#10: I Have Scaled These City Walls, Only To Be With You

[00:00:30] Speaker A: Andy Crawford pulled into the lot of the Hickory Bend Police Department in A bright red 92 Chevy Camaro, the kind of car that growled when it idled, like it had something to prove. American muscle, chrome sheen. Too masculine for the man behind the wheel, but just right for the image he needed to wear like armor. The kind of image that shut down questions before they started. He killed the engine and sat for a moment, listening to the ticking of the hot metal cooling under the hood. The sun was still low, brushing the rooftops of neighboring buildings in gold. The sky over Hickory Bend was that strange kind of peach gray, like it hadn't decided yet whether to be morning or night. He glanced at the dash clock. A few minutes before nine, the red digital numbers blinked with quiet judgment. He was late. Not that it mattered. Rusty already knew. The sheriff didn't ask questions when Andy disappeared for a night or two, didn't press when he came back with shadows under his eyes and the smell of cigarettes in his clothes just gave him that look, maybe half knowing, maybe maybe half not officially. He was still in transition. That's what he told folks. Still tying up loose ends in Colombia, he'd say, rubbing the back of his neck, pretending it was about boxes and leases and bank accounts, pretending like the move from city to small town was logistical, not spiritual, like the distance between who he was there and who he had to be here could be crossed in miles. But the truth was simpler, uglier, more dangerous in a place like Hickory Bend. There he had an itch to scratch. Here he was professional. He shifted in the driver's seat. The leather squeaked softly beneath his uniform, but underneath it all, under the crisp navy and silver trim, was pink lace underwear, soft and pale. The whisper of it against his skin was the only honest thing he was wearing. In the passenger seat, half tucked under a police report clipboard, was a worn dog eared issue of the People's Voice, a slim magazine printed on the cheap, born of Xerox machines and basement meetings passed hand to hand in secret. It was the voice of Columbia's underground, the boys who knew the alleys behind clubs, the lovers whose names were never spoken aloud, the lives lived between glances and locked doors. The back pages were personal ads, scrawled hearts in coded language. A few were circled in blue ink, ads that spoke of moonlit walks, of quiet men seeking other quiet men, discreet, curious. No strings, just honesty. The night before he'd gone back to Columbia, said he had to return a set of keys, sign something at his old precinct, maybe see his cousin. The Lies came easy. They always had. In truth. He'd parked a few blocks from Gervais street and walked down a narrow alley lit only by a buzzing neon open sign. The bar didn't have a name, not a real one, just a door and a red bulb that stayed lit all night. Inside, it smelled like loneliness. He didn't speak to anyone for a while, just nursed a drink, watched the faces, waited to feel wanted. And someone had wanted him, Someone other than Kevin. But it didn't matter, not really. Kevin knew. He always knew, knew before Andy ever spoke a word about his latest conquest, before the sheets cooled, before the drive back into Hickory Bend. Kevin had a sixth sense for those kinds of things. Quiet, sudden departures, private phone conversations, unfamiliar scents clinging to the hem of Andy's shirt when he came home late at night. And Kevin didn't care, not in the way lovers were supposed to care. Not anymore. Kevin had his arm candy now, a younger guy who always had a smile on his face. Kevin had looked older now, softer around the eyes. His hair was more gray than silver now, and his walk carried a limp that hadn't been there a few years back. Still, Kevin would give him that look, that slow, knowing nod. Not jealousy, not regret. Permission. Kevin's body wasn't what it used to be, he said it himself. My sex drive's going the way of the cassette tape, he joked once. I've made my peace with it. He wanted Andy to burn out beautifully, to dance through the last of his youth with people who could still keep pace, men who could take him hard and leave no bruises. I just want you to live it before it's gone, kevin had told him once, lying in bed with the TV flickering shadows across his bare chest. Don't wait for someone like me to keep up. So Andy didn't wait. He found it when he needed it. Connection. Hunger. Release. But none of it stuck. None of them lingered. The faces blurred together after a while, men with cigarette breath and wandering hands, bodies without names, hands without consequence, moments that existed only in the hush between songs, in the pause before someone reached for the light. Then it was over. Always Kevin would call him. Some nights when he was away, when the silence in the condo he hadn't yet sold got too loud, or the boy with the soft skin and empty laugh had gone home early, the line would crackle as if weighed down by ghosts. How's Columbia? Kevin would