Page 60 of The Formation of Us

Gliding through the water in a boat was a feeling Adam had never experienced, and he wanted to go faster, to race across the water like the wind. Trees that were perfect for climbing lined the shale and earth banks. A white, hairy dog stood with his front paws in the water, long, pink tongue lapping noisily from the creek. From the boat, everything along the banks seemed to tower above him.

The sheriff lifted his left oar and angled it toward shore. “There’s the greenhouse,” he said.

Adam viewed it from the back, seeing the little stone addition tucked against the huge white plank building. Faith was hanging laundry in the side yard, but from Adam’s position on the water, she looked like she was on a stage.

“Faith!” Adam shouted, waving his hand. He wanted her to see him in the boat. “Down here,” he said, rising up so she could see him. The boat rocked up on one side, and he gripped the edge, his heart thundering from nearly flying overboard.

The sheriff grabbed his arm and pulled him back to the bench seat he’d been sitting on. “The first lesson is to never stand up in a boat.”

“Sorry, sir.”

The sheriff laughed. “You would have been more sorry if you had fallen in that water. It’s cold.”

“It’s July.”

“The water’s not warm enough for me until August.” He nodded toward shore. “Your sister has spotted us.”

She had, and Faith was smiling. Adam waved, feeling proud.

When she curtsied to them, the sheriff laughed.

Adam knew Faith liked the sheriff, and that she would probably marry him if he asked her, but he didn’t care about that today. He wanted to get his hands on the oars and row the boat. They followed the creek through Fredonia, hearing talking and shouting and carriages rattling along the rutted roads. A mile out of the village, water dragons and horseflies buzzed along the banks. Birds chirped, and a woodpecker hammered a tree high above his head.

The sheriff grimaced and paused to rub his shoulder. “I could use a rest,” he said. “Think you could row for a bit?”

“Yes, sir!” Adam’s heart leapt as the sheriff pushed the oars into his hands. His first uneven stroke caused the boat to swing sideways. Sweat prickled beneath his shirt, but after a few awkward strokes, he got the boat heading north.

“Now, pull evenly with both oars,” the sheriff instructed.

It sounded easy, but Adam struggled to plunge in both oars at the same time and at the same depth. His left oar skimmed the surface and flung water across the sheriff’s face and shirt. The right oar sank deep and spun the boat sideways again. Adam waited for the sheriff to cuff him in the head for soaking him, but the man just laughed and wiped his face.

“I did the same thing to my dad the first time he let me row his boat.”

“REAlly?”

“REAlly,” the sheriff said, in a squawking imitation that made Adam laugh. He grinned. “It takes some practice to get a good, even pull with both oars.”

“I didn’t think it would be so hard,” Adam admitted, looking behind him occasionally so he wouldn’t paddle them into a bank.

“You’re doing fine, son.”

A strange warmth filled Adam’s chest. If the sheriff married Faith, he would be sort of like a father. Adam didn’t like the sheriff’s lectures, but it was nice having someone to show him how to frame in a room or row a boat.

“We’re about to enter Lake Erie,” the sheriff said.

Adam peered over his shoulder to see a vast blue-green lake of water. His stomach soared with excitement, then dove in terror. The lake was huge.

They didn’t go far from shore, but Adam rowed until sweat rolled down his back and his muscles burned. When the sheriff told him to stop, he almost sighed aloud.

Their boat drifted and bobbed on small waves while they ate delicious slabs of ham and thick slices of bread that the sheriff’s mother had packed in the wicker hamper. They shared a quart of water, then the sheriff baited the fishing hook with a fat nightcrawler. He cast the line three times to show Adam how to do it. But when Adam tried it, he failed miserably. The third time his distance was better, but he snagged the hook on the lake bottom and lost it.

The sheriff didn’t seem to care at all. He just repaired the line and handed the rod back.

Adam wouldn’t take it. “I’ll ruin it,” he said.

“Adam, I’ve lost more hooks than I can count. That’s part of fishing. The first time I tried casting, I threw my father’s best fishing rod right into the lake. Sank like an anchor. I dove in after it, but the water was too deep to retrieve the rod. That’s one reason I fish close to shore.”

“Is that true?”