By EDWYN CHOI
The buyer drove a black coupe. James had watched it grow from a tiny speck to a dark bullet cutting through the white earth. A blanket of falling snow followed the coupe. The land was flat with glistening ice stretching to the horizon, save for the tree farm and the road. James turned to his red pickup truck; his son was in the back seat, gently sleeping.
The crunch of ice and snow grew louder as the car drew closer. It stopped next to the fence marking the plot. The engine grumbled a little more and then grew quiet. The door clicked, and the buyer stepped out, briefcase in hand. He wore a black felt tip hat and a dark coat. It flapped in the wind, revealing more darkness underneath. He was skinny. The buyer was already mottled with specks of white snow. James stared at the buyer’s dress shoes.
“Don’t you have boots?”
The buyer stepped closer, taking care to make as little movement as possible. He shook his head.
“You can borrow one of my pairs,” James said. He looked at the buyer’s boney fingers firmly gripping his briefcase, which swung in the wind like a hung sign. “And some gloves.”
The buyer smiled. “There’s no need, Mr. Smith. I’m only here for a brief survey—”
James waved the buyer away. He headed for his pickup truck. “You’ll barely be 30 feet in before your feet and fingers start going numb.”
The buyer did not say anything.
After James brought a pair of boots and gloves from the trunk, the buyer sat in his coupe with the door open, facing the trees. James stood in front of him, his hands tucked in his jacket pocket. Ice was beginning to form on his beard. “Do they fit?”
“They fit very well, Mr. Smith. Thank you.”
“Is this your car?” James asked, placing his hand on the roof.
The buyer was struggling to pull one of the boots on. He looked up and frowned. “Please don’t touch anything. This is the company car.” James let his hand fall to his side. With the boot finally on, the buyer grabbed the other shoe. His foot slipped in without any difficulty.
“They couldn’t find you a better one?”
“I think they underestimated the weather, Mr. Smith,” the buyer answered.
“I told you all to come prepared.”
“Yes,” the buyer said, slipping James’ gloves on, “you did.”
***
James unlocked the gate. There was a small trail of footsteps. Evergreen trees lined the footsteps on either side: thick, cracked, and old. The buyer looked up at their peaks. His breath condensed in the air, a long fog shooting upward. They began walking.
“You said all this property is one acre, Mr. Smith?”
“Yes,” James answered. “There are at least 10 more trees behind each of the ones facing us.”
“Incredible,” the buyer answered, still looking up. If the plot of trees were a painting, he resembled a smear on the finished canvas, a sharp, dark smear. The wind was not blowing anymore. He felt a little warmer. “The only family property for miles all around. How do you figure that, Mr. Smith?”
“What will you do with all this land?” James asked, turning his head. The snow made a loud crunch under his feet.
“That is up to the company. But I suspect all of this will become farmland one day.”
“Farmland?” James said, bewildered. “You really think that? Farmland, in all of this tundra?”
“In the future, when we will all be gone.”
They were getting closer to the end of the plot. The trees shrunk as the two men trekked farther and farther. They felt the wind again, and the sun’s rays cut through the trees. James listened to the steady crunch their footsteps made in the snow. It reminded him of his father, how his feet, always much bigger than James’, punched craters in the snow and made crisper crunches than James’ could.
“It really is a miracle, Mr. Smith, how you’ve kept all this land. Tell me about that.”
They were at the very end of the footsteps. Ahead of them were miles and miles of snow stretching toward the horizon. James stood before a small sapling. There weren’t any other trees after it, and bits of snow hung onto its bristles. James gently brushed them off. He smiled.
“Mr. Smith?”
James nodded. “We have owned this plot for generations.” James did not look at the buyer. “They fought very hard to make sure we’d all rest here.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Each tree is a grave for a family member, Mr. Wilkinson,” James answered, “even for those whose names I will never know.” He gestured at the sapling. “Here lies my father.” James couldn’t see the buyer’s breath anymore.
The buyer did not say anything. Then: “I’m sorry.”
The wind howled and flicked dust at the two men. More ice fell from the treetops. The two men stood still in the snow.
James forced a smile. “We’ve fallen on hard times,” he said. He brushed a little more snow off the sapling.
“Will you dig them out?”
“Will you buy it, Mr. Wilkinson?”
The buyer looked up at the faded sky. There were no clouds. He stared off into the horizon and then down at his borrowed boots. They were tattered. The sides were ripping off, and the color resembled a faded vomit. “Yes, of course.”
There was someone else crunching through the snow behind them. The buyer turned around. James’ son ran past him and hugged his father. James awkwardly smiled.
“Why did you come here?” James asked.
“I was bored,” his son answered. He faced the buyer. “What are you guys talking about?”
The buyer stared at James’ face. James shook his head. The buyer forced a smile. “Your father was just showing me your family’s trees.”
The boy smiled. “Do you like them? I do.”
The buyer’s smile was hurting in the cold. “Yes.”
“Really?” the boy asked, staring up at his father.
“He does,” James said, smiling.
The boy beamed at the buyer. He smiled back, but it hurt too much. He dropped his gaze to the ground, at the deep footsteps and tattered boots. All of their boots were tattered, the buyer realized. He let out a deep sigh, watching his breath blend with the ground. “Yes, I do.”
Writer | Edwyn Choi ’27 | ehchoi27@amherst.edu
Editor | Olivia Tennant ’27 | otennant27@amherst.edu