Simple Treasures

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 2

Chapter One IN

THE faint flush of predawn, a Kenworth sixteen-wheeler

topped a ridge, forty miles east of Saint George, Utah. With only a half load to hinder it, the rig barreled along the interstate at twenty miles an hour over the speed limit. The driver hoped to make Las Vegas in time for breakfast. The truck rumbled on, unrelenting. Simple rode shotgun, staring at a dusting of lights that looked like a pocketful of stars cast across a vast and lonely mesa. The iridescent specks reminded him of flickering candles at a funeral, although he had no memory of ever attending one, and he wondered if that metaphor was some ominous sign of what lay waiting for him in Saint George. He had stayed awake all night, too excited to sleep. His eyes burned, and his mouth felt parched. He wanted a drink, but his water bottle was stashed deep in the backpack that rested on the floorboard, between his feet. Outside, the crowns of cottonwoods, tinged pink with the coming dawn, appeared to be pasted upon a gunmetal-gray landscape. With his peripheral vision, he saw the rearview mirror reflect beams of pale orange light that now chased him across the mesa. The driver, Dale McNally, a high-school dropout with rough manners and rougher speech, couldn‟t keep his eyes open any longer. His eyelids drifted toward his cheeks at about the same rate as the Kenworth swerved off the highway. When the right front tire gouged into the skim of

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 3 gravel on the highway shoulder, Simple grabbed McNally‟s thigh and shook it. McNally‟s eyes popped open, blinked. He eased the rig back onto the blacktop. McNally had his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, showing the thick, ropy muscles of his forearms. He wore a cowboy hat with a rattlesnake-skin band. The dashboard‟s lights cast an eerie glimmer across his face, and a thatch of dark hair spread out below his hat, covering his ears and hanging over his frayed collar. “Christ sakes,” McNally barked, “I picked you up so‟s you could keep me awake. Help me out here, boy.” That happened often. Simple was twenty-five years old— a stoic ranch-hand life had made him look closer to thirty— but even men his own age, like McNally, called him boy, son, or kid. “How?” Simple asked, suspiciously. “I didn‟t mean that. You made yourself perfectly clear about that.” Simple relaxed. “Talk to me. Do somersaults on the hood if you have to; just keep me awake.” Simple cracked his passenger window an inch, enough for a frosty breeze to whistle through the cab. He stared out the windshield, silent as a stone, trying to think of something to say. “Someone should invent an electrical device for drivers to wear under their hats,” Simple said, “to zap their balls whenever they get drowsy. It could trigger from the change in blood pressure at the temples when the eyelids start to fall.” Dale snarled, “Don‟t be talkin‟ about my balls if you ain‟t goin‟ to do anything ‟bout ‟em.”

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 4 Simple changed the subject, babbling on about the city lights mirroring the stars on the horizon. The hypnotic cadence of his voice made McNally yawn, a mouth-stretchedwide-open yawn, that pulled his eyes off the road for a dangerously long time. His eyelids became heavy again, drifted to half-mast, then closed altogether. His head leaned forward, and the Kenworth wandered into the oncoming lane. Headlights from a tour bus illuminated the cab like a prolonged flash of lightning. The light triggered a memory in Simple‟s head. Blinding light, someone grabs a handful of Simple’s hair and yanks his head back while four men wearing white scrubs hold his arms and legs. He fights with all his will, but they overpower him. A voice bellows in his head, “Get his pants down.” Clothes are ripped away. The orderly holding his hair positions himself between Simple’s naked legs. Simple hears the echo of harsh laughter. Simple shook the image from his head. He grabbed McNally‟s thigh again and barked, not really a word, but rather a harsh warning. McNally‟s eyes flew open and he jerked the wheel to the right. The Kenworth swerved back into its lane, and McNally struggled to keep it from careening out of control. “I‟m telling you, boy, you got to help me. Talk to me.” “Tell you what?” “Tell me what an Indian boy like you is runnin‟ from.” “I ain‟t running from; I‟m running to.” One of Simple‟s clearest childhood memories was constantly sneaking away from home with a library book under his arm. He felt the need to read alone, so that his family and the other kids wouldn‟t tease him. Reading was not what boys did on the reservation. But he did. He had a favorite hideaway, in the

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 5 cool shade of cottonwoods near the creek, where he would read the days away in the company of Twain, Hemingway, London, and Melville. But late in the afternoons, he would hear a door slam, and his mother‟s voice calling the family to dinner. Then he would run, lickety-split, back to the house. All too often, by the time Simple had rushed to the kitchen, his grandfather was slathering the last ear of corn with butter, saying, “Too late, bookworm.” Simple would stare forlornly at the empty serving dish. Although Simple had few memories left, he suspected that he had been running all his life, that he was still running, as fast as possible, trying to claim that last ear of sweet corn. “Shit,” Dale spat. “Even a knuckle scraper like me can see that you‟re fresh out of prison. All your clothes still have the K-Mart tags.” Simple lifted his arm and saw a price tag dangling from his cuff. He ripped it away and searched for a place to trash it. Dale said, “Toss it out the window.” Simple stuffed the tag in his shirt pocket. “I don‟t remember much, only that they had me locked up. Not prison, some kind of clinic, but I have a job waiting for me in Saint George—” Simple pulled a sheet of paper from his shirt pocket, unfolded it, and read by the light of the dashboard, “—working for Lance Bishop.” “Why do they call you Simple?” “My grandfather named me that to always remind me that a warrior‟s life is filled with simple treasures.” “Could be worse,” Dale scoffed. “Be thankful he didn‟t name you after Buttface Canyon, Nevada.” “Sing me a song,” Simple said. “That will keep you awake.”

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 6 “I only know hymns, from when my mama took me to church.” “Works for me.” Nodding, McNally cleared his throat and bellowed, “„Just as I am without one plea, but that thy blood was shed for me.‟” Dale‟s whiskey-tenor voice soared over the engine‟s growl. The tune was uncomplicated, with trilling and mournful notes, resembling both music and a sorrowful cry. It reminded Simple of a Shoshone death chant that his grandfather sang the day Simple‟s parents died. He loved the way the long, flowing vowels tumbled from McNally‟s lips, like a river meandering through a forest. Simple heard each tone and also the slices of silence separating the notes. It sounded stark and sometimes discordant, yet staggeringly beautiful.

IN

THE gritty bedroom of a rundown trailer house, an alarm

clock buzzed. Jude Elder‟s head swiveled on a pillow, his body folded into a fetal position. He came awake and looked around the room, confused. He cleared his congested throat and banged the alarm off. He flipped on a bedside lamp, squinted. Rings adorned his lower lip, nose, eyebrow, and a half-dozen crawled up one ear. His mascara was ghoulishly smudged. He rolled off the bed, stepped over a pile of laundry, and staggered to the doorway. As he opened the door, light from the hallway lamp revealed dozens of angry red scars crisscrossing Jude‟s torso and belly. His head hurt too much to think. He focused all his attention on not falling over.

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 7 He tottered to the shower and turned on the water. As steam rose, he stepped in, grabbed his dick, and began to masturbate—eyes closed, mouth ajar. Soon his hips bucked and his mouth twisted into a look of quasi-sexual pain. He opened his eyes and they rolled back. He groaned. Moments later, with both his hands covering his face, he began to sob. He lifted a razor blade from the soap dish and sliced two lines across his chest. Blood trickled over his pasty torso as tears streamed down his cheeks. A few minutes later, Jude ambled down the hallway into his choky little kitchen. He had wrapped a towel around his waist, bandages covering his fresh wounds. He opened the refrigerator and snatched a Budweiser longneck, twisting the cap off and downing half. He seized a prescription bottle and shook the few remaining pills into his palm, knocking them back and washing them down with more beer. He tossed the two empty bottles into a sink filled with dirty dishes. Jude grabbed another Bud from the fridge and cracked it open. In the bedroom, Jude sifted through the pile of soiled clothes. He stepped into a pair of boxer shorts, his only pair of jeans, socks, and cowboy boots. He lifted a white shirt from the pile, sniffed the underarms, and tossed it aside. He picked up another, sniffed, tossed it. The third and last he didn‟t bother to sniff. He laced his arms into the sleeves and buttoned it up. He jerked a roach from an ashtray beside the bed, fired it up, inhaled, and downed more beer. He took another hit, then strolled back to the bathroom to reapply his eye makeup. In the mirror, he only looked at his eyes as he

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 8 painted his mask. He couldn‟t bear to see the rest of his face or the scars at the base of his neck. On his way to the front door, Jude lifted a ring of keys off a plate on the kitchen table, then he stopped in front of a mynah bird chained to a perch beside the door. He snatched a food carton and shoveled seeds into the bird‟s bowl. “Loser! Loser!” the bird cawed. “Now you sound like my dad, shithead,” Jude said. “Loser!”

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 9

Chapter Two BARRELING into Saint George, Dale McNally down-shifted through nine gears and pulled onto the off ramp. They rolled beyond the brightly lit gas stations at the edge of the highway and drove toward the center of town. They were the only vehicle on the main boulevard, which seemed strange for a Tuesday. McNally drove slow, staying in a low gear and holding the steering wheel with both hands. The streetlights overhead were tinted yellow, which combined with the Kenworth‟s row of Christmas-tree lights to reflect in the storefront windows. They stopped at an intersection, and Simple leaned back into the passenger seat, feeling the vibration of the idling four-twenty-five Cummins engine, jiggling his insides. He clenched his teeth so that the vibration didn‟t make them chatter. “Feels like we‟re the only ones left alive on the whole planet,” McNally muttered. “Like one of those day-after movies where everyone else has died and their ghosts are watching us ride through this Podunk town.” Simple held the same suspicion. But rather than being spooked by it, he felt a warm gratitude for being alive, to have arrived in this town for a fresh start and a chance to find himself, no matter what horrors this place had in store. His past was, thankfully, already a fading memory. It was exactly how he wanted to feel: his insides jiggling, teeth

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 10 chattering, the past slipping into a dark void, and the future open as an autumn sky. Sweet, he thought, maple syrup on a short stack. McNally pulled through the intersection and piloted the Kenworth to the curb in front of a Conoco filling station. The air brakes belched as the rig jerked to a halt. The station lights were ablaze, and someone behind the front glass windows was stacking packages on shelves. McNally cocked his head toward Simple. “Well, son, you‟re shit for company, but you hang with me until Vegas, and I‟ll buy you breakfast. No strings. I just need someone to keep me awake.” Simple shook his head as he gathered his straw cowboy hat and canvas backpack. “Thanks for the offer, sir, but I‟m not listening to your off-key singing all the way to Vegas, just for a plate of eggs.” They both laughed. “Before you bail, tell me something, honestly,” McNally said. “Was I right? Are you gay?” “I‟m not much of anything.” “I don‟t understand. I‟m never wrong about that. I can spot you sensitive types a mile away. Is it because you don‟t want to do it in the cab? I mean, if that‟s it, I‟ll get us a room when we hit Vegas.” Simple shook his head again. McNally fell silent, visibly crestfallen by a second rejection. Simple yanked the handle and swung the door open. “Thanks anyway, Mr. McNally. But like I said, people here are counting on me. Maybe you should pull over and catch some winks.”

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 11 “Naw, kid. The winks I need are of a different type. It‟s Vegas or bust.” Simple grinned. “Sorry if I embarrassed you,” McNally said. “No hard feelings?” “Of course not. I‟m grateful for the ride and for your company.” “Well, good luck to you, son.” “Back at you, sir.” The truck was already moving by the time Simple‟s boots hit the pavement. Clutching his backpack and his hat, he slammed the door shut and backed away from the spray of dust. The raw stench of diesel and overheated rubber clung to him as he stepped to the center of the road and watched the truck rumble down the main drag. The engine changed pitch as McNally shifted up, and the truck gathered speed. A minute later, there was only the murmur of the wind gliding over Simple‟s face. He seated his hat, which pushed his height close to seven feet. He was tall for a full-blood Shoshone, six foot two, tallest man on the reservation. His height, strong, raw-boned body, and lightning-quick reflexes had made him perfect for the reservation basketball team, but he never could get excited about sports. He laced his fingers together as he lifted his hands high over his head and stretched his lanky frame—which felt stiff from sitting through the night—until his backbone and his knuckles cracked. He gazed up and down the main street of Saint George. The sun was full up, but it was still early enough that the streets were empty. He paused, took a deep breath as if to inhale the whole picturesque morning, then shouldered his pack and ambled toward the filling station.

