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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Published by Greenleaf Book Group Press

  Austin, Texas

  www.gbgpress.com

  Copyright ©2013 Trubelo Inc.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the copyright holder.

  Distributed by Greenleaf Book Group LLC

  For ordering information or special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Greenleaf Book Group LLC at PO Box 91869, Austin, TX 78709, 512.891.6100.

  Design, cover design, and composition by Greenleaf Book Group LLC

  Cover image: ©iStockphoto.com/Ron Bergeron

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-62634-005-3

  Ebook Edition

  For all the people who wanted more and went searching for it.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I would like to acknowledge the following people, without whom this book would not have been possible.

  My parents, Mary and Jeff Wadsworth; sister, Trisha Eblin; grandparents, Elaine and Leroy Maillard; and all the family on the Wadsworth and Maillard sides. Your love and support have given me the confidence to create and share this story.

  My dad, Gene Cooper. Your unwavering belief and sage advice have provided the strength and guidance to trust my instincts and follow my dreams.

  The Hubans family—Bill Sr., Cheryl, Billy, and Mike. Over the years you welcomed me as a member of the family and provided a haven of love and laughter.

  My longtime friend and accomplished musician, Bob Gatewood (www.bobgatewood.com). Your song “Friends of the Bay” provided inspiration for this story and your friendship has guided my path to becoming an artist.

  Singer, songwriter, comedian, and barroom philosopher, Mike “Mad Dog” Adams (www.mikemaddogadams.com). Thank you for allowing your persona to appear in this story and for being so unique that I didn’t have to embellish.

  My longtime friend and artist, Terence Galvin (GalvinismArtwork). Your influence is woven within these words and pages.

  The residents and workers of Put-in-Bay and South Bass Island. Thank you for opening up this special place to me.

  My teacher, coach, and friend, Gregg Hedden. Your motivation and inspiration showed me how to not only dream big but also how to put in the work required to achieve my aspirations.

  My friends in Norway. Thank you for giving me a home for five years and the perspective to see beyond my American lens.

  My editors over the years, who helped bring the manuscript to its current form: Rebecca Heyman (Rebecca Faith Editorial), Laura Garwood Meehan (laurameehan.com), and Jeanne Thornton (www.fictioncircus.com/Jeanne).

  My publicist, Tyson Cornell, and his team at Rare Bird Lit (www.rarebirdlit.com). Thank you for your energy and professionalism in tirelessly promoting this book.

  The team at Greenleaf Book Group. Thank you for your passion and belief in publishing this book.

  All my friends over the years who listened to my ramblings and shared their experiences: Jim Horst, Jason Merhaut, Steve Scalf, Brad Richardson, Hayden Gill, Heather Harvey, Charlie Hilse, Luke Szabo, Sharon Thibodeau, Leslie Lynch, Guy Finkman, John Spearry, Tom Bachleda, Huck Johns, Matt Haynes, Eirik Andersen, Jay and Susan Moore, Chuck Badnarik, Steve Krampf and the rest of the crew at Beau Brummel, Mellanie Lay, Tammy Zirke, the Alavian family, and many, many, more.

  CHAPTER ONE

  I NEVER GET USED TO THE FACES–WIDE-EYED AND FULL OF POSSIBILITY–STARING BACK AT ME. All I try to do is weather the uncertainty between when I stop talking and they start acting.

  “Any questions?” No hands rise. Just eyes swallowing faces. Are the thoughtful looks eager anticipation or utter confusion? I scan the class one final time. “So everyone knows what to do then? Good. Let’s begin.”

  On my direction, the energy level in the classroom spikes. The achievers battle for control; the slackers resist joining their assigned groups. Most of all, the Mr. Shepherding begins.

  “Mr. Shepherd, can I work alone?”

  “Mr. Shepherd, so-and-so won’t join the group.”

  “Mr. Shepherd, can I use the bathroom?”

