deciding that she deserved a good meal after all the work she'd done. I took her to high class place that I knew had good food. The owner had become a friend of mine, being a fan of my column, and always got me a table, even when the place was packed.
We got one of the best places in the house as the owner greeted us.
"So good to see you again, Mr. Landry!" Marty said, shaking my hand thoroughly.
"You too, Marty," I said with a smile.
"And who is this lovely lady?" he said looking at my grandmother.
"This is Miss Richards," I said in introduction as Marty kissed her hand.
"Lovely to meet you, madam," Marty said. "I complement Mr. Landry in his choice of accompaniment. A talented man such as he should be escorting beautiful women."
"Thank you, sir," Rose replied, which made me realize he thought this was a date.
"Oh, Miss Richards is a colleague of mine," I told Marty, trying to make it clear this wasn't a date.
"Oh?" Marty said in a tone the denoted he didn't quite believe me. "Well, I'll get you both a bottle of good wine to start out with." He left the table with a wink.
"Sorry about that," I said to Rose, "he's a bit of a flirt."
"I certainly didn't mind being called beautiful," Rose said with a smile and a wink as well. I was kinda confused by that.
We drank and ate and had a good meal in all. We talked and she started doing two things she'd never before done before. One didn't surprise me and the other did. The first was that she started asking about my background and upbringing. I had committed to telling people that I had suffered from an accident years ago and that my memory was fuzzy prior to 1946. She seemed fascinated hearing my backstory and devoured it like it was a Chandler novel.
The second thing was what really threw me off. I wasn't sure at first, but by the end of the evening I was sure.
My grandmother was flirting with me.
I really didn't know how to handle it or tamp it down. Every time I tried to keep things friendly and light, she'd ask something about my love life and what I looked for in a woman. As she asked, I noticed that she was looking at me with adoring eyes and leaning over the table a bit. As this was 1956, she was dressed conservatively, but a hint of her cleavage was notable.
While I never looked at Rose in physical terms, for very obvious reasons, I did know she had a curvy physique. Not fat, not at all. Curves like Jayne Mansfield more like. Around the office, she'd always tried to dress professionally, but somethings are impossible to hide, her generous bust being one of them.
I knew intellectually that she was attractive, the subject to wolf whistles and lewd comments around the office, typical of a 1950's America that I always tried to discourage. But now, she was using feminine charms on me!
After I paid the bill, I got her outside and immediately called her a cab to get her to her friend's place. She kissed me on the cheek and told me we had to do this again sometime. I declined a cab for myself and decided to walk home.
That night, I pondered. Eventually, I came to the conclusion that she must've had too much wine and that was what caused her behavior. I figured if she remembered tomorrow, she probably apologize for being so brazen. I went to sleep contented with my conclusion.
The only problem with that was that my conclusion was completely and utterly wrong. Over the course of the next two weeks, she flirted more and harder. I also noticed that she began wearing bolder dresses. Not impropriate, just ones that seemed to show off her figure better than others. She'd flirt, wink, casually touch my hand or find an excuse to bend over near me.
Peter saw some of this too and just winked, calling me a lucky bastard. I rolled my eyes and tried to figure out what to do about this. I didn't want to lose my connection to family after all this time without them, but this couldn't go on. Finally, I decided that enough was enough and I would have to act.
It was a Friday, and we were working on a column, and she mentioned that she was staying at her friends for the weekend as her parents were going out of town for the weekend. She decided to be bold apparently.
"Say, Jim," she said after she'd finished typing something up. "Can I ask you a question?"
"Sure," I said, taking a sip of coffee.
"When was the last time you had a homecooked meal?"
"Uh..." was all I could get out. I thought back and realized the last homecooked meal I'd had would've been with the Avondale's. "It's been a while."
"Well, than let me cook you a meal tonight," she offered, beaming from ear to ear. I quickly tried to retreat.
"Oh, that's really not necessary," I said trying to be cordial.
"But I insist!" Rose said again. "I want to thank you for the opportunity you've given me in working for you."
"That's really not necessary," I told her. "You're hard work is all the reward necessary."
"Well, thank you, Jim," she said grinning, "but really, let me do this for you. You wouldn't be so rude as to refuse, would you?"
Fuck! She had me and she knew it. Reminiscent of my grandmother of old, she always knew how to get someone to agree to something. I needed another tactic.
"Well, I don't exactly have much in the fridge," I told her, "and even if I did, I don't really have any pots or..." was all I could get out.