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 12 As he passed the gas pumps on his way to the office, he whistled a tune: “Just as I Am.” He strolled to the glass door and pushed against the handle, but it didn‟t budge. His eyes shifted to the skinny, dark-haired man inside, stuffing packages of white-powdered donuts onto a shelf. He focused on the donuts rather than the man while trying not to think about how long it had been since his last meal, the number of days his belly had felt like a well gone dry. He waited, watching all that food being carelessly stacked in heaps until the shelf could hold no more. Simple tapped on the glass. The dark-haired man stood with a box in his arms and turned toward Simple. Surprise lit up his face as their eyes locked. The man tucked his shirttail into his jeans. Simple blinked. His heartbeat quickened. The man was a year or two younger than himself, slightly cave-chested, and appeared to be Eurasian. Simple had not been able to tell the man‟s race when all he could see was the man‟s back and black hair jutting out at rakish angles. Those almond-shaped eyes, fanned by long, arched lashes and encircled by blue mascara, rested on delicately carved cheekbones. They sparkled under the fluorescent lights and held Simple‟s stare while growing slightly wider and seemingly more fragile. “Read the fucking sign. We‟re not open yet,” the young man shouted. “I‟ll wait.” The man glanced at the clock over the cash register—it read 5:50—then he sauntered over and unlocked the door, using a set of keys hanging on his belt loop.

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 13 “Guess I can spot you ten minutes. Whatcha need, Cowboy?” His accent was barbed with a southwest twang. Up close, his slanted eyes looked slightly droopy, reminiscent of a hound dog, and his face was attractively sunburnt. His shirt had a name embroidered over the left pocket: Jude. The strong odor of beer reached past him to tickle Simple‟s nose. “Coffee, if it‟s fresh, and I could sure use your restroom.” “Coffee‟s brewing. Toilet‟s in the back, but I ain‟t cleaned in there yet. Might be gross.” Simple made a beeline to the restroom. The stench of disinfectant wrinkled his nose, and the toilet looked like something might leap out at him if he got within three feet of it. He stepped to the sink and turned on both faucets, but only the cold one worked. He unbuttoned his fly and peed in the sink. A feeling of relief washed through him. After buttoning up, he cupped his hands under the spigot and doused his face with stinging cold water. The cold triggered another scene from his past. Four men wearing white scrubs push him into a tub of ice. He battles with all his ability, but they hold him under. He fights for air as a ragged voice echoes in his head, “How’s that feel, Shitting Bull? Now, are you gonna do what you’re told, you fuckin’ reservation nigger?” Simple gasped as the vision faded. He reached for the paper dispenser but found it empty. “Booger.” He fanned his hands, getting most of the water off, but he couldn‟t do much about the droplets gathered under his chin that dripped onto his denim jacket. He hurried out, anxious to distance himself from the flashback. At the register, Jude pulled bills from a purple, Royal Crown felt bag and slotted them into the open cash drawer.

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 14 Simple stared at the stacks of money. “Cups are by the coffeepot, Cowboy. Help yourself.” Simple stepped to the counter that held three towers of Styrofoam cups and packets of creamer and sugar. He grabbed a cup, the smallest size, in one hand and the glass carafe coffeepot in the other, then filled his cup. Heat filtered through the cup to warm his hand. There were plastic lids stacked beside the cups, but he didn‟t bother, like he didn‟t bother with the creamer or sugar packets. He carried the coffee back to the register. “That‟s a buck oh five.” “How much are those packs of donuts?” “Two fifty.” “Just the coffee, then.” Simple reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a crumpled one-dollar bill and some coins. Even though Jude held out his hand to accept the money, Simple dropped the bill next to the coffee cup, picked out a nickel, and placed it on the bill. “Tell you what,” Jude said, “I need something in my stomach to sober me up, but I can‟t eat a whole box of donuts. If you‟ve got another buck, we can split a box.” Simple fought back a smile. “Thanks, but you don‟t need to do that.” “I ain‟t shitting you. I need food. If you don‟t have a buck, you can pay me later.” “It does smell like you drank your breakfast.” “Tasted so good I had another for dessert.” Simple spread his fingers and counted four quarters and two dimes on his palm. He dropped it all on the counter. “Thanks. Is everybody in this town as friendly as you?” Jude scooped up the money. “People around here think being friendly is their Mormon duty.” He dropped the money

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 15 into the slots and bumped the drawer closed with his hip. “But I ain‟t so friendly, just practical.” He sauntered from behind the counter, seized a donut box, ripped open the lid, and stuffed one in his mouth. Then he laid the box on the counter. “My name‟s Jude Elder,” he said, through a mouth full of dough. “People call me Simple.” Jude tilted his head to one side, no doubt wondering if he was being played with, but he didn‟t comment on the name, which was surprising. “Does that ring in your lip hurt when you eat?” Simple asked. “In this town, everything hurts; what‟s one more annoyance?” Simple sipped his coffee, which was rich and hot and opened up his whole head. He eyed the five donuts still in the box, but he didn‟t want to rush. He would tease his stomach for another minute. “Just passing through?” Jude asked, then swallowed. “I‟m here about a job, working for—” He pulled a slip of paper from his pocket again and read, “—Lance Bishop. You wouldn‟t happen to know where I could find him?” Jude rolled his eyes. “He‟s my dad. You‟ll find him at Bishop Combines. That‟s the John Deere tractor dealership on the west end of East Saint George Street. You a tractor mechanic?” “Naw. I‟m not much of anything. Heard he has some ranch work.” Simple sipped more coffee, then said, “If he‟s your dad, then why is your last name Elder?” “That‟s a long story, and rather complicated if you‟re not a Mormon.”

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 16 “Maybe you can explain it over a cup of coffee sometime.” “Well, my advice is to keep moving. If it‟s ranch work, the job will be taking care of my grandpa. Getting involved with my dad and my grandpa is like being in a fight between a grizzly bear and a mountain lion. I can‟t wait to get out of here, myself. I‟m San Francisco bound as soon as I can scrape together enough cash for a clean getaway.” He said this gravely, as if disclosing that his dog had just died. “What‟s in San Francisco?” “Lots of people like me,” Jude said, and a grin lifted the ends of his mouth. Simple nodded his head as if he understood, but he had no idea what that meant. He turned toward the door and said, “Hope I see you again, Jude Elder.” “Hey, don‟t forget your donuts.” Simple turned back around. He selected one donut from the package, then headed for the door. “Hey, take the whole box,” Jude said, but the door had already closed, and Simple kept walking.

JUDE studied Simple‟s backside, traipsing away. His voice went soft. “Look back. I know you‟re interested. Come on, Cowboy, look back. If you don‟t look back, I‟ll cut my throat.” Halfway across the lot, Simple swiveled his head for a glance back. Jude waved, feeling a warm flush cover his face. He picked up another donut and took a big, sugary bite.

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 17

Chapter Three CARS zipped along the main boulevard. A breeze whistled down the street, and Simple walked into the wind as he made his way toward the center of town, sipping coffee as he went. He bit off a hunk of donut and pressed it against the roof of his mouth. He didn‟t chew, but rather let it dissolve as he ambled along. Its sweetness overpowered his taste buds and made him cough, causing puffs of white powdered sugar to escape his lips. He marched in the center of a broad sidewalk. Everyone in the cars driving by stared at him. He waved at the cars as they passed, and some of the ladies even waved back. At the third traffic light, while waiting for it to turn green, he adjusted his pack so that it hung more to the center of his back, then he was off again. He studied the town as he trudged along, an aimless congestion of buildings divided in half by East Saint George Street. Businesses lined the street. A Long‟s Drug Store sat diagonally across from a Wells Fargo Bank, Juan‟s Mexican Food restaurant was painted a sulfur color and had purple curtains in the front windows, a general store had an icebox out front, the kind that held sodas and ice cream bars. There were two churches (a Lutheran and a Church of Christ), a post office, and the strip mall, where there were three burger joints, a Chinese restaurant, and a used-paperback bookstore.

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 18 Simple trekked to the far end of town and stopped at a building that had exterior walls the color of tobacco spit and a hand-painted sign above the front windows that read, “Bishop Combines.” A multitude of tractors, combines, heavy farm equipment, and a vicious-looking German Shepherd sat behind a chain-link fence, but nobody was in sight. Simple pulled the backpack from his shoulders as he crossed the parking lot. He tested the locked glass door, then set his pack on the cement next to the door and folded his legs until he was sitting next to the pack, staring out at the street. He watched the town come awake—more cars traveled with more haste, the café across the street began to fill, a yellow school bus stopped at the corner to pick up four kids. He pulled his journal and a pen from his pack, opened to a fresh page, and began to write. 12 June 2007 Saint George, Utah, is larger than I anticipated and decidedly more prosperous. It deserves a bigger spot on the map. Caught a ride with a trucker, Dale McNally, who wanted to roll in the hay. I felt sorry for him. He seemed so lonely and desperate, like I felt on the reservation and in the asylum too. If I didn’t have this job waiting for me, I would have gone to Vegas with him. He taught me a new song: “Just as I Am.” Nice melody, and its meaning reinforces the warrior’s way. Grandfather would approve. Funny how I can remember some things, like the loneliness of the reservation, but most everything else is a blur. Met Lance Bishop’s son, Jude Elder, at a convenience store. He spotted me a carton of donuts because he saw I was a buck short of flat broke. He seems like someone who could become a friend.

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 19 Hope this job turns into something long term. I look forward to returning to that blessed oblivion that comes with caring for livestock and working the land. Another vision flashed inside Simple‟s head. On a high mesa, an old man in full tribal dress chants as he dances around a steer’s skull bone. The old man’s face is cracked, like the glaze on ancient pottery, and his eyes are sharp and riveting, the eyes of an eagle. He stops and says, “You think you can run and hide? I am here with you, waiting. You are running out of time, my son. Fight or perish.” Simple pressed his hands to his ears to muffle the voice. “Grandfather, stop!” Simple heard a soft chuckle float on the morning air. “Leave me alone, old man!” Simple barked. Simple glanced up to watch a late-model GMC pickup whip into the lot and park at the spot nearest the front door. The driver stared at Simple for a half minute; then the driver‟s door flew open and he unfolded from the cab. Middle-aged and muscular gone soft, his tan-colored leisure suit couldn‟t hide how far his gut hung over his belt. Simple figured he was carrying an extra thirty pounds in the haunches. His Stetson hat was the same shade of black as his hand-stitched cowboy boots, but it was the bolo tie with a turquoise stone pressed to his throat that made Simple think he looked like a country boy who had a hard need to seem sophisticated. The man‟s arms stretched out wide, as if he were hanging on a cross. He yawned, then pulled a pack of Winstons from his coat pocket and hung one from his lips, lighting it with a yellow plastic lighter. He coughed once, then again, causing the wattle of fat under his chin to quiver

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 20 like Jell-O. He reached back into the cab for a brown leather briefcase, slammed the truck door like he was pissed at the world, and stalked toward the front door. Simple rose to his feet. “Whaddaya want, kid?” “I‟m here to see Mr. Bishop, sir.” The man‟s back stiffened. “Well, you‟re seeing him. What‟s your business?” “I‟m here about the ranch job you arranged with Mr. Peterson, from the Denver Community Clinic?” Lance Bishop‟s eyes narrowed, then traveled from Simple‟s face to feet and back again, taking in Simple‟s lanky frame, straight black hair hanging on his collar, new shirt and jeans and boots. “You‟ve got white powder on your chin,” Lance said. “You one of those heroin-snorting dope fiends?” Simple wiped his chin. He glanced at the snowy smudge on his hand and smiled. “Sir, I don‟t think powdered sugar is considered a dangerous drug.” He took a second look at the man‟s rotund figure and thought that maybe it was. The wind blew in gusts now, stirring up dust. “Let‟s talk in my office.” Lance grabbed a sizable key ring that was clipped to his belt loop and fumbled through a dozen keys before finding the right one. He inserted it into the lock and pushed the door open. Simple slung his pack over one shoulder, stuffed his big, raw hands into his jean pockets, and followed Lance across the showroom floor. The wind slammed the door shut behind him. They passed three different tractors before Lance opened his office door and breezed in, flipping on the light switch before crossing the room. Simple waited at the doorway.