  Sometimes I wonder why I even bother with group activities. It’s so much easier to just stand in front of the class, teach the lesson, assign the work, and assume everyone understands. But every time as the chaos subsides and the students engage, I watch their heads move toward the center, bodies prop up on their elbows, and butts lift toward the ceiling, knowing more learning is taking place than any lecture I could give.

  “Mr. Shepherd! Mr. Shepherd!” Willow’s tone pierces the clamor of the activity now in full swing. Immediate silence follows. It’s obvious this is not the usual request for attention or attempt to avoid work. All movement ceases except for Team 3 by the windows. Each of the students, except for one—Barry Christenson—rise and drift backward from their conjoined desks.

  Barry has been pestering me all period for a hall pass, first to his locker, then to the restroom, and only moments before to the nurse’s office. He now slinks in his chair, head back with eyes closed and mouth open, arms languidly at his side.

  I rush over. He’s not breathing. I enlist the help of the student who called me over. “Willow, go get the nurse.”

  She just stands and stares, the weight of the moment stretching her face toward the floor.

  I motion at the door to break her trance. “Willow, you have to go to the office and get the nurse.” I turn to another girl in her group. “Penny, go with her.”

  Penny grabs Willow’s hand and pulls her toward the door.

  I open a window. “Everyone just step back and give him some air.” I put my fingers on his exposed neck. A faint pulse flutters.

  “Come on,” I say to another student standing close by. “Let’s get him out of that desk.” We lift Barry and recline him on the floor. I lower my ear to his mouth. His breath sputters. I drop my ear to his chest, his pulse still fluttering. I pat his cheek. “Barry? Can you hear me?”

  His body convulses. I jerk backward. Several students scream. Barry stills. We all wait for another movement. Nothing. I shake him by the shoulders. “Come on, Barry. Fight!”

  His eyelids tremble.

  I say, “That’s it. Don’t give up.”

  The quivering steadies. His eyes pop open.

  A collective gasp shutters through the students. I lean over Barry. His eyes penetrate, pleading for help. Tears stream. I cradle his jaw. His gaze deepens, holds, then travels through me. I move my face closer. His stare withers. I shake him again. “No, no, no. Come on.”

  His body heaves, sucking a deep breath, then nothing. My fingers scour his neck for a pulse. Nothing. I grab his wrist. Nothing. The nurse and a guidance counselor rush in and administer CPR. Nothing. Paramedics arrive and escalate the treatment. Nothing.

  All I can do is watch—every thrust, every breath, every injection—pleading to see some reaction. But there’s nothing: just a fourteen-year-old body occupying the space life used to fill.

  The gray sky reflects across Lake Erie and mirrors my inside. Swells rise and attack the shore. Almost there.

  “Just me and the car,” I say.

  The lady in the ticket booth looks me up and down. “Thirty dollars, please.”

  I point to the price list. “Isn’t it only fifteen?”

  “Not for a round trip.”

  “I’m not coming back—at least not anytime soon.”


  After twenty-eight years, my ticket to freedom costs only fifteen dollars. Why didn’t I leave sooner?

  I park the car at the end of the load line and get out. Although only the middle of May, the thick air signals that a humid day is ahead. I stretch and work out some of the kinks from the nine-hour drive from St. Louis. The temperate asphalt soothes my bare feet. I’m not sure why I decided to drive all night. No one is expecting me until tomorrow. But after another argument with my parents about why I was leaving, I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. I waved good-bye to the Gateway Arch one final time, made a stop in Effingham, Illinois, to take a piss and refresh my coffee, then powered through to Ohio to make the first boat to South Bass Island.

  I walk toward the front of the line. The waves pound the armor stone on the sides of the pier. Passengers gather under the shelter house. Regulars focus on reading materials in their laps; tourists stand and gawk at the ferry plowing toward the mainland. All just waiting for the docking to reanimate them.

  Inside a minivan a teenager, half-asleep, stares through me as I pass. I search for a distinctive detail in the face, one that will distinguish it from the faces of the students I am leaving behind.

