I was at a party in the basement of a bungalow on Chicago’s Northside. It was the first time my boyfriend, Don, had brought me to a party with his friends. Unfortunately, his close buddies were big drinkers. The beer and boiler makers flowed freely. Guys and their dates danced at first, but as the night wore on, the alcohol worked its wickedness. I went to the washroom and when I came out, there was a girl with long blonde hair and a porcelain white face standing outside the door. Her eyes were watery, and she said in a soft voice, “Hi, I’m Susie. Do you think you and your boyfriend could drive me home?”

I said, “Didn’t you come with Wally?” Wally was Don’s best friend.

She moved close to me and whispered, “Yes, but he’s drunk, and I don’t want to ride with him.”

I patted her hand and said, “Okay, I’ll ask Don.”

I went to Don and pleaded her situation. He squinted his eyes and said, “Absolutely not. She came with Wally. She goes home with Wally. I will not embarrass him.”

When I told Susie what Don had said, she cried. I asked if she could telephone her father. She said he didn’t have a car.

When she was leaving the party with Wally, she looked back over her shoulder. I mouthed the words, “I’m sorry.”

As Don and I walked out the front, I heard Wally’s car peel away and speed down the street.

The next day in the paper was a picture of a car smashed against a tree. The headline said, “Driver Survived, Passenger Killed.” Wally was the driver.

I have told no one about this circumstance until now. Sixty years later, Susie’s worried face still haunts me.