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 21 The office looked like a broom closet compared with the showroom. It smelled of dust and cigarette ash. An oak desk littered with paper faced two matching guest chairs. A calendar hung on a nail on the far wall, showing a pinup girl with melon-sized, bare breasts. Two shelves were bolted to the beige wall behind the desk. The top one held three bowling trophies, the bottom one held several hand-carved model airplanes. When Lance noticed him studying the models, he proudly pointed to them, one after the other, saying, “This one‟s a Spitfire, a Messerschmitt, a Hurricane, a P51 Mustang, and that‟s a Flying Fortress.” Simple admired the intricate detailing on the carved planes. On the desk sat a block of pine surrounded by wood shavings, rough-hewn into the shape of another plane. “That will be a Japanese Zero,” Lance said. “Now get your scrawny butt in here. I ain‟t got all damn day.” Lance stubbed his cigarette out in a black plastic ashtray already brimming with butts. Simple slid his backpack from his shoulder and rested it on the nearest chair. He stood facing the desk as Lance sat in his swivel chair. The phone rang. Lance picked up the receiver. “Yeah?” He listened. “No…. Not today…. No.” He frowned, looked out the window to the street. His frown deepened. “I‟ll get that fucking paperwork to you when I‟m damned good and ready. I got a business to run, here.” He slammed the receiver onto the cradle. “Shit, my day ain‟t worth a dog‟s turd. I tried to outsmart the John Deere rep, and that SOB sure enough got the best of me, the huevos rancheros I ate for breakfast are burning a hole in my gut, and my cell phone ran out of juice. Other than that, hell, I‟m fine. How are you?”

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 22 Simple grinned. “People call me Simple because anyone can outsmart me. I ain‟t ate nothing but a sugar donut in three days, and what‟s a cell phone?” Lance chuckled and shook his head. He pulled his pack of Winstons from his coat pocket, hung one from his lips, and lit it. He blew smoke toward the ceiling fan, but the blades turned so slowly that it did little to dissipate the gray cloud. “Simple? That‟s a description, not a name.” “It ain‟t a name, exactly. It‟s just what everyone calls me. I don‟t mind. Call me whatever you want as long as it ain‟t dickwad or faggot or something crude.” “What‟s your real name?” “Everybody‟s called me Simple for so long, I don‟t recall any other.” “You don‟t care what people think?” “I can‟t control what they think.” “You from reservation people?” “I was, but now I‟m not from anything.” Lance took his time drawing another lungful of smoke. Simple watched the end of the cigarette glow red, then turn to ash. Lance dropped the cigarette into the ashtray, then pulled a knife from his pocket and unclasped the blade. He picked up the Zero and shaved a sliver from its wing. “Here‟s the deal. The last sober breath my old man took was on April third of this year. That‟s sixty-nine days drunk and not a dry spell in sight. When he was last sober before that is anybody‟s guess.” Simple blinked, waited. “Well, don‟t you want to know why?” “Why what?” “Why the hell he stays drunk all the time.”

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 23 “If I need to know, I figure you‟ll tell me without my asking.” Lance shaved more chips from the Zero. “He snapped his back when he rolled his pickup in a ditch. That was six years ago. The doctors fused his bones back together crooked, so he ain‟t worth a shit any more. My mother died in that crash, and he‟s never forgiven himself.” Lance stared at Simple, as if looking for any kind of reaction. Finding none, he went back to whittling. “I‟ve had a dozen different women up there cooking and cleaning for him, but he‟s chased off each one—called them degrading names, spit at them, even whipped out his dick and hosed one down. I‟m the only one he puts up with. He‟ll do the same to you, but Mr. Peterson‟s letter said that in the asylum, you let everything roll off, like water on a duck‟s back.” Lance paused to give Simple the opportunity to comment. The pause stretched into a long silence with only the grating sound of the ceiling fan turning. Lance pointed the blade at Simple. Simple‟s eyes were glued to the knife, and another flashback exploded in his head. Four men wearing scrubs pin Simple spread-eagle on a table. A fifth man holds a knife over his face. He grabs a handful of Simple’s long hair, presses the blade to the hairline, pauses, then slices off a handful of hair, close to the scalp. Simple fights while the men jeer. “The old man needs professional help,” Lance continued. “I intend to have him committed to a rehabilitation clinic in Provo, where they‟ll dry him out, then I‟ll put him in a nursing home. I figure it will take me a week or two to put everything in order. You see, I need to have a judge grant me guardianship over him before I can commit

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 24 him, which should be easy, considering. Once that happens, you‟re out of a job. Though I‟ll need you to stay around and fix up the place, so I can get top dollar when I sell it. But I need to sell by the end of the month. I have a buyer lined up already. Understand?” Simple nodded. His facial expression didn‟t change, but inside, his gut performed a slow somersault, and he was not altogether sure why, except that it had to do with sending anybody to a clinic. When his grandfather died, Simple had gone berserk, which landed him in a mental hospital. The treatments, the drugs, and being locked up with people of limited sanity encouraged him to retreat into a separate reality. He now had little to no memory of that time between his grandfather‟s death and now, but the mention of a clinic of any kind sent a chill through his body, like an icy blue stream trickling down his spine and freezing his testicles. “Until he‟s committed, you‟ll cook, clean, and put him to bed when he passes out. Make sure he drinks all the whiskey he wants. I need to prove to the law that he‟s unfit to care for himself. You can bunk in the tack room so you don‟t have to spend much time in his house. It ain‟t much of a job, and the pay is nothin‟ to write home about, but then I guess a man in your situation is not as particular as most folks.” Lance paused, as if waiting for Simple to dispute the charge, but Simple stared him down with unblinking eyes. Lance waited, with an impatient grin, until Simple cleared his throat and said, “Perhaps we can put him back on his feet?” Lance smothered the suggestion with laughter. “I guess it‟s no secret why people call you Simple.”

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 25 Sensing that there was some corrupt motive behind Lance‟s jocular tone, Simple hung his head to hide the suspicion in his eyes. He admitted that what he said might be unreasonable, but having said it, it became all the more important to him. “Can you cook?” “I‟m a fair hand with a can opener and a skillet.” “What about that asylum? Did they set you straight?” “I‟m not crazy, if that‟s what you‟re asking.” “So you‟re normal?” “I have issues with memory. Shit hits the wall but only sticks for a day. Some people consider that a problem, but I say: the past is gone, what‟s the point in looking back?” Indeed, for Simple, life was no longer a journey between birth and death, but rather an awareness of only now, and a limited memory of what happened in the last several hours. Time had become invisible. He no longer made goals. His only plan since leaving the clinic had been securing this job. He dated the beginning of his epoch of timelessness from his Grandfather‟s death. From that moment till now, life had been like floating on a vast ocean with nothing to look at for as far as the eye could see. He religiously wrote in his journal as a way to remind himself of where he was and where he had come from. Every morning he read the last ten pages, to understand what was expected of him. Lance laid the Zero and knife aside, then reached for his hip pocket. He pulled out his wallet, extracted a five-dollar bill, and held it out to Simple. “Grab some breakfast across the street, then I‟ll drive you to the ranch.”

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 26 Simple stared at the money, his life raft, but then he glanced over his shoulder, wanting a quick exit. “I don‟t hold with putting anybody in a clinic.” “You won‟t. Your job is to cook and clean, or perhaps you want to go another three days without food?” Lance dropped the bill on the desktop, then reached for his knife and the block of pine. He began to whittle on the Zero‟s tail section. He stopped to stare at Simple. A three-day hunger made Simple pick up the bill and his backpack and slip out through the office doorway. He crossed the showroom, slid between the glass doors, and ambled across the parking lot to the sidewalk. He looked up and down East Saint George Street—more traffic on the road now—then stepped off the curb and crossed to the café without looking back.

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Chapter Four SIMPLE stared through the front window with red block letters spelling out “Pitt‟s Cafe.” He heard a bell jingle above his head as he walked through the front door. A row of booths lined one wall under the front windows, a row of tables crowded the black-and-white checkered linoleum floor, and a counter with stools separated the dining area from the kitchen. Behind the counter, a cook (Mr. Pitt?) stood at the grill, frying hash browns. He had a bulging stomach and a bald head that shined like a cue ball. The waitress—her name tag said “Miss Fallon”—poured coffee refills from behind the counter. Sweat slid down her neck, and her collar was damp, as if it had been busy and she was only now catching up on the morning rush. Simple drew looks from the customers sitting at the counter and three occupied tables. Only two patrons didn‟t stare—at the nearest table, a pair of grisly ranchers bent over their plates of biscuits and gravy. They ate with their hats on, and neither wasted time on anything but eating. Even with Simple‟s limited memory, he knew that a café in a small town was busy, gossipy, and preternaturally inquisitive. Every small town has one, and he could feel questions being raised in everyone‟s mind. Miss Fallon glanced up sharply from her pouring, as if someone had shouted a nasty word. She scrutinized Simple as he crossed the room and pulled his pack from his

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 28 shoulders. He set the pack on a stool at the counter and sat on the next stool over. From the far end of the room, Miss Fallon leaned one hand on the counter. “You need something, Cowboy?” she said with a ranch-folk nasalness. “Some coffee to start,” Simple said, “and a menu when you find the time.” “Menu? You need to see a menu?” “What I need is breakfast,” he said. “The menu will help me know what to order.” “I see.” She flashed a wooden smile, then sauntered down the length of the counter, carrying her coffeepot and grabbing a menu on the way. She was tall and ungainly, with a long waist and spindly legs, and she wore flat-heeled shoes, no doubt because she was on her feet all day. It was hard to tell how old she was because she looked like she layered her makeup on with a spatula, but Simple guessed she was on the backside of fifty, and tough as rawhide. She laid the coffeepot on the counter and handed him the menu. Then she pulled an order pad and a pen from her apron pocket and cocked her head to stare at the pack, leaning against the counter on the next seat over. “Most people know what the breakfast choices are. It don‟t take much imagination.” “Well,” Simple said, his voice sounding apologetic, “imagination is pretty low on my talent list.” “You the new kid working for Lance Bishop?” “Word travels fast.” She scoffed, “Hell, another twenty minutes and everybody in town will know your shoe size, the color of your underwear, and which side of the bed you sleep on.”