ask. Andy never lied, but he didn't spell it out either. He didn't say, I was at that place off assembly street where the Bartenders don't ask questions. I let a stranger take me by the hand and push me against a wall while a Prince song played in the distance. He didn't say, I closed my eyes and pretended it was you, just for a second, until the guy whispered something that snapped me out of it. He didn't say anything like that. He'd just murmur, same as always, and Kevin would hum knowingly on the other end, as if that was enough. And maybe it was. There was something unspoken between them, always had been. Some people called it understanding. Others would have called it resignation. Andy never knew the difference. Sometimes, after the calls, he'd sit with the phone still warm in his hand, resting in his lap, and let the silence settle over him like ash, thin, weightless, impossible to sweep away. He'd picture Kevin in their humble little country home, the one tucked just past the trees where the road lost its name. Kevin barefoot in the kitchen, stirring a pot of something expensive with lazy care, one hand on the spoon, the other cradling a glass of wine. The stereo in the next room would hum some old jazz record, muted horns, brushed drums, the kind of music that filled the corners of a house without trying. It was a life built in hushes, Comfortable, quiet, hidden. [00:08:11] Speaker B: They told everyone in Hickory Bend that he was just staying there for a while, just until he found a place of his own. Folks accepted that, nodded. Sheriff Hollis didn't press, and the other officers, if they suspected anything, kept their mouths shut. Maybe they believed the story, maybe they didn't. Maybe they simply didn't care. Or maybe they cared too much and chose silence instead. But Andy knew the rhythm of small towns, the way gossip lived in the spaces between hello and goodbye, the way eyes lingered a little too long at the gas station or over a second cup of coffee at the diner. At some point someone would start asking questions, or worse, someone wouldn't. Still, he hoped. Hope they'd keep pretending not to see. Hope that as long as he kept wearing the uniform, driving the Camaro, showing up on time with his jaw set and his voice low, people would leave well enough alone. Because what he had with Kevin wasn't built for sunlight. It lived in the blue hours, in the spaces between phone calls and meals cooked for two that were never eaten in public. Maybe it wasn't love exactly, but it was close, closer than most people ever got, and that had to be enough for now. He sighed, long and slow and glanced up at the entrance of the station. It looked back at him, unmoved and unchanging, a squat brick relic of A town that didn't care who you were as long as you played the part. And that's all Hickory Ben really asked of anyone. Play the part? He straightened his uniform in the rearview mirror, adjusted his collar. Six foot two, arms like cinder blocks, a chest that could crack walnuts. Sheriff Hollis liked having him around, said he made the department look good, said the townsfolk, respected a man who looked like he could break a neck if needed. Andy gave a tight smile to no one in particular, stepped out into the cooling air, and shut the Camaro's door with a heavy thunk. The lace still kissed his skin as he walked across the parking lot, the wind catching the edge of his private magazine and fluttering it open just enough. [00:10:32] Speaker A: To show a glimpse of a headline. [00:10:34] Speaker B: YOU ARE NOT alone. As he stumbled toward the building, legs unsure, like he hadn't consulted them first, he began to wonder why he was even here. Not in the existential sense, though that too, but literally, why here, this town, this version of reality where everything was too quiet? It hadn't been his idea, not even close. This was all Kevin's doing. Kevin, with his big dumb dreams of. [00:11:06] Speaker A: A simpler life like that, was a. [00:11:08] Speaker B: Thing you could just order from a catalog. [00:11:11] Speaker A: He liked the city, the buzz, the. [00:11:14] Speaker B: Bustle, the way you could scream into the night and no one noticed because someone else was already screaming louder from two blocks away. He liked hearing sirens and wondering if they were meant for him, but Kevin hated all that. Kevin grew up here, Hickory Bend, the kind of place where you still wave at people you don't like because it's what your mother would have wanted. Kevin was a country boy, through and through, fished down by the river and cooked up whatever unlucky creature bit the hook that day. Catfish, maybe, rusty ones with whiskers like old men. Probably even fried them like everything else around here. As for Andy, well, he grew up in a different kind of noise. Stickball in the side streets of a clogged artery of a city, concrete that steamed in summer, honking horns and yelling uncles. They'd pause the game every time a Buick or a bread truck came barreling down the road, which was often. You didn't keep score so much as keep your head down. The idea of peace and