"Leave it to me," she said dismissively, waiving her hand. "Seven o'clock?"
"Uhhh..." was all I could think of to get out and she quickly took that as a yes.
"Good!" she said brightly, "I'll see you then!" as she turned and left my office.
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, FUCK!
I normally didn't drink at the office, but I poured a glass of bourbon and slammed it down. I was no fool. I knew that my grandmother was planning to make a move on me that night.
Now, contrary to modern belief of the 21st century, people were just as horny and willing to engage in pre-marital sex in the 1950's as in the 2000's. It just wasn't talked about or acknowledged as much. I'd been to many of backrooms with plenty of men talking about affairs and what not with various women and found some of the depictions they made crude by even modern standards.
I did my best to avoid Rose for the rest of the day and went to Peter's office.
"Got a minute?" I asked Peter who quickly waved me into his office.
"What's up, Jim?" he asked, pouring us both a drink. I guess he figured I was worried about something. Good ole Pete.
"I could use some advice," I told him, taking the drink from his hand and taking a healthy sip.
"Of course, kid," he said slapping me on the back, "writer's block?"
"No," I told him, "It's a bit personal."
"Ohhhh," he said nodding his head, "that, huh?" he said taking a sip from his own drink. "Finally looking for my advice about how to lay Rose, huh? It's about time."
"NO!" I said more forcefully than I should've considering he was my boss. "No, that's not what I meant, Pete."
"Why not?" Peter said perplexed. "She's a bombshell! You got something else going on?"
"No, that's not it," I told him waiving my head.
"You're not a fruit, are ya?" he asked, derisively asking if I was gay.
"No, no," I told him waiving my hands, which made him relax.
"Then what's the problem?" Peter said, seemingly confused. "I think you're golden, personally. I see how she is around you, and I think you've got it made there."
"Pete, I'm trying to discourage her, not encourage her."
"What the hell for?" Pete said incredulously.
"Isn't there an old saying about dipping pens in company ink?" I asked him flatly. He waived his hand at me again.
"Hogwash!" he said. "That's just idiocy! Who would use their own ink when they could use the company's?"
"Pete..." I said, trying to get him to focus.
"Grow up, Jim," he said in a paternalistic way, "there's nothing wrong with a little side action at the office." He used his head to indicate toward Ginger, which surprised me. "It's good to get the edge off. What's the harm?! You're not even married, for heaven's sake."
"Yeah, but if things go south," I tried to explain to him. "I'll lose one hell of an assistant."
"Nah, I wouldn't worry," Pete said. "She's a trooper. Besides, it'll be good for you!"
I knew that Pete wouldn't be any help to me, so I dropped it. He shouted, "good luck!" to me as I left his office, chuckling.
I went home and took a cold shower, trying to figure out how to get Rose off of me. I scrubbed harder than I'd ever scrubbed in my life. I paced and paced until Rose showed up at seven o'clock.
I opened the door and there was Rose in her coat and two bags. I also noticed that she'd applied fresh makeup to herself.
"Aren't you gonna let me in or help me with the bags?" she asked, in such a way as to denote sensuality.
"Right, sorry," I said opening the door and taking one of the bags. She placed the other on the table in the kitchen.
"Oh, what a lovely place, Jim," she said looking around a bit.
"Thanks," I replied.
"Well?" she said looking at me.
"Well, what?" I replied back.
"Aren't you going to take my coat and offer me a drink?"
"Oh!" I said, "yeah, sure."
She unfastened the sash around her and removed her coat. I didn't really look at her as I took it from her and hurriedly put it on my coat rack. When I turned back, I was certainly looking.
She was wearing a skintight dress that hugged every curve she had. A strapless dress that showed off her bare shoulders and seemed to ooze sexuality.
"Uh..."
"Like my new dress?" she asked, spinning around a bit.
"It's very..." I said trying to think of the right word, "flattering."
"Why thank you, Jim," she said walking over to the kitchen.
"A little fancy to cook in, isn't it?"
"I have an apron in the bag here," she said holding up a white apron from the bag in the kitchen.
"Oh," was all I could say as she put it on. I saw her looking at me still and I realized why.
"Sorry," I said walking over to the bar, "what would you like?"
"Gin, please," she replied, "straight up."
I made our drinks while my grandmother made us dinner. Now, back in my old life, my grandmother made me dinner all the time, but now she was 25, dressed to kill, and seemed to be putting the moves on me.
