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The first chapter of a ten chapter series.

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Duke De Kalb and his girlfriend had no intentions of falling in love.  It was a damn foolhardy thing to do in 1941.  The world was sitting on a powder keg.  But, as fate would have it, Doris was sitting on one of her own and Duke’s fuse was the one that finally lit it.

They’d met at the Southwest Texas Fat Stock Exposition and sparks flew.  Several dates followed and then talk of getting married.  Folks around Fort Stockton would routinely see the dashing couple flying through town in De Kalb’s 1936 Ford Model 68 Deluxe Roadster, Doris’s curly chestnut locks blowing in the wind behind her.  There was no mistaking the smile on De Kalb’s face, his girl next to him on the brown leather bench seat.

The car was finished in Light Fast Maroon over brown leather upholstery and featured a tan soft top, a rumble seat, a rear-mounted spare tire cover, driving lights, artillery-style steel wheels, chrome side mirrors, and dual brake lights. Details included a tan canvas soft top, tan pin-striping, a greyhound hood ornament, chrome bumpers, driving lights, running boards, wind wings, chrome side-view mirrors, and dual tail lights with blue-dot lenses.  The roadster was as rakish as the couple in the cockpit.

Duke was a man of principle.  He’d been brought up in the Methodist church by parents who had always been pillars in the community and taught him to aspire to the same standards.  The family was considered wealthy by the metrics of the time.  They had survived the Depression better than their neighbors who’d lived on credit and then suffered the consequences when their bills couldn’t be paid.

Duke’s parents could afford to furnish their son with a relatively new Ford, an education, and a future.

Doris’s kin were not as well off, but no less hard working.  Good people.  Salt of the earth they were called back then.  Duke and Doris were an example of how opposites attract.  Duke De Kalb was quiet and reserved whereas Doris was extroverted and always laughing about something or sharing a story.  She was fun loving and outgoing.  He was content to sit back and listen and watch her and soak in everything she did, like it was a performance he might not get to see again.

After the third or fourth date they began talking of marriage.  Duke was steadfast in his commitment to have Doris remain chaste until he walked her down the aisle.  More so than Doris was.  On long drives towards a setting sun on the backroads leading to Lake Leon, Dorris would be next to him on the leather bench seat, legs on either side of the shifter.  Duke thought she was unaware of the effect she had on him.  Doris was curious as to why it took him so long to respond.

One late October evening the couple took their normal drive to be alone and talk about the future.  It was an abnormally warm November.  The wind whipping through the cabin of the Ford was wreaking havoc with Dorris’s thin cotton dress.  She reached into the tiny chrome glove box on the far right of the dash and pulled out a scarf to tie around her head to try to tame her wild head of hair.

Scarf in place, her right hand dropped to her lap to reign in her billowing dress.  Her other hand dropped to Duke’s lap.  What she found there was more difficult to tame than her dress.

Duke’s commitment to waiting till they were married wavered with each stroke of Doris’s hand.  Once at the lake, the Ford positioned for privacy, the two of them climbed into the rumble seat of the Ford.  As Duke sat in the middle of the seat, Dorris stood above him, straddling him.  Reaching behind, she undid the closures on her cotton frock and let it fall to the rubber floor.

Duke relieved her of the remaining garments so she stood before him completely naked.  The parts of her that were never subjected to the harsh Texas sun were as white as the Ivory soap they smelled like.  No man ever having seen those parts before, Doris thought she would feel embarrassment when they were finally gazed upon.  She didn’t.  Rather, she encouraged Duke to explore them with his eyes, then the tips of his fingers, and finally the grasp of his full hands.

Doris could easily gauge his reaction to her body by the smile of Duke’s face and then by the growing tent in his trousers further down below the smile.  Taking his hands off of Doris’s body only long enough to undo his trousers and slide them down to the floor, Dorris unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it to either side of his torso.  Without a word, she positioned herself above him, slowly guided him towards her target and then impaled herself on him.  

She expected to hurt at first and it did.  For a while actually.  Until it didn’t.

For two people with no experience at coupling, they were able to work out the mechanics quickly, each to their own advantage.  Whatever awkwardness there might have been due to the newness, location, and positioning was far outweighed by the pent up desire, rawness, and danger.  At the end, both participants were satisfied.  The rumble seat was a mess of wrinkled clothes, bodily fluids, and spent bodies.

The weeks that followed were a whirlwind of events that nobody had planned on; they could only react to.  The bombing of Pearl Harbor. Duke’s enlistment.  The pregnancy.  Then the hastily performed wedding.  “We would have gotten married anyway,” Duke told her.  “We might just have waited till I got back.  In case . . . you know.  Something happened.”  

He regretted that he’d been weak in the rumble seat of the Ford and considered it his fault that he had to leave a pregnant new wife.  She counted it a blessing that she had a part of him still with her, even when he would be required to serve his country halfway around the world. She never allowed herself to think about him not coming back.  She simply prepared to embrace motherhood and wait till he did.

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