The Heart Tells All

I watched outside the cold window as rain droplets pelted the glass. There was a steady sound with the rhythm of new arrivals. It was not too fast nor too slow, like the beat of a heart.

I hadn’t seen my friends and family in over five years. The feelings of solitude were beginning to cement themselves into my soul. The days had become as uncountable as the raindrops on the window. At least the drops of water could fall wherever they pleased. Once I entered this country, I knew I could never leave. It would be too dangerous.

Sweeping the floor of all its dust bunnies and dirt dragged in by customers, my shift was concluded. The day had been as mundane as the sky outside. There were no crowds today. A few patrons came in the morning, a couple during their lunch break, and several drifters after their laborious workdays.

I began counting the cash when the front door was opened and the tiny brass bell dinged. A cooling breeze drifted in as a man around my age entered. Under the layers of scarf, jacket, and shirts, he had a familiar feel to him. He wore a solid black cap and matching gloves. A little much for this area, but perhaps he was a tourist.

“We’re closed,” I said in a monotone voice. The shop was not very large. Anything above a whisper could be heard from front to back. He looked at me, then at the clock above the counter. He pulled out a pocket watch from his leather satchel, clearly studying the time. Maybe the one accessory he really needed was a pair of glasses.

He looked back at me, and in an embarrassed tone stated “My apologies. Your sign said ‘Open’ so I assumed you were still up for some business. But as seeing it is 7 p.m. I understand your need for closure.”

I was not sure what to say. He was not wrong; I had forgotten to flip around the sign stating the store was closed for the day. However, he had the wits to understand that no normal business would be open this late. Though it was possible that it had given him all more reason to enter. I was hoping he could convince himself to leave as I deeply despised confrontation.

His eyes darted around the room, quickly taking in every detail of the items on each shelf. I stood there frozen from the shift in air, waiting for him to say anything further. Without his gaze meeting mine, he asked, “How many of these books have you read?”

The air seemed to become even cooler, despite no one else opening the front door. I stuttered in my reply, “Um…at least…uh…one-third? Yes…I would say one-third.”

“Interesting,” he replied as he inched closer to the counter, still refusing to lock his eyes with the person he was talking to. Part of me wondered if this man was even real.

“And how long have you worked here?”

I was becoming unsure of what to do. It was very possible he was just trying to make conversation, perhaps he thought I was cute. But another part of me did not want to give too much information to a stranger.

“About ten years,” I fibbed. He finally fixed his eyes on mine, putting his right elbow on the counter with his head resting below his chin. “You look a little young to have been working here for a decade,” he said. I couldn’t tell if he was accusing me or complimenting me.

Despite the cold air, I was beginning to sweat. As I was trying to come up with a reasonable reply, he spoke again, “Since it appears you obviously like to be around books, I want to invite you to my book club.” He pulled out a sheet of paper from his satchel and placed it delicately in front of me.

“It’s free and starts at 9 p.m. Coffee is included. It’s only a couple blocks from here, behind the bar. I know it’s a bit last minute to ask,” he sighed, seeming a bit nervous now. He looked down, as if he was embarrassed to look at me. “But I just saw you through the window and wanted to give you an invite.”

Relief swept over me. While I still didn’t know his name, this kind stranger immediately felt like a friend. I felt my cheeks beginning to turn red as the air began warming back.

“Okay, that sounds fun,” was all I could muster.

His eyes jolted up, a new energy in his voice. “So, you’ll be there?”

“Yes,” I replied sheepishly. His back straightened as he began to walk out with a newfound confidence. “Splendid, I’ll see you in a little bit then.” He tipped his cap and walked out into the rain.

A small part of me still felt afraid, but I assumed it to be butterflies fluttering with excitement. I had never socialized since my arrival. Tonight, would change everything.

Standing in front of the bar, I reread the flyer. Although I had never been personally, I always overheard details from customers. This was a place where any decent person would avoid. Unfortunately, there were no instructions on how to get behind the bar as the man said. Surely, a sincere book club would not be meeting inside. I walked around the building, hoping I could find some sort of secret entrance. When none appeared, I crawled back to the massive front doors.