I finished making the drinks and handed her one. She smiled at me as I handed her the glass and clinked our glasses together. I noticed that she looked into my eyes the whole time as she took a sip.
"Would you mind putting on a record while I get dinner ready?" she asked. I went over to my stereo and put on a Bing Crosby album, knowing it wasn't too romantic. She made a comment immediately. "Do you have a Frank Sinatra album?" she asked. I relented and put on Sinatra. "Much better," she said happily as she went back to work.
She made us a roast with baked potatoes that looked delicious. I asked her if she wanted me to get out a bottle of wine and she pulled one from her tote bag. She handed it to me to open as she started plating the food and placing it on my modest table.
"Dinner is served," she said with a smile while taking off her apron. We sat down and Rose raised her glass. "To the best columnist in the 48!" she said clinking her glass to mine.
"Best in earshot, anyway," I replied, a bit uncomfortable.
I took one bite and knew my grandmother had not acquired her cooking skills later in life. All sorts of memories came flying back to me of so many amazing family dinners. It was so moist and juicy.
"Well?" Rose asked me with a confident smile.
"It's great," I told her honestly causing her to smile wider while taking another sip of wine.
"Thank you," she said politely. "Never underestimate the power of a home-cooked meal."
"If you say so," I said focusing on the food.
"Well, just think," Rose said while taking small bites of her own food, "you could eat like this every day if you finally settle down."
I rolled my eyes a bit and tried to just keep eating, but Rose was having none of it.
"Why haven't you settled down yet?" she asked me flat out. I threw and eyebrow toward her and remembered that I was her boss and might be able to use that to get her off this kick.
"Miss Richards, do you really think that's your business?" I said in a way that denoted playfulness, but also an indication that she was stepping over some lines. Apparently, it didn't work, cause she didn't lay off.
"Well, Mr. Landry," she said, clearly putting on fake airs behind it, "I was nice enough to cook for you. It seems to me that answering a little question is a fair trade for that."
I wasn't buying it at all, but I had to think about this. If I told her I hadn't found the right girl yet, that old trope, I ran the risk of her trying to fill that role when I was trying to dissuade her. I finally chose my shot.
"I'm not sure I'll ever settle down," I said plainly. She looked like she'd just been hit by lightning.
"What do you mean never?" she said almost confused.
"I like my life and I like my freedom," I said, not entirely dishonestly, "why would I want to give that up?"
"But you don't want a house, or kids, or a wife?" she said, almost insulted that I could want to live the life of a bachelor.
"Maybe someday, we'll see," I said, trying to desperately move the subject to something else.
"Well, what if it's too late by then?" Rose said.
"Too late for what?"
"What if there was a woman that would've been a good wife for you, but you were too busy being a playboy?"
"I wouldn't exactly call myself a playboy," I told her honestly when I noticed the album had run out. I got up and flipped it over as Rose continued.
"So, you don't go out on dates with lots of women?" She was again getting back slightly into the inappropriate territory.
"Not that its really your business, but no," I told her, hoping she'd move onto another topic, any topic.
"So, what are you looking for?" Rose asked
"Who says I'm looking?" I said in a snarky manner, sitting back down and taking a sip of wine.
"Come on," she urged, "what do you look for in a girl?"
I took a deep breath and tried to figure out a way to make this an inappropriate question for her to ask her employer. The problem was it really wasn't at all.
"Smart, funny, bright, kind," I said rattling off the usual things men said. Not good enough apparently according to the look Rose was giving me.
"Do you want me to call up Miss America, sir?" she said in a smart-ass tone.
"Thanks," I replied wryly.
"Be serious now," she enjoined, "what are you looking for?"
"Salt at the moment," I said getting the saltshaker from the center of the table. Even Rose laughed.
"Why don't you want to tell me?" she asked, with what looked like a sparkle in her eyes.
"Why do you want to know?" I replied, starting to get tired of this game.
"It's just a conversation," my grandmother said, trying to defuse her intent, very badly.
"Well, then what are you looking for?" I asked, trying to turn the tables. I was very unsuccessful as she leaned over the table and looked directly into my eyes.
"I think you know exactly what I'm looking for," she said with a mix of determination, desire, and who knows what else. Now that it was in the open, however, I felt like I could tackle the issue head on.
"Rose," I said pleasantly, but with enough timber to let her know I was serious, "I don't know that that's appropriate."
"What do you mean?" she said, now resting her head on the palms of her hand, looking at me while still smiling and "trying" to be coy.
"You know what I mean," I said while eating more food.