  Don’t get me wrong. I never wanted to leave. But what choice did I have? The school district sold me out.

  I knew something was up when Principal Raines stopped by my classroom while I was working late grading papers a week after the incident. She put her briefcase on an empty desk chair, removed her coat, folded it in half, and placed it on top. “Grading papers is one part of the job I don’t miss,” she said.

  I looked up from the stack of papers. She never just popped by without a reason. “A necessary evil,” I said. I glanced at the clock. “You’re here late. What brings you by?”

  She hesitated for a moment then got right to the point. “Have you talked to your union rep?”

  I got up and walked to the board to erase the notes from the day. “Do I need to?”

  She sat in a desk in the back row. “Things are starting to get ugly.”

  “Starting to? Seems like we began with ugly.”

  “The parents have lawyered up and are threatening to sue.” Her hand tapped on the desk while she talked, the sound of her ring against the surface emphasizing her points.

  I put the eraser in the tray and spun around. “For what? It was the mother’s oxys that he OD’d on.”

  “They’re claiming negligence,” she said. “Saying Barry asked for help several times and you refused.”

  “Come on. You know that’s a bunch of BS. If we gave passes to every student who asked to go to the restroom or the nurse, we’d never get anything done.”

  She rose from the desk. “Be that as it may, the district thinks it best if you go on administrative leave.”

  I thought I might’ve heard her wrong. After all, it was his mother’s pills. How could they blame me? I said, “Wait, you’re suspending me?”

  She tried to soften the impact. “Not a suspension. We’re hoping it’s a voluntary, paid leave.”

  I felt the blood drain from my face. Lightheaded, I eased down into my desk chair. “For how long?”

  She said, “Until this whole thing is resolved.”

  “Excuse me for actually trying to teach.”

  “You know teaching is the last thing we get to do around here.” She walked toward me. “I understand this is upsetting. But we think it’s best for all parties.”

  “What if I refuse?”

  Her tone became formal. “We hope it doesn’t come to that. After what happened, you are entitled to a leave of absence. We would like to see you take that time.”

  My disbelief gave way to anger. “Like you really care about my well-being. You need a scapegoat and want to blame the young guy.”

  “I’m sorry you see it that way.” She collected her coat and briefcase. “We should probably set up a meeting with your union rep to discuss the options in a more official capacity.”

  And that was that. After busting my ass for five years, the school district cut me loose. I was just a pawn in the mitigation of the lawsuit.

  Maaaahmp. The horn signals the ferry is in its final approach. From his perch high above the deck, the captain uses the waves and wind in conjunction with the engine to rock the boat into position.

  The boat is twelve feet from the dock. A deck hand flings a rope toward a large cleat on land. The toss looks as if it’ll be long, and a worker on the dock swoops in to collect the errant throw, but the back end of the loop catches the gray metallic hook.

  Holding his hands eighteen inches apart above his head, the worker signals the distance from the dock. He brings his hands together as the boat moves closer: ten inches, six inches, three inches, closed. The other crew members fasten the lines and lower the ramp.

  A faded maroon Taurus is the first car to drive off. Ja-jink—the ramp absorbs the weight of the car and bounces on the dock.

  After four cars, twenty people follow on foot. Some appear eager for their tasks on the mainland; others look lucky to escape the island, appearing to have been stranded for days: unshaven, clothes wrinkled, taking one step sideways for every two steps forward.

  I return to my car and follow the line. A crewman on the pier straight from the pages of a Lands’ End catalog takes my ticket and directs me onto the boat. His name, Robin, is visible on the right breast of his Miller Ferry polo shirt.

  Ja-jink. My car echoes the others as I climb the ramp.

  A raisin-faced crewman orchestrates the maneuvers on deck. Following his signals, I ease my car forward. He brings my car within inches of the one in front. Lowering his hand, he taps the hood of my car. “Put your car in park. Set your brake, please.”