I took a deep breath, then pushed myself inside into a scene of loud, vulgar music and foul scents. A group of men were engaged in rounds of intense arm wrestling. All of the women were dressed in ways that exposed as much as they could without being arrested. Their faces were covered with so many products that it was impossible to know how they looked in the daytime. Every other person had a cigarette in their mouth as well as a drink in their hand. Although I clearly did not fit in this scene, it appeared that no one noticed my presence.

I made my way to the front, careful not to bump into anyone and cause a misunderstanding. I showed the bartender my flyer, hoping he would not make a scene. Thankfully, he knew what I was asking and pointed to a door that was flush with the back wall. I nodded my head in thanks and traversed my way across the room. A man dressed similarly to the invitee from earlier was sitting in one of the booths where an arm wrestle was taking place. He held a strict gaze until I entered into the next room.

“Welcome!” A woman who I guessed to be a decade or two older greeted me with open arms. She led me to a seat that was positioned with about seven other chairs, placed to make a circle. “Feel free to grab a refreshment at any time,” the woman noted as she smiled and took the seat next to me. My mystery man was already sitting on the other side of me. He leaned over, and told me, “We’re on page 84 tonight. Since it’s all short stories, you aren’t behind or anything.” He smirked and then opened his book.

The room had no overhead lighting, but the number of candles illuminated the room enough to prevent a sense of blindness. I read the title of the book, A Collection of Short Stories for a Rainy Day. The man leaned over again, and whispered “Quite convenient it’s raining tonight, isn’t it?” I nodded and gave a slight smile.

Another, much older man with gray hair and spectacles coughed and then announced, “Are we all turned to page 84?” The sound of pages turning encouraged me to open the book and find the right place. The story I landed on was Edgar Allen Poe’s The Tell-Tale Heart.

The old man coughed again, then asked, “Now, who all has read this story before?” Everyone’s hands raised up, including mine. Back home, this work was a part of the curriculum for primary school.

“Excellent! Would anyone like to give a brief summary?”

Mystery man volunteered. “Well, the story is told from the perspective of an unnamed narrator. He’s freaked out by the pale eye of his elderly neighbor. After a week of eerily watching the old man sleep, the narrator decides to murder him.”

For a brief moment, he stops. He stares at me until a burst of thunder crashes. He quickly turned away to face the circle, then continued his recount of the, “And after this grievous act the narrator covers his tracks by dismembering the body and hiding it under the floorboards. Another neighbor calls the police after hearing screams. The police arrived and the narrator showed them the empty area. While they are all sitting and talking, the narrator hears a heartbeat.”

The thunder had resolved itself to a low rumble while the rain began to pick up in sound and rhythm. Everyone in the circle was nodding, approving of the accurate retelling of this famous work.

“The story finishes with the narrator tearing up the floorboards in front of the police, revealing himself as the murderer.”

A chill ran up my spine. Although the candles produced warmth along with their light, it was not enough to keep me warm. The leader of the club asked the group, “What does the heartbeat represent?”

A lady with red hair that looked less than natural perked up. “It was the murderer’s conscience. He felt extraordinarily guilty about what he’d done. He just couldn’t bare to keep it a secret. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself.” Once again, everyone nodded in agreement. A few even snapped. Their snaps held a certain rhythm.

“And what did you think, Miss?” The old man asked me. I looked around the room, studying each face. There seemed to be something off about each of them. The red head’s hair didn’t seem flush with her head. The old man’s glasses didn’t quite fit him. A young man was clearly wearing clothing too big for him. The woman next to me had not stopped smiling.

“I think…it was good the narrator revealed himself. Secrets do more harm than good, so I think it was admirable how he owned up to his crime.” I looked down at my shoes, not sure if my answer was good enough.

Mystery man projected his voice towards me, “You think his actions were admirable?”

I felt defensive. “Well, obviously not all of his actions were admirable. Killing someone isn’t good, most of the time. But I appreciate how he told the truth instead of keeping it to himself for years and years. I mean, doing something like that would drive anyone crazy.”

“Crazy to the point they would have to leave the country?” He replied, locking his eyes with mine.

The rumbling thunder and pounding rain was all I could hear. Their rhythm synonymous with that of a heartbeat.