This is the second chapter in a Seven Part Series.
“The only panties that ever really fit me right are the ones I get from the Sears catalog,” Mabel Malakoff told her sister-in-law, Agatha, as they sat in the shade of the old oak tree in between the Youth Building and the Second Baptist of Fort Stockton Sanctuary. That’s where the annual Founder’s Day Picnic & Tithe Celebration was held every year, and the fall of 1960 was no exception.
Mabel and Agatha had already turned in their pledge cards for 1961 and each completed their stint at the refreshment table, filling up Dixie cups with ice from the Eggs & Ammo and sweet or unsweetened tea depending on each parishioner’s preference. Even though it was well into October, it was warm outside and Mabel did not like to be moist in her nether regions, which was how the whole topic of preferred undergarments arose.
One thing led to another and in the cool shade of that old oak tree Agatha mentioned to Mabel her preference for underwear. “If you ever tell a soul I will swear on a stack of Brother Bob’s Bibles that you’re a liar,” Agatha said in a voice that was almost a whisper. “But when I know I’m not leaving the house all day, I put on a cotton floral-print housecoat and not a stitch of clothes underneath!” She looked around to be sure nobody was within earshot. “I swear to goodness it is the closest thing to heaven I’ll see this side of the dirt nap.”
Mabel’s jaw dropped open and she was lucky a wasp didn’t fly in it and sting her tonsils. “Good Lord in heaven, does my brother know you’re naked as a jaybird underneath that housecoat?”
“I keep waitinn’ for him to figure it out, but he hasn’t yet!” Agatha laughed. “If he ever does, it might just kill him! Or me! Or maybe both of us!”
After the two gals finished wiping down the plastic red and white tablecloths and putting all the leftover mayonnaise in the refrigerator to use at Christmas, Mabel gathered her pocket book, the bowl from the green Jello salad with cottage cheese she’d brought, and headed out to her car.
The 1951 Ford Custom V8 Fordor Sedan was the last new car she and Otto, her late husband, had purchased. Powered by a 239 cubic inch flathead V8 paired with an automatic transmission, it was light blue with a gray cloth interior, rear fender skirts, and whitewall tires. Otto bought the car with Mabel in mind; the automatic transmission enabled her to drive for the first time in their marriage. It was the first year Ford had offered such a feature.
There were several delaminating windows and rust around the trunk opening, windows, and door jambs, but from 20 feet away the car still looked pretty good. Certainly good enough for Mabel on her limited income. But it was obvious it was a car designed and sold in a different time, nearly a decade earlier. The “shoebox” sedan with a 100-mph speedometer and four auxiliary gauges were all throwbacks to a different time. The five-digit odometer showed approximately 66k miles. The old Ford looked like Truman, and Kennedy was about to win the White House.
Once back home, Mabel flipped through the new Sears catalog looking for house dresses, lingering perhaps just a little too long on the Men’s Underwear page. There was something about a man in briefs with a large pipe in his hand that made her miss Otto, rest his soul. She guessed that wasn’t pipe tobacco in the pouch the model was sporting, and then chased those thoughts from her mind and apologized silently to God for having such impure thoughts so close to having filled out her pledge card at Second Baptist.
She thumbed her way to the housecoats and found just the one she thought she might like to try, though the thoughts of Otto and his pipe and his pouch made her question whether or not she should even contemplate going commando under a housecoat. But then she remembered the look on Agatha’s face and her testimonial regarding the freedom that came with being only loosely draped with 100% cotton and nothing clinging underneath.
Finding the form in the back of the catalog to complete and mail in with her payment, Mabel noticed the card stuck in the catalog right next to the order form. It was a contest entry form for a brand new 1960 Ford Sunliner convertible. It was bright red in the picture and seemingly the most beautiful automobile she’d ever laid her eyes on. The wide white walls set off the sparkling chrome wheel covers and nearly took her breath away. She read the details of the contest, figured she didn’t have a thing in the world to lose, and filled out the card, placed it in the envelope with the order form for the house coat, and filled out her return address in the upper left hand corner. She figured there was no chance she’d win, but thought it would be fun sending in the card with her order. It was as close to gambling as she’d ever been, though nothing was really at risk.
Mabel got a stamp out of the drum table next to the divan, still incredulous that they had gone up to 4 cents. She briefly thought of what it would be like to head out on the highway out of town behind the wheel of a brand new 1960 Ford Sunliner convertible dressed only in a new house coat, the wind whipping things that hadn’t seen daylight in the years since Otto passed. And then she never thought about it again.
Her housecoat arrived ten days later. The ruffled collar, blue floral print, and feminine pink bow at the neckline belied the fact that she felt like a sporting girl wearing nothing underneath. It took about ten minutes to get used to the feeling of utter freedom and provocative pleasure the housecoat afforded her. She thought about calling Agatha and asking her if she had the same cravings being in the buff under her housecoat, but knew her sister-in-law might slip and say something at church, or worse, to Mabel’s brother and she would never be able to look at him again. She kept her guilt to herself, which made her enjoy it even more. Sometimes the best guilt is a secret pleasure.
A month later, Mabel was running the sweeper around the house and enjoying a cup of Folgers from the bright chrome percolator sitting atop the green and yellow tile countertop when she heard the phone ring. She turned off the sweeper, set her coffee cup on the counter, and buttoned the top three buttons on her housecoat, not wanting to actually have voice contact with someone when she was so immorally dressed.
“Hello?” Mabel said, almost embarrassed.
“Yes. Is the Mabel Malakoff of Fort Stockton, Texas?” a man’s voice on the other end of the line asked. The masculinity of his voice made her tie the bow on the house coat right under her neck.
“Yes, it is,” she replied.
“Mrs. Malakoff, this is Todd Targett from the Sears and Roebuck Company in Chicago, Illinois. Have I got some good news for you!”
3 responses to “SUNLINERS AND LINGERIE, Chapter II”
“The car looked like Truman and Kennedy was about to win the White House.” Perfect! That’s the writing I come here for, along with all the era- and culture- defining identifiers.
Todd Targett’s voice, and the news he was about to share may well generate trembling and moisture at Mabel’s recently I encumbered “nether regions”.
Of course Mabel has yet to master the Sunliner’s stick shift, leaving us to wonder if our Captain has any kind of stick practice in mind for her – and if so, will clutching forcefully and repeatedly, and moving the stick become a renewed and delightful part of her life – and how may this impact her relations with Brother Bob at Second Baptist of Fort Stockton ? Worst of all, what would the upright and uptight Ladies Auxiliary whisper about the ungodly flashy red convertible?
So many questions. Thankfully there are seven chapters to unwind this whole twisted tale. It will take every one of them.