A Dagger through the Heart

By Philip Lear

It was one of the strangest things I had ever seen. One moment he’s sitting there droning on and the next he was dead. Had he died from natural causes or was some other force at work? I had my own ideas.

It happened at the Bentonville Country Club in the main lounge on Saturday night. The men and women were gathered in small groups drinking and socializing. A jazz combo was playing softly in one corner. In the back of the room at the bar, a small group of us were circled around Murray Wheeler trying to appear social. But there was nothing social about it. Murray, a large red-faced man in his late 50s was the only one in Bentonville with real money. He was a fifth generation Wheeler. He owned the bank and all of the factories. In a real sense he owned the town and everybody in it. As he held forth we all pretended to show keen interest.

Murray was a serial storyteller and not a very good one. And we all had to listen to him. Each succeeding story was longer and duller than the previous one. It was as though he deliberately made it that way to extract some kind of tribute. He had helped every one of us financially. There was Bud Allen, a local builder, Jim Wells, the Architect, Lou Graham, a farm machinery dealer and Carl Abbott, an importer. Not one of us had the balls to interrupt him.

We knew how touchy he was and no one would dare tell him to give it a rest. In Bentonville, our livelihoods and indeed our continued existences in that town depended on remaining in his favor. One word from him could change everything. I’d seen it happen.

I remembered Jack McGowan, a Lawyer and Ben Louis, a stockbroker, who for seemingly inconsequential missteps Murray had destroyed. Jack had defended a neighbor of Murray’s who Murray was suing over an unsightly hedge. And Ben had given Murray some advice on his stock portfolio. He had told him to sell some stock and Murray didn’t. When the stock plunged Murray lost a bundle and somehow blamed Ben for not convincing him to sell.

In both cases Murray put the word out that these two guys were out of favor and the whole town turned on both of them. People started ignoring them and their families. They were no longer welcome at parties or other social gatherings. Their incomes dried up and in less than a year both had to relocate.

Murray thought his stories were funny. And some of the stories might have been if they had been told with a kinder spirit. Once having delivered the punch line, all of us would laugh uproariously. Murray would scan around to see if the appreciation was sufficient and when satisfied would move on to his next story. That night, with each succeeding story, Murray seemed to turn the screw by increasing the level of detail to a point where listening became excruciating.

I leaned against the bar trying to appear attentive. Next to me Lou looked as though his eyes were about to close and I gave him a slight poke. The other listeners were trying to make eye contact and nod at key points in Murray’s story. But tonight I sensed the collective restlessness in the group.

I had a good life. At least that’s what I kept telling myself and knew that listening to this guy every Saturday night was part of the price I had to pay. These marathons had been going on for better than three years and until tonight, I hadn’t minded them that much. But something was different. I was edgy and could feel my anger building. Maybe it took this long for me to realize that Murray was deliberately torturing us. The heat was running up my back and I had all I could do to keep myself from grabbing him by the throat and telling him, ‘Murray, your story is over.’

I tried to calm myself down and prayed. Oh Lord, I’ve listened to these stories for three years now. If you were testing me I think I’ve stood up pretty well. But now I’m at my wit’s end and need your help. I’ve never asked you for anything, but now I’m asking for help. Please stop him.

At that instant, Murray, who was seated on a barstool in the center facing us, seemed to pause in mid sentence. His color drained and his face became pale and then ashen. His hand went limp and he fell to the floor.

Bud tried giving him mouth to mouth, but it was obvious that Murray was dead.

The whole room fell silent as Ellen, Murray’s wife, walked over slowly. She took a long drag on her cigarette and flicked the ashes on the floor. As she watched I could see her blue eyes narrowing.

The Medical Examiner conducted an investigation and said that the cause of Murray’s death could not be determined. There was no evidence of any heart attack, stroke, foul play or other factors that might have caused the death.

But I knew what had really happened. The Lord had killed him. But I didn’t want him dead. I just wanted him to shut up. My prayer had been as deadly as any dagger through the heart.

A week later, when I saw Ellen playing doubles at the club I was stunned. There she was in her white tennis outfit slamming the ball back and forth as if nothing had ever happened. I guess the physical exercise was healing for her. When she finished her match I bought her a drink.

“Ellen, I’m glad too see your getting on with your life,” I said.

“Joe, I’m not going to pretend that I’m a grieving widow. We all knew what he was like.”

“He helped me get started and for that I’ll be eternally grateful. But I understand what you’re saying.”

“To say he was difficult would be an understatement.”

“All that anyone can do when a loved one dies is to keep going,” I said.

“I wouldn’t exactly call him a loved one,” she said. “But I appreciate your concern.”

Later that week I was having lunch with Jim Wells. Jim and I had been close for many years and we were both in the same position when it came to owing Murray.

“Did you ever think about what happened that night?” I asked.

“I think about it a lot. That night when he croaked I was standing there at the bar listening to him go on for two hours. I could almost feel the steam coming out of my ears. It was humiliating having to stand there and listen. Yet I knew that without jeopardizing my career there was little I could do to stop him. I crossed my fingers and silently wished for him to stop and that’s when he dropped. I’ve felt really guilty ever since.”

“You made a silent prayer?” I asked.

“Something like that,” Jim answered.

“You ugly bastard. I could almost kiss you. Your telling me takes a big burden off of my shoulders. Right before Murray collapsed I prayed to God to stop him. But I didn’t want him dead. I prayed for him to stop. But until now when you told me, I thought that I was the only one.”

“Maybe the other guys weren’t too happy with Murray either. He knew what he was doing. He was a sadist,” Jim said.

“Ellen wasn’t that happy with him either. When I had a drink with her. I got the feeling that she hated him,” I said.

“I think everybody in this town felt the same way. And maybe, in his last moments Murray realized how we all hated him and it hit him like a ton of bricks.” Jim said.

“Yes,” I said. “Like a dagger through the heart.”