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 29 “Eleven and a half, blue boxers, and I sleep on the floor. Just thought I‟d speed things along so you people can move on to more important business.” She scoffed again, standing with her hip cocked and tapping her pen against her order pad. “Now that you‟ve memorized the menu, what tickles your fancy?” “A short stack, scrambled eggs, corned beef hash, sourdough toast, and coffee. Will that be more than five dollars?” Miss Fallon jotted the order on her pad while her face scrunched up like she had just bitten into a lemon. “Only if you plan to leave a tip.” “Make it just a short stack and coffee.” She turned and called the order of a short stack, eggs, hash, and toast to Mr. Pitt. Then she turned back to Simple. “I don‟t want your greed money,” she said as she poured coffee into a cup. “You think you can pull something over on the rest of us? You better damn well think again, Cowboy. People in this town ain‟t so dumb.” “Excuse me, Miss….” “Fallon,” she said, tapping her name tag with her pen. “Miss Fallon. Have I done something to offend you?” Her back stiffened, and her manner became even frostier. “Most people consider Emmett Bishop to be the crustiest old rube this side of the Rockies, but I‟ll tell you what, he‟s always treated me with respect, and as near as I can tell, that‟s the way he treats any decent human being. So if you‟re working with that worthless cheese dick, Lance, to screw Emmett out of that ranch, then yes, I am offended.” “Thank you for sharing your unvarnished opinion, Miss Fallon, but for the record, I don‟t work with Lance Bishop; I

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 30 work for him. My job is to take care of his father. What could be wrong with that?” “Nothing,” she replied in a clipped bark. “Nothing at all. But you better watch your Ps and Qs in my café, mister.” She walked down to the other end of the counter to pour more refills. A half minute later she stood in front of the jukebox at the far wall. Simple heard the click, click of quarters dropping into the coin slot. A moment later country music wafted on the air: Patsy Cline‟s “Crazy.” Simple sipped his coffee, enjoying the rich, bitter taste. He put his cup down and pulled his journal and a pen from his backpack. 12 June 2007 The bad news is that Miss Fallon, the waitress at Pitt’s Café, seems to be the type who loves enemies, and I just made number two on her list, directly behind Lance Bishop. She makes a decent cup of coffee though. I like her. She doesn’t take shit, and she doesn’t hold back. Hopefully I can get on her good side, assuming she has one. Not sure what to think of Lance Bishop. Can’t help feeling that there is a kernel of truth in what Miss Fallon said, that all his motives are selfish ones. What could those motives be, though? Some kind of money trouble and the only way out is to sell the ranch to pay off his debt? Pure speculation on my part, but what’s real is that I don’t trust him, and according to Miss Fallon, neither does anybody else in this town. The grill sizzled as eggs hit the surface, accompanied by Mr. Pitt singing along with the song drifting from the jukebox. He had a smooth baritone voice, and Simple found the tune vaguely familiar, something about mothers not

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 31 letting their sons grow up to be cowboys. As the song came to an end, Mr. Pitt set a plate on the counter, and his palm slapped a little domed bell. Miss Fallon delivered Simple‟s food and silverware and refilled his coffee. Simple spread butter over his pancakes while she stared at his backpack with theatrical concentration. Then her frosty eyes zeroed in on Simple. “Is that your rig taking up a customer‟s seat?” He looked up into her chilly stare. “That a problem?” “How long you gonna leave it there?” “Long enough to eat these flapjacks and eggs, Miss Fallon. I can set it on the floor if you‟d rather, but then someone might trip over it and sue Mr. Pitt. Besides, how many customers you got that want to sit beside me?” “Listen, Mr. Smart-mouth. Don‟t make me make a phone call,” she said with a tone as unyielding as her stare. Then she marched to the other end of the counter again. Simple called after her, “Before you make that call, Miss Fallon, I could use some ketchup.” She didn‟t turn her head, flinch, or say howdy. She kept walking. Who the hell is she going to call? he wondered. Simple poured a mass of golden maple syrup over his pancakes, quartered them, and ate with hard, muscular jaws that gave a little creak at the hinges when he chomped down. He tried to eat slowly, but once food hit his empty stomach, his three-day hunger took over and kept his head bent over the plate. Miss Fallon swung by a minute later to refill his coffee and set a bottle of ketchup beside his plate. Simple uncapped the bottle and turned it over his hash, tapping the side with his palm. Then he shoveled his

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 32 ketchup-soaked hash into his mouth and slurped his coffee. He watched customers come and go, asking for eggs and fried potatoes, put these two coffees and pack of Lucky Strikes on my tab, this damned ketchup is fermented, my coffee‟s cold. Miss Fallon remained unruffled, calling orders to Mr. Pitt, counting out change from the register, and dumping her tips into a fishbowl behind the counter. Simple stared at the fishbowl as he chewed his hash. It held what seemed like an impressive amount of money, all carelessly jumbled together, and even with his faulty memory, he somehow knew that he had never had that much cash in his pockets at one time. The fact of it didn‟t bother him. Money dipped pretty far down on his priority list. Never having any had made it less important. The front-door bell jingled, and a man wearing a badge and sidearm stepped through the doorway sideways, because his shoulders were too bulky to go through normally. His arms, showing below his short-sleeved shirt, were thick muscled, and Simple thought he looked like a stud bull walking on its hind legs. Miss Fallon smirked from behind the counter as the sheriff crossed the room, tipped his hat, and sat beside Simple. He cleared his throat and said, “I‟m Sheriff Ansel Granger. I hear you‟re working for Lance Bishop.” “My name is Simple. Is there a problem?” “Simple?” “Right. Just Simple.” “Well, Simple, I‟d like to see your driver‟s license.” “Don‟t have one. Don‟t own a car and don‟t drive.” “Then show me some ID.” “Don‟t carry ID, sir. Is this because I jaywalked across the street a half hour ago?”

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 33 “There‟s no problem. I like to check on anyone who plans to stick around. How long you planning on being here?” “Well, sir, I can hardly remember how long I‟ve been here, let alone know how much longer I‟m staying.” Sheriff Granger‟s eyes turned steely. He obviously didn‟t like to be trifled with. He lifted himself off the stool, tipped his hat again, and said, “Emmett Bishop is a friend of mine, so I‟ll be watching you real close.” You and the rest of this town, Simple thought as the bell over the door tinkled. The bell tinkled again, and Simple felt someone slide into the seat vacated moments before by the sheriff. He swiveled his head to see Jude staring at him. “Hey, Cowboy, I had a break, so I called Lance,” Jude said, his voice soft but cheerful. “He told me you were having breakfast, so I dropped in to make sure they were taking care of you. You get enough to eat?” Simple felt warmth filling his insides as he flashed Jude his most dazzling smile. “The food hit the spot, but there‟s a decided chill in the air.” Jude appeared lit from within, struck by the sun pouring through the front windows. “Well, it‟s a good thing you enjoyed your meal, because the rest of your day is bound to be a long downhill slide.” Jude tilted his head to one side, then said, “You‟ve got a drop of syrup on your chin.” He leaned forward to wipe Simple‟s chin, but Simple jerked his head back. “Sorry,” Simple said. “I kind of freak when people touch me.” Simple wiped his chin with his napkin.

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 34 Jude, with concern tingeing his voice, said, “We need to get a move on. I‟m driving you out to meet my grandpa, and I only have a thirty-minute break.” Simple dropped his five-dollar bill on the counter as he shouldered his backpack. Jude dug into his pocket and tossed a one-dollar bill on top of the fiver. The bell over the door jingled as they stepped outside.

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Chapter Five THEY flew along a paved county road for ten minutes in Jude‟s Bronco. Simple studied the ranches whizzing by: herds of horses, cattle, sheep; fields of corn, milo, hay, all spread out around great white clusters of grain elevators. They crossed the tracks of the Santa Fe Railroad and turned south. They continued down the paved road another ten miles, then swung onto a rutted dirt lane that was bordered by tall thistle weeds. The sound of gravel hitting the truck‟s undercarriage made Simple think of heavy rain on a tin roof, and he wondered where he had lived that would call up the vague memory of a tin roof. The truck bounced through potholes, and the pancakes in his stomach threatened to come back up if the bucking continued. Then, after topping a rise, Simple saw their destination. The ranch was nestled at the end of the dirt road, a mile off County Road 24, near an area the locals called Bad Luck Butte. Jude told Simple that the Bitter Coffee Ranch was named after the creek that flowed through the center of the property (or perhaps the creek was named after the ranch, Jude was not altogether sure). There were ten sections of grazing pasture on each side of the creek, and the rest was scrub, populated by rattlesnakes, coyotes, and bobcats. A barn dominated the work yard. An arrangement of corrals, fences, and several smaller buildings hovered around it like moons around Jupiter. Seventy yards west of the barn, down a gentle slope toward the creek, a house

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 36 huddled within a dozen cottonwood trees—a two-story frame-and-brick structure that was built, Jude explained, by his great-grandfather after World War II. Well behind the ranch compound, the creek cut below the topsoil and limestone, veering a course through the valley and turning harsh desert into green pastures. Jude parked near the barn, and they both eased from the cab. Simple loved the homey look of the ranch. And the sounds. Above all, the sounds—the breeze rustling through the cottonwoods, the clucking and scratching of chickens in the work yard, bees working the wildflowers. He recognized those long-forgotten sounds by the way they made him feel: like the comfort of nestling into his mother‟s bosom on the back porch at sunset. As he walked across the work yard, the open area between the barn and the house, Simple realized that the ranch had fallen into ruin: the barn was dilapidated, much of the fencing at the corrals had fallen, what little paint that was left on the old house was cracked and peeling. Six years of wear with no one to make repairs had taken a toll. Half a dozen vultures perched in a line across the roof of the barn. As Jude and Simple strolled to the back porch, Jude bent to pick up a rock, and he chucked it at the birds. They scattered. Jude climbed the steps, opened the screen door, and knocked. Simple tilted his head to one side, wondering why Jude had to knock, as if he were a guest come a-calling instead of the grandson who cared for his invalid grandfather. They waited a minute, then Jude knocked louder. The old man must be inside, Simple thought, but he’s either deaf or in no mood for company. The door was probably unlocked—usually were on country homes—so they could‟ve

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 37 walked right in, but Jude knocked again. He would not enter without the old man‟s invitation. Simple ambled around to the front yard and peeked into the kitchen window. An old man with a stubbly beard sat at a kitchen table, drinking Wild Turkey from a bottle and reading a Bible that was spread to the Old Testament, the book of Chronicles. He wore long underwear on that hot morning, tops and bottoms. They were off-white, wool blended with something else, probably cotton, and looked fairly new, as if they had just popped out of an L.L. Bean catalog. The old man also sported a tan-colored cowboy hat, and a purple bandana looped around his neck. Simple found it strange that the man would wear his hat at the table, and he wondered if the man slept in that getup as well. Most people wouldn‟t be caught dead wearing that outfit after sunup, but the old rube must have been beyond caring what other people thought. Simple grinned, already liking the old coot. He sauntered around to the back door and told Jude that Emmett was in the kitchen. Jude knocked louder, but before he could finish, Simple reached over, turned the doorknob, and pushed the door open. He brushed past Jude and walked into the mudroom, which doubled as a sizable pantry, off the kitchen. Simple studied the cement floor with its drain and a faucet to wash the mud off work boots before entering the house, then turned his attention on the shelves, lined with treasure: dusty, cobweb-covered Mason jars holding tomatoes, corn, green beans, strawberry preserves, stewed meat. On the floor were boxes of saved bottles, nails, scraps of wrapping paper, lengths of wire and string, old clothes cut into cleaning rags. Everything that was saved ended up there. Things on a ranch were used and reused.

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 38 Nothing was thrown away. Thrift was a religion, selfsufficiency a way of life. From the looks of things, Emmett spent his life making his ranch impervious to the outside world. Simple understood at a glance that Emmett followed the rancher‟s creed: there is home and there is out there, and you must protect your home from out there. Simple stepped into the kitchen, and Jude followed him in. The room was airy and spacious, painted a dusty yellow. A stove dominated the near wall, and an apron hung from a nail beside it. Simple liked the homey feel of the room, except for the dirty dishes, dust, and garbage covering the sink and counters. A large picture window looked out onto the front porch, and the curtains had embroidered daisies climbing the borders, that were faded to a cream color. Simple caught the whiff of fried eggs and whiskey, which drew his eyes to the figure sitting at the yellow and green Formica-top table. Emmett wore a plain gold band on his gnarled left hand, which no doubt symbolized a half century with the woman he had lost six years before. Simple saw that those two redveined, watery eyes were focused on him with a surprising sharpness. Clearly, the inquisition was about to begin. “Who the hell invited you in here?” Emmett demanded. He didn‟t have any teeth, so his words sounded mumbled together. Up close, Simple managed a better look at Emmett and realized the accident that had killed Emmett‟s wife had also altered his leathery face. His jaw sagged noticeably lower on the left side, which slanted his lips into a permanent frown. His nose bent to the left, and his eyes were uneven, with the left seeming much smaller, like an involuntary squint. But his face carried something more than six-year-old scars. Like the rest of his body, it had no fat, hardly any flesh, and was

