The Long and Faraway Gone

by Lou Berney

That was Wyatt’s philosophy when it came to the past: Stay out of it. By doing so he had lived a happy life. A life undrowned, unbroken on the rocks, unswept toward an empty horizon.

The past had power. The past was a riptide. That’s why, if you had a brain in your head, you didn’t go in the water.

When faced with two evils, choose the more interesting one. Genevieve claimed it was from Aristotle. Or Shakespeare. Her story shifted. Years later Julianna searched for the quote and discovered that its source was the dissolute Scottish aristocrat who founded the Dewars whiskey empire.

“Sometimes,” he said after they sat there in silence for a while, “life doesn’t make sense. You understand that?”

On the other hand, though, in Wyatt’s experience as both a newspaper reporter and then a private investigator, he’d found that real life was often much simpler than the twisty-turny plots you saw on television. A lot of times, the bad guy was exactly who you thought the bad guy was.

One of Wyatt’s favorite quotes from college was from Flannery O’Connor. She said, or at least this is how Wyatt remembered it, that the writer should never be ashamed of staring—that there is nothing that does not require the writer’s attention. Or the detective’s. So he stared.

Wyatt thought it was probably the only useful advice his father had ever given him: Don’t just watch the ball. The real game happens on the edges.

don’t think you understand, Mr. Rivers,” the doctor said. She explained that a Good Samaritan with military training had known to seal the knife wound in Wyatt’s chest with the edge of a credit card. He’d probably saved Wyatt’s life. A credit card, Wyatt thought. Crazy. But that was life for you, full of surprises. It never got old.