The Eighth Sin

The lies ate away at Aileen until she couldn't take it, until she was done being nice to everyone as they plastered fake smiles across their faces to get through the sight of her. She was back in her hometown not even a full week before the whispers and stares wove between the goosebumps on her back.

Aileen slept with so-and-so.

Did you hear about that night?

I hear it runs in the family.

Aileen had no idea what person she supposedly slept with, or what night that took place. The only thing that ran in her family was a short temper and high blood pressure, and both were poked at repeatedly since she crossed the county line. She didn't much care for what small-town folk had to say until a rumor spread that ruined her plain, boring life: Her father is a murderer.

In such a small town, with half of the buildings boarded up and abandoned, a single stoplight, and a pothole every 100 feet, the whispers of a lie carried far enough for everyone to get their moment of entertainment. But Aileen wasn't entertained; Aileen was done cleaning up messes and keeping her mouth shut.

Up and down the aisles of the only grocery store in town, she listened, she fumed. The local librarian looked for small mints to refill her bowl at the checkout. She was a quiet, devout woman with peppered hair and a mischievous half-grin. Patty, if Aileen remembered correctly. Patty stopped at an aisle end cap and answered her phone.

"She's here…" Patty whispered, checking her signal in the back of the cement building. "I know, can you believe the nerve?"

Aileen rounded the corner and glared into Patty's eyes. Aileen had the nerve? No, Patty had the nerve, and it crumbled to the floor when their eyes met. It was abhorrent and gutsy to talk about someone when they could hear you. The least Patty could have done was gossip about Aileen, her father, and what traits Aileen may have inherited when she didn't risk learning the hard way. 

Aileen snatched the phone from Patty's hand and smashed it on the tile floor. "Do you have something to say to me?"

Patty fervently shook her head and gulped, dropping the peppermint candies at her feet. "No. I was just talking to my daughter."

Aileen looked over Patty's trembling frame. "Does she still work at the flower shop?" 

Patty gave a single nod–an answer but only barely. Outbursts didn't happen in this quiet town. People mumbled under their breath and continued with their day, letting the words ruin their next 12 hours, but not since Aileen came home.

Aileen shoved her empty cart into the front wall. The metal clashed and rattled behind her as she stampeded across the street. She shoved her hands into her front jean pockets as the screen door slapped closed behind her. She paced the room, over wilted petals and a pollen-dusted floor.

"Gloria." Aileen stated. Gloria paused, her friendly smile fading from her face when she finally made eye contact across the counter. "Is there something you need to tell me about my father? I hear you know all the latest chatter."

Gloria shook her head. Everyone gossiped, but no one liked to own up to it–especially when the root of their entertainment called them out. If the small-town folk, with their small-town lies, were going to tarnish Aileen's favorite person in the world, she was going to have a say. 

There was a time long ago when her father fed the homeless man on the street corner and offered him a place to stay on Christmas Eve, when he nursed abandoned kittens back to health, and mowed the neighbor's yard after she broke her foot. And there was a time not so long ago when he welcomed Aileen home with open arms after a slew of mistakes–seven to be precise–and loved her just the same. If there was one thing Aileen cared about more than anything, it was her father. If there had to be a second, it had to be the truth.

"Liar!" Aileen flung her arms about her, knocking potted plants from their stands and sending dirt through the air. "I'm tired of everyone in this town thinking they know me and mine."

"You're crazy!" Gloria yelled, fumbling for her phone and jabbing her fingers onto the numbers and missing her target.

"No, darling. Not crazy. Just fed up." Aileen brushed the dirt from her hands. If she could wash away the guilt, then maybe the dirt wouldn't bother her, but the damp soil clung to her palm lines and dried under her nails like a stain. "Where did a wholesome girl like you ever hear such a lie?"

Gloria gulped. "Mr. Wylde–at the bank. Leave before I call the police."

Aileen nodded and slammed the rickety wood door behind her. She leaned against the large bay window, the wall of plants shielding her from yet another person she was going to have to avoid. She breathed in a deep breath of roses and damp dirt, blowing it out into the July sunshine before her. 

Aileen rounded the block. Her stride to the bank was slow, but her long legs made up for her pace. She liked Jim Wylde, having grown up with him and ridden the same bus home with him through middle school. He was kind and jubilant. Aileen didn't want to believe he'd take part in something so cruel as to accuse her father of something she knew he didn't do and destroy a reputation.

Aileen fixed her streaked, white blouse. Her hands were finally free of dirt, if only by wiping it down the front of herself for the world to see. It was probably ruined, but at least her hands felt free. She flung the door open and walked through the cold, air-conditioned foyer. She pulled her wallet from her back pocket, shuffling through the compartments for her license and stopping at the far counter for a withdrawal slip.

"Aileen! How are you on this fine, summer day?" Jim Wylde was a lanky man who insisted on a tie every day–even with khaki shorts.