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 39 a sickly gray color. His cheeks were hollowed. The eyes had receded into their sockets. The same look my grandfather had, Simple thought. Cancer. “Sir, are you confused about how to treat guests?” Simple asked. “When someone comes calling, you invite them in and offer them coffee instead of leaving them standing at the back door in the hot sun, unless, of course, it‟s somebody pushing their religion. Then you can leave them standing there all damn day.” Emmett tilted his head, tight-lipped, staring. Simple wondered if the old man was pure ornery, or if he was simply one of those few people who didn‟t need company. Or perhaps he was like an animal who crawled into a hole to die alone. Hell, he thought, the place doesn’t even have a dog. “I‟ve never seen a ranch without a dog,” Simple said. “Don‟t you like pets either, or did you leave him on the porch so long he gave up and wandered off?” Emmett blinked. Simple pointed to the Bible and said, “Sir, are you a religious man?” Emmett said nothing. Simple tried another way to get the old bugger to talk. “Would you like me to fix you a sandwich? We stopped at Mable‟s Market and picked up some supplies.” “I don‟t want you here.” “So I gathered, but what I asked was if you wanted lunch.” “Are you deaf or just stuck on stupid? I said I don‟t want you here, so get the hell off my spread.” The house went silent except for the dripping faucet at the kitchen sink, which announced each passing second like

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 40 a timer ticking down to zero. Simple wanted to get off on a good footing, but he sensed that he needed to be firm in order to gain the old man‟s respect. He said, “Sir, you‟re my job, not my employer. So it doesn‟t make a damn what you want, unless, of course, it‟s a ham sandwich.” The old man brought a fist up to his face and wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his long johns, as if he felt some spittle oozing out of his mouth and he was trying to catch it before it reached his chin. He didn‟t look at Jude, who had become invisible in his grandfather‟s presence. “What‟s your name, boy?” Without waiting for a reply, he lifted his bottle of whiskey and took a long, hot swallow, then cuffed his mouth with his sleeve again. “People call me Simple, sir.” Emmett set the bottle on the table, then thumbed his hat further back on his head. His forehead was pale as a sheet and spotted like a robin‟s egg. “Who would throw that tag on another human being? I mean, what kind of silly son-of-a-bitch named you that?” “Truth is, sir, he was the kind of man that spent all day in his underwear, drinking whiskey from the bottle.” Simple had not intended to be insulting, and he hoped Emmett didn‟t take it that way. As far as he knew, Emmett was the only person that had ever asked that question. Everybody always assumes I got that tag from being stupid. Emmett nodded. “That‟s what I‟m down to. I lost my wife, got a ranch going down the toilet because I can‟t work, got a worthless son who‟s playing the big shot instead of working the ranch, and a sissy-boy grandson with staples in his face. Hell, I even lost my dog, a fine blue heeler; died on me last month.”

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 41 Jude banged his fist against the door frame. “Being gay doesn‟t automatically make me a sissy, Gramps, just like being a cripple doesn‟t automatically make you an asshole. Some things you have to work at.” “And now I‟ve got to put up with some smart-ass boy that I don‟t want near me,” Emmett said, ignoring Jude. “Yes, sir. That‟s what life comes down to in the end, losing everything, and the last to go is your dignity. Now that I‟ve lost that, I guess I‟m ready for the pine box.” Jude stepped toward the table, drawing the old man‟s attention to him, but before he could say what was on his mind, Simple said, “I‟m going to bring in the groceries and make myself a sandwich. You want one or not?” “I‟m going back to bed.” He coughed, covering his mouth with his long johns sleeve. Simple noticed that the sleeve was now stained red. He peered into Emmett‟s eyes and saw that the old man was already sliding into death. Could be a couple of weeks or a month, wouldn‟t be more. Emmett pressed both hands on the tabletop and tried to lift himself to his feet, but the effort proved too much for him, and he plopped back down. “Let me help you, sir,” Simple said. “Just pull me to my feet, and hand me that cane. And stop calling me sir. I ain‟t no fuckin‟ general.” Simple helped him up and passed him the walking cane that leaned against the wall. Emmett gathered his dignity around him like a blanket and fumbled his way across the kitchen at the glacial pace of a man whose every step triggered shards of pain. At the doorway to the living room, he stopped and turned his head. “Don‟t think you can sleep under my roof. There‟s a bunk in the tack room.” He fell silent, still staring at Simple as if

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 42 trying to think of what else to say, but then he turned his head, hobbled to the hallway, and faded from view. Jude stared at the floor. “What kind of kid hates his own grandpa? I mean, how sick is that?” “I can‟t do this,” Simple said. “Take me back to town.” Jude glanced up. “It‟s okay. He likes you.” “I‟m sorry, Jude. I can‟t.” “Jesus, you sure do take the prize for the earliest cut „n‟ run. I figured you for bigger balls.” Simple followed Jude out to the Bronco. As he opened the passenger door, Jude said, “I‟m pulling a double shift today, so I won‟t be back until nine. He‟ll go the whole day without food.” Simple stopped short of climbing in. He stared back at the house, then dropped his head. He felt himself falling, with no place to land. “It‟s a shame,” Jude said, “because he only had one meal yesterday.” Simple lifted his backpack from the passenger seat, shouldered it, and slammed the door shut. He opened the rear door and grabbed two grocery sacks. Jude smirked as he dropped a cell phone into one of the grocery bags. “My number is programmed into that. Call me if you need anything. I‟ll swing by in a few days with supplies.” Simple wanted to knock the smirk off Jude‟s face, but he only nodded. He carried the groceries toward the house as Jude climbed behind the steering wheel. The Bronco‟s engine started and revved a few times. It kicked up dirt as it raced down the road. Simple heard the rustling of wings and glanced up. Vultures had returned to the barn roof. He hurried into the house.

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 43 Simple, now alone in the kitchen, realized a terrible truth: the sound of a disappearing Bronco followed by pure silence. The quiet of oblivion. The silence of that dripping faucet, of gathering vultures, and the knowledge of the old man‟s rapidly approaching death. He snatched his journal and a pen from his pack, then opened it to a fresh page. 12 June 2007 I see hate in Emmett Bishop’s eyes. When he looks at me, he sees only one thing: time. My smooth skin and firm muscles have years and years more on earth. Slabs of time. Hours and years and decades of unblemished existence lie before me, promising the experience of new feelings, tasting new foods, loving new people, waking to a thousand sunrises. That makes me a god in his eyes—young and strong and full of promise—and that makes me someone to be envied, and therefore, despised. What a horrible thing is old age, or is it simply fear of death? Yes, death is devouring him, one miniscule bite at a time, and now he is mangled and bitter and nearly out of his mind with fear. He should have died with his wife, but he is a victim of technology. He was halfway through death’s womb, but it turned into a revolving door, and he is caught going round and round, not really alive or dead, just the endless turning. The doctors fused his back and used drugs to control the pain, but then they walked away, leaving this sad old man to face a life he never expected and doesn’t want. A vision flashed into Simple‟s mind. On a high mesa, Simple’s grandfather, in full tribal dress, dances while beating a small drum. The old man stops to stare at Simple. Tears

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 44 form in the old man’s eyes. “He has a way out, my son,” Grandfather’s voice echoed in Simple’s head. “Show him what we know.” “Get out of my mind, old man!” Simple shouted. “Show him,” Grandfather says. “I’ll help you.” Simple flung his journal across the room. “Stop.”

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Chapter Six WHILE Emmett wallowed in bed, Simple prepared a meatloaf. After sliding the pan into the oven, he ambled to the chicken coop, collected five eggs, then returned to gather the ingredients for brown gravy. That should be enough: meatloaf with gravy, fried eggs, fried potatoes, and coffee. He put a fresh pot of coffee on to brew and cleaned the old man‟s coffee cup which, as far as he could tell, had years of oily buildup inside. He scrubbed down the rest of the kitchen, and as the meatloaf cooled, he fried the eggs and potatoes. It all came together on a bone-china plate. He set the plate, coffee, napkin, and silverware on a tray and carried it twelve steps down the hall to the old man‟s bedroom, which was situated across the hall from the master bedroom. (According to Jude, nobody had set foot in the master bedroom since the accident.) He knocked on the door and waited for an answer. Silence. He shifted the tray to the flat palm of one hand and turned the doorknob with the other, easing the door open and slipping inside the dim room. Emmett lay in bed with the sheet pulled up to the middle of his chest. “I‟m awake,” Emmett said. “You hear me knock?” “I ain‟t deaf.” “Did you sleep any?” Simple crossed the room and placed the tray on the nightstand.

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 46 “More or less. I popped some pain pills, and they had me flying. It ain‟t much like sleep, but it ain‟t like being awake, either.” “Are you ready to eat, or should I keep this warm?” “Bring my whiskey.” “Liquor on an empty stomach is bad medicine.” Emmett reached for a tiny bottle on the nightstand and shook out two pills. He placed them under his tongue— Simple assumed it was morphine—then he asked Simple to help him sit up. Simple leaned over the bed and arranged both pillows against the headboard. He hooked Emmett under the armpits and muscled him into a sitting position with his back resting against the pillows, then slid the bed sheet up and set the tray on Emmett‟s lap. “Shall I spread your napkin over your chest, or can you manage?” “Your mama must be real proud she raised such a smartass.” Emmett relaxed, and Simple assumed that the pills were doing their magic. Emmett searched for something on the nightstand. Not finding what he wanted, he asked Simple to retrieve his dentures from the bathroom. Simple slipped down the hall and found the dentures sitting in a glass of water on the toilet tank. He carried it back to the bed and watched Emmett fish them from the water and set them in his mouth. Simple rested on the edge of the bed while Emmett ate, watching the old man‟s Adam‟s apple bob up and down as he swallowed. Emmett didn‟t comment on the food, but Simple could tell it was to his taste.

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 47 “What the hell is your real name?” Emmett said through a full mouth. “I will only divulge my true name to another warrior. If you ever recover your dignity and live like a warrior, then I‟ll tell you my name.” “Ha! I can just see me dancing naked around a campfire with feathers in my hair and stickin‟ out my ass. Fat chance that will happen. But why the hell do they call you Simple?” “It‟s a name my grandfather gave me before he died. He taught me the warrior way of living, which he said is a life rich in simple treasures.” “Your grandfather sounds a damned sight smarter than you are.” Simple lowered his head and his eyes brushed the bedcover. “Perhaps you‟ll get to meet him.” “You just said he was dead.” “He lives inside my head.” “You‟re not simple; you‟re fuckin‟ loony.” Emmett‟s face scrunched up with a question, but before he could ask it, Simple slipped off the bed and stepped to the window. He opened the curtains to let the afternoon light in. The shadows retreated as amber light slanted through the window. He studied the room, which was so austere that if the old man hadn‟t been lying in the bed, Simple would have guessed it was permanently unoccupied. An oak bed, cherrywood bureau, bedside table and reading lamp, throw rug, and a single picture on the wall, of a man nailed to a wooden cross. It dawned on Simple that Emmett kept this room starkly impersonal to lessen the offense of sleeping alone, as if the bedroom across the hall that he‟d shared with his wife was his real bedroom. What Simple couldn‟t quite figure out was

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 48 the picture on the wall. Why would anybody hang a picture of a man being tortured? It seemed so sadistic. “I dreamed about flying,” Emmett said. “What was that like?” “The sky was as blue as a sailor‟s eyes, with a few clouds whipped up around the edges.” “Oh yeah, how high were you?” “High enough to see the cosmos. From that far up, man is such a puny creature. Makes me wonder where all his vanity springs from. We‟re all fools. I could see a hundred miles, and all I could hear was the wind flowing over my feathers.” “Sounds delightful.” “It was better than making love.” “Is your memory that good?” Simple grinned. “I guess I should have cooked a duck.” Emmett let out a chuff of laughter. “Wish I‟d have been born an eagle. Wouldn‟t it be grand to ride the air currents a mile up?” He reached for his coffee and sipped. His smile vanished as he studied his mug. “God dammit! You dirty little fuck. You washed my mug. You have any idea how long it took me to build up the oil in that cup? The oil gives it flavor!” “Sir, you certainly have a fine color when you‟re on the scrap.” “Six years!” “I‟m surprised that cup didn‟t bite your nose off. Are you confused about why I‟m here? My job is to care for you. If I see something that needs cleaning, that‟s what I‟ll do.” “Not everything needs taking care of. Some things I like the way they are. And even if I need your help, you don‟t fool

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 49 me one damned bit. You and my worthless son are planning to lock me away and sell my spread.” “That is between you and Lance, Mr. Bishop. I‟m here because you‟ve chased off everyone else. The longer you stay here, the longer I keep this job.” A buzzing coming from down the hall drew Simple from the bedroom and led him to the kitchen. Simple grabbed Jude‟s cell phone and fumbled with the buttons until a voice came through. “Hello, hello. Simple, are you there?” “I‟m here. Who is this?” “Jude. How are you and Gramps getting along?” Simple smiled. “I‟ve tangled with meaner, but they walked on all fours and showed three-inch fangs.” A laugh came through the phone. “I can drop by. He likes you better than me, but with two of us he won‟t know who to aim at.” “We‟re fine. I just fed him.” “I‟ll swing by tomorrow, just to check up on things.” Simple smiled again, enjoying the warm tones in Jude‟s voice. “I‟d like that.” Simple closed the phone and ambled back to Emmett‟s bedroom. He gathered the tray of dirty dishes, examining the licked-clean plate. “You didn‟t like my cooking?” Emmett continued where he had left off, as if Simple had never left the room. “He thinks I‟m stupid, keeping me in the dark while he sneaks behind my back to butt fuck me with the rough end of a pineapple, but I have a few friends left, and they tell me things.” “If you have friends then you‟re a rich man, sir. What do they say?”