quiet made his skin itch. And now here he was, tripping over crabgrass and loose gravel, the building looming in front of him like it had been waiting. He wiped his hands on his pants, looked up, and muttered, well, Kevin, hope you're happy. Somewhere a crow cawed like it was laughing. At last Andy stepped inside to instantly be greeted by Jennifer Hale, the tapes of the Price is Right reruns playing in the lobby just like they had every morning. Crawford. Jennifer exhaled, his name falling from her lips like smoke. It was tight, tense, a little too heavy for her usual Sing Song cheer. There was a pause, just long enough to register the shift. The light in the room didn't change, but something in the air did, Thicker still. Something happened. Andy didn't flinch. [00:13:21] Speaker A: He didn't have to. He'd already seen it in her eyes, wide and glassy, darting like a deer's. [00:13:27] Speaker B: Just before the gunshot. [00:13:29] Speaker A: Jennifer Hale, the front desk secretary who wore pastels like armor and had a drawer full of peppermint gum, wasn't easily rattled. She fielded gossip and petty complaints with the kind of warmth that made people forget why they were angry in the first place. But this wasn't that. This wasn't kids lighting off fireworks by the reservoir, or someone's ex husband getting drunk and yelling at shadows. This wasn't an old lady's missing cat or a prank call to the tip line about UFOs over Route 9. This was something else. Bigger, heavier. The way her hands clutched the edge of the desk, the way her voice landed flat instead of floating. It all told him that whatever she was about to say didn't belong in Hickory Bend. At least not the Hickory Bend people like to pretend it was. He stepped closer slowly. The quiet hum of the overhead lights buzzed like a distant wasp nest. You're shaking, he said, almost gently. She blinked hard, straightened herself. [00:14:33] Speaker B: I'm not. [00:14:34] Speaker A: She started, then stopped, took a breath. It's Beau Harley. He. Another pause. This one didn't feel like hesitation. It felt like grief, trying to choose the right words. Andy felt something cold roll through him. Not fear, exactly. Something quieter, unknowing. Jennifer looked up at him with eyes that had already seen too much for one morning. He found something by the Foxfire River. The name Bo Harley meant nothing to him, just a couple of syllables strung together, drifting in the air like wood smoke. No, wait. No face. Not yet. But the way Jennifer said it, low and careful, like it might break something. [00:15:20] Speaker B: Made the hairs on the back of. [00:15:21] Speaker A: His neck stand up. Still, he played it calm, cool. That was the trick in Hickory Bend. You didn't meet panic with panic. You waited. You let the quiet do the talking. Something, he repeated, the word dry in his mouth. Not a question, not really. Just an echo. A space filler. Something to draw her out. Jennifer nodded slowly, lips pressed into a pale, uncertain line. They found someone, she said. A man by the river. Said he was. Her voice dropped, cracked just slightly. Said he was dead. The silence that followed wasn't empty. It was full of the town, of the trees swaying just a little too still, of secrets that had been asleep until now. Andy felt it all settle into his chest like a stone. Heavy, cold. A man dead by the river. Names that didn't register were the ones who found him. The day had barely begun and already it had changed shape. Where's Rusty? Andy asked, though his voice came out thinner than he expected. He's out there now, checking things out. Jennifer's words hung there, unsure of where to land. He paused. Maybe he trembled. Maybe he didn't. It was hard to tell. Beneath the uniform, the only thing he was certain of was the delicate press of lace against his skin, hidden beneath the starch and structure of his slacks, a whisper of softness in a world that demanded he stay hard. It grounded him barely just enough to keep the cracks from showing. He swallowed hard, jaw working like he was grinding invisible gears into place. Well, he said with a crooked half smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. Finally, something interesting happening around here. It was his brand of humor, dry off kilter, the kind of thing he told himself was charming, though no one. [00:17:26] Speaker B: Ever confirmed it out loud. [00:17:28] Speaker A: Jennifer didn't laugh, didn't smile, didn't even blink. She just looked at him, tilted her head ever so slightly, lips parted, eyebrows gently pinched together as if he'd just spoken in backwards Latin or confessed to eating dryer lint like he'd said the most senseless, tone deaf thing imaginable. The silence stretched. If her eyes had volume, they'd be screaming too soon, he offered weakly, tapping his fingers against his belt like he was Morse coding his own escape route. Still nothing. Only the hum of the overhead light above them, flickering like it couldn't decide whether to stay in this reality or bail completely. Somewhere distantly, just outside, a dog was barking, then stopped it. It's.