The Mapping of Love and Death

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Michael Clifton stood on a hill burnished gold in the summer sun and, hands on hips, closed his eyes. The landscape before him had been scored into his mind's eye, and an onlooker might have noticed his chin move as he traced the pitch and curve of the hills, the lines of the valley, places where water ran in winter, gullies where the ground underfoot might become soft and rises where the rock would never yield to a pick. Michael could see only colored lines now, with swirls and circles close together where the peaks rose, and broad sweeps of fine ink where foothills gave way to flat land. Yes, this was the place. He had wired his mother a month earlier, asking her to cosign a document releasing the funds held in trust for him from his maternal grandfather's will. Each of the Clifton offspring had received a tidy sum. His two sisters had set money aside for their own children and together had indulged in a little investing in land, while his older brother had rolled the bequest into an impressive property. Now it was his turn and, following the example set by his siblings, he had taken his father's advice to heart: "Land is where to put your money. And if it's good land, you'll get your money back time and time again." Edward Clifton would be pleased when he saw the maps, would slap him on the back. Well done, son. Well done. Didn't I always say you had the nose? Didn't I, Martha? Didn't I, Teddy? And his brother would shake his hand, perhaps add a friendly punch to the shoulder. Good for you, little brother. And there would be no rancor, no slight because he had acted alone, only familial joy because he had succeeded.

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