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 50 “Lance has a buyer, some real estate shark who plans to parcel the ranch into twenty-acre sections, build fancy logand-glass ranch houses, and sell them as ranchettes to the SUV crowd that‟s moving out of the cities. But to do that he‟s got to put me away, because I won‟t budge.” “I don‟t mean to interfere, but since he‟s going to grab your land eventually, have you thought about giving it to him and letting him parcel it out and make his fortune, with the understanding that you stay here in your home?” “He won‟t be satisfied unless he steals it all,” Emmett said. “He isn‟t content with the life I gave him, or even the life he‟s made for himself. He has two families, living in separate towns, two wives and seven kids, two fine houses, and a business to run. Why isn‟t he beaming with joy? Why does he still live a life that stings with envy, greed, and desire? From my point of view, just being able to stroll from the barn to the house and make love to one woman would make life a constant state of bliss, but apparently not his. With all his blessings, he still wants a twelve-inch dick, a full head of hair, and money in his wallet to impress the whores. It‟s my fault, I‟ll grant you. I raised him wrong. Although what I should have done different is a mystery.” The old man‟s speech became slower, and his voice was so rich with grief that Simple felt himself moved. “The American myth: I am what I own….” Emmett said, “The fact is, he‟d rather cheat you out of a dime than make an honest buck, because by cheating you, he not only gets your money, he proves to himself that he‟s smarter than you, and that‟s what he wants more than anything: to prove he is superior. He doesn‟t realize how foolish that makes him. And I know you‟re in cahoots with

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 51 him, but what I don‟t understand is what‟s in it for you? What would make you destroy a man you don‟t even know?” “You bet!” Simple said. “I can‟t wait to get my hands on that million-dollar check that‟s coming my way, once you‟re locked away. I‟m going to buy me a penthouse in New York City, put my feet up, and look down on the world. Boy, once you‟re gone, life will be sweet as… as cinnamon.” Amazement. Suspicion. Then, more slowly, comprehension and a knowing smile. “You sure had me going, you little jackass. I sure do hope when you‟re my age and with one foot in the grave, that some little smartass makes fun of you. Then you‟ll know.” “Sir, I don‟t deny that you nailed Lance dead center. As for what I‟m getting out of it, no self-respecting migrant worker would stoop for the wage he‟s paying.” “I don‟t believe a word. Why don‟t you two just kill me and get it over with? That‟s the only merciful thing to do.” A violent coughing fit gripped him, rocking his gaunt body back and forth. He grabbed a handkerchief from the bedside table and held it to his mouth. Red spots peppered the white cloth. As the fit retreated, he leaned back into the pillow, his body slack and boneless, all the strength gone out of him. “Your cancer seems to be doing a fair job of that without any outside help. Have you seen a specialist? They must have treatments, nowadays.” Emmett stared at Simple as if studying a bug under a microscope. Finally he said with a gurgling voice, “I see you‟re not so damned simple after all.” Another bout of coughing racked him, and he wiped more blood from his lips. “It‟s called oat cell carcinoma. So advanced it‟s inoperable. Those smug quacks said that chemotherapy would only

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 52 prolong it. They wanted to try some damned experimental treatment, but I told them I‟m no damned guinea pig.” Simple saw that he had the same resolved look on his face that his grandfather had had. And he wondered once again how he could remember some snippets of time so clearly, but the rest was a blur. “Does Lance know?” “Only two people in this town know, and they‟re both in this bedroom right now.” “Do you really mean what you said? Would you rather die than be put in a home?” “There‟s a .44 pistol in my wife‟s bedroom. Please, put it to my head and blow my brains out. Do it now. I can‟t stand to live like this another day.” Simple stood silent for a time. Then he said, “If you really mean that. If you‟re that deep into despair and already so close to death, then maybe I can help you.” “Help me to die?” “No. To live.”

BACK in the kitchen, Simple washed the dishes and poured himself a cup of reheated coffee. At the table, he opened his journal to a fresh page. 12 June 2007 Emmett doesn’t have the will to do what I have in mind. He’s talking nonsense about wanting to die. To perform a spirit transfer, he needs the strength of a warrior, and a warrior’s attitude is that he takes his lot, whatever it may be, and accepts it in humbleness. He humbly accepts life, not as grounds for regret or worry, but as a living

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 53 challenge to face life’s obstacles with dignity. At one time I hated the notion of being humble. Indians have always been humble while being spat upon by whites. But I know now that a warrior draws his strength from his humility. He is not humble like the beggar, who drops to his knees and scrapes the floor for anybody. A warrior lowers his head to nobody, but he also never looks down on anyone. The warrior knows his relationship to everything in the universe, and that defines his dignity. No better, no worse, no different that anything else. There is power in that knowledge. The question is, how to make Emmett understand?

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Chapter Seven THE next morning, Simple coaxed Emmett out of bed and made him eat his flapjacks at the kitchen table. Emmett still wore his long johns and boots, and he insisted on wearing his cowboy hat at the table. He didn‟t utter a single word throughout his meal, but afterwards, while Simple washed the dishes, he asked for his whiskey. Simple shook his head, not bothering to look Emmett in the eye. He told Emmett that they had work to do, and there would be no drinking until after they had finished. “Work! I can‟t move worth a shit, and my hands are shaking so bad from needing a drink that I could hardly eat. Besides, what work are you talking about?” “While doing chores, I saw a pair of Peregrines, and I want you to catch one.” Emmett sat open mouthed, staring. Simple explained that, since Emmett had asked for his help to die with dignity, he intended to do just that. But first, Emmett had to become a warrior, to harden his resolve, strengthen his will, be clear headed. That meant no booze and no drugs. Emmett‟s last act as a man would be to catch and tame a falcon. That act alone would make him a warrior and thus restore his dignity, before death took him. “What the hell does taming a falcon have to do with dignity? I mean, what‟s the point? Just shoot me, for God sakes.”

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 55 “In order to succeed, you must abandon all your selfpity, that you wallow in like a pig in shit, and act with an impeccable will. You must give up all other concerns… hopes… disappointments, and focus all your capacity on succeeding in this one task. That alone can restore your dignity. It will be your death dance, your last statement as a man, a declaration of who you are.” “You really are loop-the-fucking-loop. No wonder they locked you up.” “You‟re dying. You‟ll be dead even before Lance can steal your ranch. I‟m offering you an opportunity to regain your manhood before that happens. What have you got to lose?” Emmett lifted his cane. He swung and missed. “How dare you say that to me? Nobody talks to me like that in my own house.” “You know it‟s true. Why be afraid of saying it?” The old man closed his mouth, nodded his head. Simple asked, “Do you know what the word „valence‟ means?” Emmett shook his head. “It‟s the capacity of a person or thing to interact with or affect another being in some special way.” Emmett cocked his head to one side. “Talk English, goddamnit.” Simple explained that, as his grandfather‟s body lay dying, the old man‟s essence moved into his body, took over his mind. He didn‟t want to drive the old man out, because his Grandfather had no other body to return to, but Simple also wanted to maintain control over his own mind. So they fought for the possession of Simple‟s body, his being. That war consumed Simple‟s strength, energy, and for a time, his sanity. By the time he had overcome his grandfather, the

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 56 authorities had him in a padded cell and numb with opiates. They kept him in that state for five years. The drugs and the solitude had disintegrated his memory, killed his ability to remember anything new—a drug-induced Alzheimer‟s. “Or perhaps it was my grandfather. Perhaps he‟s stolen my memory as punishment for defeating him. Yes, I won possession of my mind, but he took my past.” “They should have never let you out.” “The point is, if my grandfather can live on in my body, why can‟t you live on in a falcon‟s body?” “Lunacy!” “You‟ve never heard of a split personality? Just what do you suppose causes that? Chief Crowfoot, of the Blackfoot tribe, said, „What is life? It is the flash of a firefly in the night. It is a breath of a buffalo in the wintertime. It is the little shadow that runs across the grass and loses itself in the sunset.‟ So who are you to say it can‟t be done? And like I said, what have you got to lose?” “I need a drink. I can‟t think like this. You‟re beginning to make sense.” Because of Simple‟s manner—bookish, uncomplicated, excessively earnest—he had the ability to make people believe outlandish things. He smiled, then told the old man that he couldn‟t drink because he had to become strong in mind in order to battle the falcon for supremacy of its body, like Simple had had to battle his grandfather. Indeed, the process of building a cage, catching and taming the bird, if done in a fervent manner, would infuse Emmett with new strength, making him a warrior. Emmett finally reconsidered, and feebly asked how to catch a falcon.

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 57 Simple beamed. He rushed into the living room where Emmett kept a desk filled with writing materials, then brought a clean sheet of paper and a pen back to the kitchen table. He sketched out a design for a bird trap, which consisted of a small oblong cage made of wood and chicken wire with loops of fishing line on top, which were essentially snares for the bird‟s talons. Simple explained that the cage would hold the bait, two or three live field mice, and when the falcon swooped down to nab the mice, the bird‟s talons would get entangled in the little slip-nooses of fishing line. The more it struggled to free itself, the tighter the nooses would become, and the bird would be caught. The cage was also designed to be like a mousetrap, with an ingenious way in to the bait, but no way out. “It looks too simple,” Emmett said, then laughed at his own joke. “Where did you learn how to design traps?” “Hell if I know. My Grandfather must have guided the pen.” Simple helped the old man to his feet, and they tottered out the back doorway and across the work yard to the barn. He gathered scraps of half-inch fencing wood, chicken wire, nails, and tools. Emmett busied himself at his workbench—measuring, sawing, and hammering. His hands shook badly from needing a drink. He could hardly hold the tools. He asked for Simple to hold the boards while he hammered nails, but Simple refused. “You‟re on your own, boss. This is your death dance, not mine.” “Lazy bastard.”

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 58 Simple heard the growl of an engine, and he strolled to the work yard as Jude‟s Bronco parked and Jude leaped from the cab. Jude held up a pizza box and said, “Thought you guys might be hungry, so I brought lunch. Bet you‟re surprised to see me so soon.” Simple cleared his throat, tried to speak but couldn‟t. He cleared his throat again. “You‟re speechless, it seems,” Jude scoffed. “You must be Jude?” “Duh! Am I so forgettable?” “I read about you this morning. Sorry, my memory gets flushed every night.” “You‟re playing with me, right?” “Wish I were.” They stood in silence for a moment, both staring into each other‟s eyes, neither knowing what else to say. Jude said, “So he didn‟t run you off. How‟s it going so far?” “Holding my own, I guess.” “It‟s more fun when you let someone else hold it for you,” Jude said with a wink. Simple didn‟t bat an eyelash. “It‟s great that you‟re here, because Emmett needs help.” A shout echoed from the barn, “Goddamnit!” Jude and Simple inched toward the barn door. “That is definitely a bad idea,” Jude said. “He hates me.” “Maybe he doesn‟t know you. Show him who you are.” “He‟ll sling shit at me,” Jude said. “Sling it back with a bigger shovel.” Jude shook his head.

