Death on a Silver Platter by Ellen Hart

With one quick movement, he tipped his head back and finished the drink, then held the glass out for another. When he turned around, the look in his eyes made me shiver. The rage I’d seen a few moments ago was still there, but it was masked now, covered by an odd kind of blankness. Maybe others couldn’t see behind the mask, but I could.
    After downing a third drink, Carl made straight for the front door. I followed, not knowing where he was going or what he was about to do. The only thought in my mind was that I had to talk to him. He was so clearly in trouble. I berated myself with every step I took. I’d never been able to let go of him, not completely. That was my problem. My problem and his. We stayed friends when we should have turned our backs on each other and lived totally separate lives. But the finality of that seemed too terrible. We simply couldn’t do it. Our connection was too deep, our history too important. And then our daughters became friends. Carl’s oldest son took a summer job at the Maxfield, waiting on tables in the Zephyr Club. Our lives seemed to intertwine no matter how we tried to keep the past in a separate box.
    When I stepped outside, I found that the wind had picked up. It was one of those treacherous March nights when a light rain could easily turn to sleet or snow. I’d left my wrap inside, but it hardly seemed important. One of the parking attendants had brought around Carl’s Cadillac and as I made my way down the steps from the porch, I saw him slide into the front seat. I knew he was in no shape to drive, so I rushed around the side of the car and banged on the window. My wedding ring hit the glass and that’s what finally got his attention. He squinted up at me and rolled down the window.
    “Pearl,” he said. His eyes looked glassy. “What are you doing out here? Go back inside.”
    I opened the door. “Move over.”
    “What? Why?”
    “Just do it.” I wasn’t going to take no for an answer.
    “I need to be alone,” he said.
    I reached in and turned off the motor, removing his car keys.
    “Hey.”
    “Move over, Carl,” I said. “I mean it. You’re in no shape to drive.”
    He scowled at me, but finally relented.
    Once he’d moved to the passenger’s seat, I got in and started the engine. “You can be alone with me driving. I won’t bother you. Consider me your chauffeur.” Before he could object further, I put the car in gear and we were off.
    Once we were away from the bright lights of the house, I felt as if we’d entered a dark tunnel. The rain rushed at our headlights, making it seem like we were going faster than we really were. I switched on the windshield wipers, but realized immediately that it wasn’t just the rain that was the problem. Fog had started to form in the ditches and creep across the road. There were a couple moments when I wasn’t sure where the road ended and the field began. But I kept going. We drove like that for a while, listening to the wipers slap back and forth, lulled, I think, by the rhythm. Carl kept his eyes fixed firmly in front of him, but I could tell that his mind was miles away.
    Finally, we saw a dim light up ahead that heralded the intersection of Polk Road and Highway 59. Carl said there was a wide patch of grass next to the four-way-stop and that I should pull over. I did, but I didn’t stop the engine. It had finally warmed inside the car and for that I was grateful. I wasn’t shaking from the cold anymore, but I was still shaking.
    We sat for a long time in silence. It might have been half an hour. It might have been more. I didn’t think to look at the clock. All I knew was that Carl was sitting next to me and that his stillness came from pain. I wanted to help him, but I didn’t know how. So I waited. We were in our own little cocoon and the world had grown hushed around us. The soft green lights from the dash illuminated our faces. As I turned off the windshield wipers, I glanced at myself in the rearview