"Jim…" Aileen started, "not too well, I'm afraid."

Jim's boisterous and empty frown crawled under Aileen's skin. "Shoot," he cawed, "why's that?"

“Well, Jim," Aileen sighed and leaned against the counter across from where he stood. She slid her I.D. to him and pressed her fingers into the plastic to pin it, and Jim, in place. "I just had a rather unfortunate interaction regarding my father, and I hear you're to blame."

"What?" he nervously chuckled. "I make a point not to cause waves, Aileen. You know that."

"True, but you still enjoy the water." Aileen waited while Jim's guilty conscience got the best of him. "You just need to tell me who caused the ripple."

"Reverend Robbins," he blurted. "I'm sorry. I know it's not true…what they say about you and your dad. Your father is…was a nice man."

Aileen shook her head and pinched the bridge of her nose. Between pretending her father wasn't here at all or pretending he was a murderer, Aileen couldn't bring herself to pick which she detested more. She swiped her license and a 50 dollar bill from the counter. "You should be careful so people don't start rumors about your loved ones."

Aileen stomped out of the bank, the sun beating down on her face as she choked down tears. Reverend Robbins married her parents, baptized Aileen when she was new to the world, and preached about love and forgiveness like the words were foreign. The reverend was a short, stout man with rosy cheeks and a contagious smile. But if she couldn't trust Reverend Robbins to hold her father in high regard, then who could she trust?

The world fell silent around Aileen as she stumbled across town. Her flats weren't made for the day's journey, but she had to keep going; she had to set the record straight, starting with Reverend Robbins.

Aileen huffed and plopped onto the church steps. She kicked her shoes off and let the hot concrete soothe her aching feet. Goosebumps trailed up her arms, slowly fading as her body adjusted to the relaxing burn. Then she grabbed her shoes in one hand and pulled the thick, red oak door open with the other.

Candles flickered behind the altar. She swept her fingers along the carvings of the oak pews and made her way to the confessional at the front. The door creaked as she slowly opened the box and sat inside, running her hands over the velvet seat in the darkness.

"Are you there?" Aileen sneered.

"Yes, child, how can I help you?" The reverend's voice was low and soothing, causing the rage to settle in Aileen's gut.

"Why would you play into their games?" Aileen's voice broke. "How could you lie about my father like that? You've known him since he was a boy."

"Your father came to the church with a secret he couldn't bear to live with any longer, and that's why he is where he is."

"Impossible. He would never tell," Aileen snapped. Loyal to a fault, and loving Aileen despite herself, she knew her father would never betray her. "He is not a murderer."

"I never said he was," the reverend let out a long sigh.

"If you didn't, then why does the town think he is?"

"I can't stop a man from praying anymore than I can stop the congregation from listening. He never confessed to me. He never prayed for help for his sins, only for help with yours."

Aileen's heart plummeted into her gut; she should've been relieved. He was not the murderer the town feared.

Out of all the secrets and all the people, she was supposed to feel safe with her father. He was her shoulder to lean on, her heartbeat, and her shield after all these years. Instead, the burden she placed on his chest seeped from his lips into a cry for help. Tears dropped onto her blouse and Aileen burst from the confessional. Her feet carried her across town again, sliced by rocks and debris until they bled. 

"Where is my father?" Aileen plowed into the hospital waiting room. Sweat dripped down her back and mixed with streaks of dust and dirt until her blouse turned a muddy gray. The receptionist reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder. Aileen grabbed it and squeezed. "Take me to him."

"He's not awake from surgery yet," the young woman's voice shook. She rubbed her wrist when Aileen finally let go. "There was internal bleeding from the crash, and he can't walk. Your father is lucky to be alive."

Aileen bided her time. Seconds turned to minutes, into hours, pacing the doorway to the recovery wing until the young, naïve receptionist finished her second bottle of water. It all flooded back when Aileen walked into the room–all seven men staring up from the darkest of places, the dirt under her nails from the darkest of deeds, and no one to confide in except her father. The steady, quiet chirp of the machines let her know he was at peace–if only with the help of morphine. Her father lay eerily still in the bed, the miracle survivor held together by casts and medical tape after veering off a bridge and onto the highway below.

"Dad," Aileen whispered. Her chest ached in an unfamiliar way. "Everyone knows because of you."

His eyes fluttered open. "My Lenny," he rasped. "I love you, but I can’t live with your secret."

Tears streamed down her cheeks and onto his cast. She nodded, sniffling back the pain. She couldn't bring herself to hate him quite yet. Aileen pecked his bruised cheek. She fluffed the pillow behind his head, slipping it out from beneath him and over his face.

Number eight.

"I love you too," she muttered, pressing the pillow taut against his head until he stopped squirming. He didn’t have to live with her secret anymore.