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 59 Simple took the pizza box. “You‟ll be doing me a huge favor. Please help him while I get lunch together.” Simple stood at the barn door watching Jude amble to the workbench. The bench was a mess, and Emmett gave a constant flow of curses under his breath. “Hey, Gramps,” Jude said with a cautious tone, “let me help with that.” “You smell like a brewery, and it‟s not even noon,” Emmett said. “Even if you were sober, you can‟t see from all that shit around your eyes.” Jude glanced back at Simple and shook his head. Simple gave him an encouraging nod. Jude took a deep breath. “You‟re the last man who should lecture me on drinking. At least let me hold that board while you hammer.” “Well, make damn sure it‟s flush against this one.” Simple carried the pizza box toward the house. The smell of warm pepperoni had his stomach growling. A shout from the barn stopped him in his tracks. “Fuck! Watch it.” Simple recognized Jude‟s voice. “That will teach you to keep your goddamn fingers out of my way,” Emmett responded. Simple smiled and walked on.

LANCE waited at a booth in Pitt‟s Café, looking out the front window. He watched a car park at the curb—a big American bomb, mint condition, ‟62 Lincoln Continental with suicide doors, snowy white and polished to a high gloss. The front doors swung open, and two men scrambled out. They both carried black leather briefcases. The driver, Lester Brockman, had a goatee and shoulder-length hair the color

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 60 of day-old coffee. His black suit made him look like an undertaker. The other man, Ned Carter, appeared somewhat muscular, no doubt due to the padded shoulders in his slimcut, gray suit. Lance was envious of Ned because his hair was bleached an absolute white and laden with gel to give it a spiky, bed-head look, and his lizard-skin shoes rippled as if they were still alive. Lance wished he were young enough to pull off that youthful look. The two men waltzed into the café and crossed the room, heading for Lance‟s table. They both nodded as they slipped into the booth. Ned removed a topographical map from his briefcase and spread it over the table. Miss Fallon walked up to the table with a coffeepot in hand. She poured three coffees, set the pot on the table, and pulled her order pad from her apron pocket. “What‟ll it be, boys?” “Just coffee for me,” Lance said. Lester said, “We‟re hungry, but we can‟t stay long. We‟d like two steak sandwiches to go, and don‟t get stingy on the fries.” As Miss Fallon sauntered away, Ned‟s finger began to outline the grid lines on the map, explaining that they laid out the twenty-acre ranchette lots into an optimum configuration. “No wasted land,” Ned said. Lester pulled a stack of model-home pictures from his briefcase and spread them over the map. “These ranch homes are state of the art,” Lester drawled, “granite kitchens, double-pane windows, solar panels, all the latest yuppy upgrades. The builders are out of Vegas. None of these local hillbillies.” “First class all the way,” Ned said.

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 61 Lance selected two pictures, exterior and interior, and studied them. “In fact,” Lester said, “you may want to pick out one of these beauties for yourself. Wholesale, of course.” As Lance lifted two more pictures, Ned glanced at Lester and winked. Lance stared at the pictures for several minutes, but he looked up as Miss Fallon swung by to refill their coffee cups. He gave Ned a hard stare and asked, “What‟s my bottom line?” Lester shot Lance an easy smile. “Our finance people are still working the figures, but it looks to be in the two-million ballpark.” Lance shook his head. “It‟s worth four times that.” “Not to us,” Lester said. “Any more cuts into our profit.” “Look, Lance, be reasonable,” Ned said. “We‟re the ones putting up the development money, advertising, legal fees. We‟re taking all the risks. It‟s only right that we get a fair profit.” The frown on Lance‟s face deepened. Lester said, “Of course, if you need more, we‟re looking for investors. You put three million in, and you‟re a partner. That way, you get a full share. We‟re talking eight million, easy.” “I don‟t have that kind of money,” Lance growled. Ned waved a hand. “If you sign over the property at no cost, that‟s a two million buy-in. Then you only need to raise another million in cash.” “Put in one,” Lester said, “walk away with eight. That‟s pretty simple math.”

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 62 Lance studied the pictures again. Ned and Lester traded a look. Ned rolled his eyes. Lance finally dropped the pictures, but he couldn‟t look Ned or Lester in the eye. “Much as I‟d like to buy in,” Lance said, “I don‟t have the cash. I‟ll have to take your two million and walk.” Ned cleared his throat. “No worries. We‟ll find investors; the numbers speak for themselves. There‟s plenty of people out there willing to make some Fuck-You-Cheddar.” Miss Fallon strolled up and placed their to-go order on their table. She set the check between Ned and Lester, then topped off their coffee. Lance asked, “Fuck-You-Cheddar?” Lester explained, “That‟s enough money in the bank to be able to tell anyone and everyone to go fuck themselves.” Miss Fallon cackled. “Hell, I‟m flat broke and I can tell you cheese-dicks that any damn time.” As she sauntered away, Lester and Ned gathered the pictures and map and stuffed them back into their briefcases. Lance asked if he could keep a few pictures to show his wife, and Ned handed him several with a smile, then slid the food check across the table to him as well. Lance hesitated, giving Ned a look. “You‟re a millionaire now,” Ned said. “Act like one.”

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Chapter Eight THE temperature grew hot, even inside the barn where it was relatively cooler. The heat did much to sweat the alcohol out of Jude‟s system as he and Emmett spent the morning piecing together the bird trap. Emmett toiled through the heat. He worked carefully, without stopping. When his trembling hands made a mistake, bent a nail, or split a length of wood, he would spit a curse and begin again. He poured all his concentration into making the trap as reliable as possible. He followed the creed that any job worth doing was worth doing the best one could. It was obvious that he took serious pride in his work, and that fact made Simple wonder how nice a spread the ranch had been when Emmett was able to nurture it. A half century of working with his hands had made Emmett a proficient carpenter. Once the trap was completed, they all stood back and inspected the work with a visible satisfaction. Simple said, “You two are pretty good with a saw and hammer.” “Gramps did it all.” Jude lifted a hand and patted the old man on his shoulder. It was the first intimate gesture Simple had seen between the two men. “I always liked working with my hands,” Emmett said. “Speaking of hands,” Simple said to Jude, “you got any fingers left?” Emmett guffawed. “Nine. He‟s a quick learner.”

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 64 When the laughter died down, Simple suggested that they break for lunch and let the hot part of the day pass before doing any more. Simple walked to the back porch and shimmied his shirt over his head, then turned on the water faucet and soaked himself with the garden hose. Water glistened on his lean muscles. Jude helped Emmett shuffle toward the house. Emmett looked done in. Halfway to the porch, Jude bent and picked up a stone. He hurled it at the row of vultures perched on the barn roof. The birds flapped their wings but stayed put. Emmett gave them a weak curse, then continued to the back door. As Emmett slipped inside, Jude lingered on the back porch to stare at Simple‟s naked torso. “Peel your shirt off,” Simple told Jude. “I‟ll hose you down. It feels great.” “I‟ll wash up inside.” Simple scoffed. “What, you‟re so sweet you‟ll melt? Come on, it‟s boiling.” “Maybe later.” “What are you hiding?” Simple asked. “You got more rings under that shirt you‟re ashamed of?” “Fuck off.” “Must have hit a raw nerve,” Simple said as he turned the hose on Jude. Jude backed away, then turned and ran. Simple chased him for the length of the hose. Water streamed off Jude and his shirt plastered to his back. “Asshole!” Simple laughed. “Admit it. You feel better, right?” “I feel like planting my foot upside your ass.”

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 65 Emmett stumbled from the mudroom hefting a pumpaction shotgun. He aimed at the vultures on the barn roof and let go with a round. The birds scattered. “Get, you mangy bastards. I ain‟t carrion yet!”

THE house had turned into an oven, so Simple loaded a tray with plates of pizza, a pitcher of milk, and three glasses. He carried it to the barn, which was marginally cooler. He arranged bales of hay as a table and chairs and placed the tray on the center one. He, Jude, and Emmett sat on the outer bales, facing each other. While they ate wedges of pizza, Simple mixed peanut butter and grain from the chicken-feed barrel, then rolled the mixture into marblesized balls and placed them into the trap. Jude said, “Hey, Cowboy, you really expect to catch field mice with peanut butter?” Simple didn‟t answer. He stood and carried his pizza wedge and the trap outside the barn, eating another bite while he bent to place the trap in a good spot to attract field mice. He ambled back and sat facing the other two, telling them he bet there would be at least three mice in the trap by sundown. Emmett said, “When do you figure we‟ll do the deed?” Simple explained that they were ready to catch a falcon, but they were nowhere near ready to handle it. They first had to build a perch, sew a leather hood that would keep the captured bird calm, and make jesses, which were a kind of leash that attached around the bird‟s ankles so that it

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 66 couldn‟t fly away during the training process. They also needed thick leather gloves to be able to handle the bird. “I have one of Lance‟s leather jackets hanging in the hall closet. We can carve that up.” Jude grinned, obviously liking the idea that Lance was unwittingly contributing to this operation. Simple told Emmett that, if he felt strong enough, he and Jude could cut up the coat before supper and sew the hood and jesses before going to bed. That way they could set the trap at the crack of dawn, when the birds would be on the hunt. Emmett finished his lunch and began to put away his tools. His exhaustion didn‟t seem to dampen his satisfaction. But a sudden coughing fit had him doubled over, and he fell to the ground, gasping for air and coughing blood. Simple jumped to his aid, holding his head up. “Jude, run and grab the pills on Emmett‟s nightstand. Quick!” Jude took off at Concorde speed. He flew into the house and down the hallway, bursting into Emmett‟s room. He found the prescription bottle on the nightstand and read the label. Vicodin. Jude‟s lips spread into a full-on smile. He glanced out the window to make sure the coast was clear, then flipped open the bottle and shook five pills into his palm. He swallowed two and pocketed the other three, then took off for the barn at a dead run.

LANCE sat in his office, feet on the desk, shaving wood chips off his model Zero. A knock at the door lifted his head as a man entered. The man looked to be on the far side of fifty

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 67 years old, the bookish type that Lance had never trusted, yet his upright posture broadcast he took no bullshit from anybody—a modern-day Harry Truman. “If you‟re looking for equipment,” Lance said, “there are salesmen on the floor.” “Lance Bishop?” “Yup.” “I‟m Ben Akers, John Deere Western Region Sales Director. We met two years ago at the convention in Chicago.” Lance yanked his feet off the desk and dropped them on the floor. “I remember. What can I do for you?” Ben laid his briefcase in one chair and sat in the other. “Your rep, Howard Bowen, found some irregularities in your paperwork. He‟s had trouble getting timely information from you, so I‟m here to clear up this misunderstanding. I need a peek at your books, and I want to perform an inventory.” Lance‟s eyes shifted to the safe in the corner. “Lance, are you alright?” Ben said. “You look a little pale.” “They aren‟t here. My brother-in-law does my books.” Ben cleared his throat. “I‟m perfectly willing to drive to wherever he has them.” Lance hesitated, thinking fast. “He‟s out of town, I mean out of the country, for the next three weeks.” “I‟m afraid this can‟t wait. Howard has made some serious accusations, and unless we can get to the bottom of this quickly, my people will have to perform a formal audit and inventory.” The street noise filtering through the window grew loud in Lance‟s ears. He smiled. “That won‟t be necessary. Hell,

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 68 what have I got to hide? I just need time, and three weeks should do it.” Ben shifted in his chair, leaning forward. “I‟ll do an inventory today and browse through your sales receipts.” “An inventory and all those receipts are useless without my books. Let‟s set a meeting in two weeks.” Ben nodded. “I‟ll give you the weekend to retrieve your books. Either you hand over those books on Monday or meet with my auditors on Friday.” Lance swallowed hard as his smile faded.