"Do I?" she said in a flirty voice while fluttering her eyes.
"Yes," I said more firmly as she lifted up and took a sip of wine.
"Look, Jim," she said now more with determination in her voice, "you know I'm interested in you. I haven't exactly been subtle. Is it that you don't like me?" she asked with an impish grin.
"Rose, it's inappropriate," I said as if it were obvious. "You work for me."
"Which just means that I have better access to you and know you better," she said with a grin. "What's the point of having a sexy assistant if you don't use her?"
I was shocked my grandmother was saying these things. On the one hand, it was the 1950's so sexual harassment suits weren't a thing yet. But my grandmother had also always been pretty progressive for her age, especially when it came to equality and women's rights. The contradiction that was happening in my mind was distracting to say the least.
"Jim?" Rose said, getting my attention back.
"Sorry," I said more on reflex than anything.
"So, what do you think?" she asked again. "Do you like me?" she asked, refilling my wine.
"Rose, I like you very much," I told her honestly. "But again, we work together."
"Which just means we know each other very well," she replied with a twinkle in her eyes. "Is it that you don't find me attractive?"
"No!" I said faster than I should've in any circumstances. Even today, I don't know what caused me to react that way so quickly. "You're a very beautiful woman." She smiled wide at that.
"Thank you," she said with adoration, "it's nice to know I can turn the eye of a world-famous writer."
"I don't think I'm world-famous," I offered back. She shook her head.
"You're published in Canada now, so yes you are," she said firmly. "What do you think is beautiful about me?"
"Rose, I don't think..." I said, trying again to show her this was inappropriate.
"Come on," she urged. "A girl likes to know what men find attractive." I hesitated but realized there was no way out.
"You have a beautiful face, kind eyes, a lovely smile," I said trying to get back to focusing on the food.
"Thank you," she said nodding at me, "what about my figure?"
"Huh?" I asked nearly dropping my fork.
"Well maybe I'm a little more gifted in certain areas than most men like," she said shifting a bit so show me angles. Now this was not an understatement. Rose, my grandmother, had very large breasts. They had to be DDD's at least and she had an ass to match. Maybe some would've found her too big, but I wasn't one of them. I then mentally slapped myself for checking out my own grandmother.
"I don't think that's true," I replied, "look at Russell and Monroe," eliciting another smile from her.
"Thank you, Jim," she said softly, she said finishing up her food. I was done too, and she took my plate in an instant. I thought this would be a good way to wrap the night up when she put a stop to that. "I'm going to brew some coffee for us. Why don't you change the record?"
Ugh, fuck!
"What would you like to hear?" I asked.
"Do you have any Nat King Cole?" Rose asked, washing up the dishes and starting up the percolator.
"Yeah," I said changing out the record and putting on Cole. His smooth voice soon filled the apartment, and the aroma of coffee also did as well. My grandmother went over to the bar to find something to add to our coffee. I sat in my easy chair, hoping I could get a bit of distance between me and my randy grandmother.
She poured out the coffee, adding some sambuca into each, and brought them over to the couch. She saw me in the easy chair and smiled.
"You won't sit with me?" she asked in a cutesy voice. Ironically, she was the one who taught me to be a good host, so I got up and sat on the couch, giving her as much distance as possible as I took up my coffee. She kept scooting closer to me. "Isn't this nice?" she said sweetly.
"It was a nice evening," I said taking a sip, "thank you for cooking."
"Oh, it was nothing," Rose said with a wave of her hand. "I'm glad I could get you that homecooked meal you needed."
"Needed may be a bit strong," I countered.
"Nonsense," she said, "a man like you needs to be looked after."
"A man like me?" I replied.
"Someone with so much talent and responsibility," she said leaning ever closer to me, "it's easy to see that they would neglect themselves."
"I do ok," I replied.
"But you could do better with a little help," she said, now sitting millimeters from me. "Someone who can support you."
"You support me just fine," I retorted.
"But I could do more," she said now putting one of her legs on me. "Much more..."
"Uhhh," was all I could get out with my grandmother's eyes bearing down on me. I was trapped and I knew it. I had two options at this point: give in or convince her this was a mistake which I'd been trying to do all evening. It's said that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing repeatedly and expecting a different result. Nonetheless...
"Rose, we do make a good team," I admitted. "But don't you think if we did this, we'd hurt our working relationship?" I was desperate, I admit, but I figured if I convinced her that going further would hurt our working relationship, she'd back off.
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