I had never driven a Ford Galaxie 500 in my life. It came with 330 horsepower and a 390 cubic inch V8 that might respond to my every command, once it was restored.
It also came with the most beautiful woman I had ever known, Mrs. Devereaux. She kept the married moniker for that was the only name anyone had ever known her by. Her divorce papers had garnered two year’s dust, as did this vehicle (her ex-husband’s favorite, nor hers), before she hired me to refurbish the latter.
It had been a work of art and would be again. It was an honor to be awarded such an opportunity. I spend the entirety of June and July working on the engine. She footed the bill and I did all of the labor. By mid July, I had the engine, transmission, and electrical systems purring.
That is when I confirmed what I had always suspected. Just watching me work as I did also had Mrs. Devereaux purring in similar synchronicity.
While I began work on the body, she began to take an increased interest in my future. I told her my enlistment in the Army would begin just after Labor Day. It would take all I had to get this antique up to show status by then.
It was my hope to drive it at least once before I departed for basic training.
In retrospect, everything I said and did and how she responded was straight out of a Central Casting stock script. The double entendres were obvious. The spivvy wardrobe Mrs. Devereaux attired herself in was most welcome, but somewhat of a distraction. Her interest seemed to be gravitating toward me. My interest remained fixed on the Ford.
Until I applied the last coat of wax on August 24 of that year. The week before, I gave it two coats of factory white paint which contrasted nicely with the cherry red interior.
Presenting Mrs. Devereaux with the final paperwork was an honor I had always desired. Here was nothing short of a masterpiece. All cylinders fired. The steering responded to my slightest touch. It was a vision in which others could only dream of experiencing.
It was also the only catalyst Mrs. Devereaux needed to strip all pretense from our summer arrangement. She became brazen as she approached me. She had one last offer for consideration.
I was listening, hanging on her every word.
I had proven my discretion this summer. I was soon going to be away. This combination made her even more emboldened.
She moved in closer, almost to kiss me, but not quite. She moved her lips to my left ear to whisper the details of her offer.
At that moment, the world became silent, holding its collective breath, not creating one disturbance of sound so as to interfere with hers.
“The car is yours if you leave something with me I have always wished for, but never received.”
What she wanted from me, I could give to her.
Sometimes, Central Casting is just what the doctor ordered. With the top down, we had no limitations. Under a starry night, we had nothing but time. Mrs. Devereaux became my tutor. I became her fantasy. We explored, we experimented, and we felt confident together. In the back seat, we broke down barriers, seeing no other reason than to be brutally honest with each other. She screamed my name. In a daze, she screamed another. I sent her to places only another could take you. Once there, I was patient, waiting for her to recover, waiting for her to smile.
Mrs. Devereaux gave more than she got. She asked me to turn the engine on. She turned her engine on. The reverb between the only two bodies I had had my hands on was amazing. Slowly at first, more daring as time elapsed, she sent me across an expanse never explained, only experienced. I was seduced. I was restrained. I was consumed.
Mrs. Devereaux left me gasping for air. I left her dehydrated. Together, we left each other wanting more.
And for those few remaining days, we traversed every permeation of the word, “more.”
By the time I did leave for my enlistment, I saw a small blemish in the leather of the rear seat of the car. The rip would only get larger with time. I should have it repaired.
Obviously, I did not.
At the conclusion of my basic training, I received a package with the results of a pregnancy test with a positive indicator. There was no return address on the envelope. There was no forwarding address on the letter. Just a heart written in lipstick and a small spritz of an all too familiar perfume.
I still have the Ford Galaxie 500. The rip, much like my respect, did get bigger with time.
Andy Betz has tutored and taught in excess of 41 years, lives in 1974, and has been married for 33 years. His works are found everywhere a search engine operates.