  Car by car, I watch the crewman fill the ship to my right and left. He’s got some serious skills. The size and number of pieces may change voyage to voyage, but the goal of maximizing the deck space remains the same. During busy times, being able to fit an extra car on the boat is only fifteen dollars for the boat line, but priceless for the patron. It gets the lucky recipient an extra half hour on the island.

  Visible in my rearview mirror, the car behind me creeps forward. I wait for a bump, but instead I hear, “Put your car in park. Set your brake, please.”

  The ferry shifts, accommodating the weight of the next vehicle. The familiar symbol and letters M-I-L-L-E-R L-I-T-E are emblazoned along its side. The delivery trucks have priority, especially the ones delivering beer. If the beer isn’t flowing, the cash registers aren’t ringing, and as in any tourist area, the quicker the visitors spend their money, the quicker they go home. They may not be respected, but their dollars are always accepted. Locals’ hearts may say, “Fuck off,” but their faces smile and say, “Thank you, come again.”

  Two more cars drive on, then a flock of people rounds the building. Barely noticeable except for their excited chatter, the added weight of fifty-some people doesn’t rock the boat in the slightest.

  I open the door and squeeze through the narrow opening between my car and the next. The ferry is full, but I find some open space along the front of the boat. The three miles of Lake Erie between me and the island now radiate a greenish hue, resembling a rolling pasture. A solitary tower pokes above the tree line on the east side of the island.

  “Perry’s Monument,” Robin says as he coils a rope nearby, his sandy hair flapping across the Ray Bans welded to his tan, angular face. “The third tallest national monument.”

  “Cool,” I say. “I’m moving from the home of the tallest to the third tallest.”

  “Coming from St. Louis, eh? You know the second tallest?”

  “Washington Monument.” I extend my hand. “Pleased to meet you, Robin. I’m Brad Shepherd.”

  Robin appears confused, then tugs on his breast pocket. “Oh, yeah. Sometimes I’ll kill myself trying to think how someone knows my name, then I remember it’s on my shirt.”

  “That’s happened to me at conferences.”

/>   “What do you do?”

  “I was a teacher. Five years of junior high math. Guess you could say I’m retired.”

  He shakes his head. “Whoa, I hated math. My teacher was the worst.”

  I laugh. “My students probably say the same thing.”

  “Why’d you quit?”

  “Cutbacks. They offered a package and asked for volunteers, so I held my hand up. Gotta be more to life than going to work day after day.” It’s not totally a lie. I could’ve refused the offer and fought for my job. But even my attorney recommended I take the deal since I wasn’t tenured. If I fought and lost, it would be in my permanent employment record. Leaving quietly allowed me to retain the positive recommendations I had earned and at least offered the opportunity for another job. I turn away from Robin, toward the island. “What’s the monument for, anyway?”

  Robin delivers a speech that sounds well rehearsed. “There was a crucial naval battle fought in the War of 1812 off the shore of South Bass Island, during which Oliver Hazzard Perry left his damaged ship and moved to one of the other boats. From there he defeated the British, sending the famous message to American headquarters: ‘We have met the enemy and they are ours—two ships, two brigs, one schooner, one sloop.’ The victory secured the north shore for the American forces, and peace between Canada, Great Britain, and the US has ensued ever since.”

  “I wasn’t aware of the history,” I say.

  “There’s more to the island than a hangover, but most never get past the drinks.” The ferry horn sounds. “Well, I’d better get ready to dock. Nice to meet you, Brad. I’m sure I’ll see you around. South Bass is a small place. Couldn’t hide if you wanted to.”

  “Call me Shep.”

  The crew moves just as they had on the mainland, but now the positions are reversed. The front of the boat becomes the back, and in order for cars to drive straight off, the captain backs the ferry into the dock. As the boat approaches, Robin launches the rope into the air. Unfortunately he is not as lucky as the crewman on the mainland, and the rope misses the mark.