EMMETT lay in bed, balancing a tray of food on his lap, reheated meatloaf with mashed potatoes and gravy. His movements were the slow, careful movements caused by exhaustion. Jude sat on the bed, using a razor blade to cut strips of leather from Lance‟s coat. Simple sat on a chair by the window, staring out at the growing darkness. Between mouthfuls, Emmett talked about the ranch. He had never been, he said, the kind to kick off his shoes and sit by the stove. He had loved working the land, and yet the ranch nowadays made him angry: the silent house, the old bay horse waiting in the pasture, the odor of windfall apples rotting under the trees. Simple knew that Emmett equated the disintegration of the ranch with his own failing health, and he was frustrated because all he could do was accept it. Jude said, “I took some of your pain pills. They‟re way strong. What‟s wrong with you that you need horse tranquilizers?” Emmett swallowed his food. He nodded to the coat in Jude‟s hands. “Cut those in wider strips, son.”

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 69 “Maybe Lance is right,” Jude said. “Maybe you should be in a hospital or something?” Emmett again shifted the conversation on Lance. He claimed that the town was brimming with men who were dull and honest, and that Lance stood out in that crowd. Emmett was convinced that his boy was highballing down the road to ruin, and he wanted to guide Lance back onto the moral path, but Lance had refused his help at every turn. Letting Lance sell the ranch would only slow his descent, a speed bump on the road before hitting the wall. The only way for Lance to redeem himself, in Emmett‟s humble opinion, was to bring one of his families (or even both) here to work the ranch—clean, back-breaking, honest work. Emmett talked more than he had in the last year. He said so himself, with a tone of surprise lifting his voice. Simple and Jude listened, giving the old man plenty of time to speak his mind. They both seemed to understand that Emmett needed to tell his story, that he had kept it bottled up for years, and he had to get it out. And they were happy to oblige, to let the old man vent, to purge himself of all that pent-up frustration. After two hours, Emmett ran down, became silent, and finished the last of his gone-cold dinner. While Simple gathered the dinner tray and walked out of the room, Jude told Emmett, “Thank you.” “What the hell you thanking me for?” “Who else do you tell your troubles to?” “My dog, Smoke. But the damn thing up and died on me. Guess he couldn‟t stand to hear me whining any longer.” Simple strolled back into the room. He traded soulful looks with Jude.

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 70 “I should leave and let you rest,” Jude said. “I‟ll swing by tomorrow.” Simple cleared his throat. “I‟d like that.” Emmett laid his hand on Jude‟s forearm, stroked the pale skin. “Thanks for helping me today. I‟m grateful, I truly am.” He shook Jude‟s arm, warm and friendly. “But don‟t come back if you‟re wearing that makeup and those staples on your face. I love you, son, but I can‟t stand to see you looking like some LA pimp.” Jude pulled away, stood, and took a step toward the door. Simple laid a hand on Jude‟s shoulder. “I want you to come back, no matter what you look like.” Jude was too upset to speak. He nodded to Simple, then marched out of the house. As the sound of the Bronco‟s engine roared in the still air, Simple stared at Emmett, shaking his head. “He‟s the only one that cares about you, and all you notice is his eye shadow? You think you look any less ridiculous, running around in long underwear?” Emmett turned his head to glance out the window, watching the red taillights getting smaller. “He didn‟t come here to see me.” Emmett plucked a needle and a spool of thread from the nightstand. He tried to thread the needle, but his hands were shaking too badly. “Jesus H. Christ. I need a drink to steady my hands.” Simple took the needle, threaded it, and passed it back to Emmett. “Nice try, boss.” While Simple washed the dishes and cleaned the kitchen, Emmett sewed together the hood and jesses. His hands trembled, but he worked steadily, with keen

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 71 concentration and without complaint. He also cut out a pattern for leather gloves that would shield his hands and forearms from razor-sharp talons, but by the time he had finished cutting, his exhaustion overpowered him. Simple examined the old man‟s work on the hood. The stitching was tight and uniform. As with the building of the cage, it was obvious that Emmett took pride in doing any job well. Simple‟s expectations rose a notch as he turned out the lights and strolled out the back door. Starlight guided him across the work yard, and in the tack room he crawled into his blankets and wrote in his journal while he waited for sleep.

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Chapter Nine THE morning began cold and clear, with a solid, blue dome stretched from horizon to horizon. Simple woke before dawn, pulled on his jeans and shirt, then slid his feet into his boots and stomped on the floorboards to seat them full on. He dug out his journal and read the last ten pages. Then, after feeding the livestock and milking the sorrowful old cow, he fried up six strips of bacon and scrambled four eggs. He ate breakfast with Emmett while watching the sunrise. When the sun was full up, he piled the dirty dishes in the sink and walked out to the barn to retrieve the mousetrap, which now held four cringing field mice. He scanned the sky and saw two specks in the distance, drifting on the currents. He knew that the falcons were scouting the ground for movement, and he hoped they‟d be able to spot the mice inside the cage. He grinned as he carried the mice back to the house. After dragging a rocking chair onto the front porch, he assembled all the gear. Emmett shuffled onto the porch. While Simple was retrieving the mice, Emmett had gone into his bedroom and pulled on a plaid shirt and bib overalls. It was the first time Simple had seen Emmett wearing anything but his long underwear. Simple nodded, telling Emmett he now looked like a rancher instead of a nut case.

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 73 Emmett huffed. “Don‟t make a damn what I look like. I still feel like warmed-over dog shit. My hands are having fits, and my gut is doing cartwheels.” “Put your mind on sewing those gloves, and you‟ll feel better. I‟ve already threaded a half-dozen needles for you. With any luck, we‟ll need them within the hour.” “Don‟t you wait on me. I‟ll have them done by the time you catch that bird.” “I‟m not worried,” Simple said. “It‟s your fingers that are at risk, not mine.” Emmett picked up the cut pieces of padded leather, selected a threaded needle, and went to work. Simple studied the bird trap. He was sure it was heavy enough to keep the bird from flying off with it. The mice cowered in one corner, as if fully aware of the terror that would soon rain down on them. He carried the trap into the pasture beside the barn and set it atop a rounded boulder. He glanced back at the house, about two hundred yards away, making sure the trap was in view of the front porch. Then he strolled back to the house, dragged another chair onto the porch, and sat down to wait. Within ten minutes he was up again, pacing the porch— fifteen paces long and four paces wide—while watching the falcons working the sky to the north. What if they don’t come? he wondered. And if they do, what if the trap can’t hold them? What will I tell the old man? A half hour drifted by. Emmett occasionally glanced up as he worked his needle. Simple paced and watched the sky as if in a trance. Finally he walked inside, reheated the coffee, and brought two cups back to the porch. It seemed that the pair of winged raptors were gliding south, toward the trap, but he wasn‟t sure. His coffee cooled

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 74 while he continued to scan the sky, almost willing the birds nearer. Another hour crawled by before he knew for sure that they were moving away to the west. Emmett lifted his head, scanned the sky. “Didn‟t you say we‟d be needin‟ these gloves soon? Hell, I could have made me a Stetson hat and matching boots by now.” “They‟re moving off to the West. Looks like we‟re done for the day.” “What‟s the next highfalutin‟ idea, Einstein?” Sick with disappointment, Simple was about to call it quits when he heard a high-pitched screech from overhead. Soaring above the trap, a third falcon wheeled in tight circles as it eyed the movement in the cage. It swooped, talons outstretched. Simple held his breath, admiring the terrifying beauty of the attack. He felt a gut-wrenching stab, as if he were a mouse inside the cage, looking up. Emmett uttered an inarticulate sound, showing he was equally as enthralled. As the bird‟s talons came within inches of closing on the live bait, they met resistance from the chicken-wire cage. The bird screeched while trying to lift itself from the cage, but thanks to the fishing line slip nooses, it was tangled like a fly in a web. The bird‟s wings flapped, but the harder it fought, the tighter the nooses cinched around its talons. Simple said, “Hope you‟re done with those gloves, because we need them now.” Without waiting for a reply, he ran into the house and flew back out a moment later carrying a red wool blanket. He dashed to the struggling bird and threw the blanket over the bird and the cage, then carried the bundle back to the house and into the kitchen, placing it in the center of the table.

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 75 Emmett tottered into the room, moving as fast as he was able. Both his hands and forearms were sheathed in black leather, and he carried the hood and jesses that would tie the bird to the perch. Simple took the hood and jesses, then he lifted the red blanket off the bird. It opened its wings and tried to fly, but it only struggled over the trap. Emmett approached the bird from behind. He closed his gloved hands over the frantic wings and folded them to the bird‟s compact body. The bird‟s beak bit into his leatherbound fingers. Simple and Emmett stood, frozen by wonder. They couldn‟t take their eyes off the bird or even utter a sound. Brown and white and red, the feathered hunter had a noble, curved beak and razored talons, boasting that it was a match for anything its own size. Its deep-set eyes showed no sign of fear or pity, but rather, it seemed offended by the vulgarity of its imprisonment. Simple slipped the hood over the falcon‟s head, and it became sedate, not even trying to bite Emmett‟s gloved hands. Simple tied the jesses around both ankles, then used scissors to cut away the fishing-line nooses holding the bird to the cage. Once free of the cage, it stepped onto Emmett‟s gloved arm without the slightest incident and sat there as if awaiting a firing squad. “What now?” Emmett said. “Shit, we forgot to build a perch.” “Well, dammit, do something. I can‟t hold him all day.” Simple ran out the back doorway and crossed the work yard. He found a four-foot length of two-by-four scrap lumber in the barn and carried that back to the house. He

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 76 placed two kitchen chairs back to back, about three feet apart, then secured the two-by-four between them. He wrapped the red blanket around the wood to pad it. Emmett coaxed the bird onto the perch while Simple tied both jesses to the perch to keep the bird secure. “What now?” Emmett asked again. “You can start by cutting up one of those mice to feed it. Once it‟s calm and fed, we‟ll begin the training.” “What‟s the point in that? Once I‟ve made the transfer, I‟ll want to fly free.” “The training is not for the bird, it‟s for you. It will allow you to form a bond with it.” Emmett nodded. “Can you give me a taste of what it‟s like? I mean, so‟s I don‟t feel so damned foolish about doing all this to a poor creature.” Simple lowered his voice, as if he were disclosing a confidential matter to Emmett. “I‟m going to utter perhaps the greatest piece of knowledge anyone can voice,” he said. “Let‟s see what you can do with it. Do you know that at this moment you are the physical image created by your own mind? And do you know that you can change that image, if you so desire?” After a long pause, during which Simple urged the old man, with a subtle movement of his eyes, to make a statement, Emmett shook his head and confessed that he didn‟t understand. “Everything has consciousness—a rock, a tree, a bird, a man—and each thing‟s consciousness determines what that thing‟s form is. Your consciousness can change into something different,” Simple said, pointing to the bird.

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 77 They stared at each other. Emmett‟s eyes held a question. “What do you say to that?” Simple asked, coaxing the old man to ponder his words. Emmett didn‟t know what to say. He shook his head again. “This is not some silly riddle; it‟s a fact. You can use this knowledge to take the totality of yourself into some other form. Over the next few days, while you put your affairs in order, you must spend as much time as possible with this bird. You must become intimate with this form, know it in your marrow. But for now, let‟s see if I can give you a glimpse from a bird‟s eye view.” Simple slipped the hood off the bird while Emmett extracted a mouse from the cage, quartered it with a kitchen knife, then hand fed the bird. Afterwards, Simple passed Emmett his cane and told him to beat out a rhythm on the floor. Simple slapped the table with the palm of his hands to demonstrate the rhythm, one dominant beat followed by five progressively softer beats. Emmett tapped the floor with his cane, thumping the wood, again and again, copying the same particular rhythm that Simple had demonstrated. Once the proper beat was established, Simple kicked off his boots and moved to the center of the room. He began to dance. His movement gravitated into a twirling motion that spun him around in a tight circle while he sang a tribal song. Both the bird and Emmett watched the mesmerizing movement, listened to the long flowing vowels tumbling from Simple‟s lips. Twenty minutes passed, then another twenty. Emmett continued to beat the floor while Simple spun.

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 78 The universe slid away while Simple focused all his attention on the dance, the song, and Emmett. While still twirling, his consciousness expanded until it reached across the room and caressed Emmett‟s mind like a mink glove. Two beings merged. Simple felt the old man‟s fear and awe. Emmett did not resist as Simple shined their combined consciousness on the bird. They reached across the table as one and fused with the feathered body. The bird blinked, and Emmett and Simple stared out through those piercing eyes. At first it was like seeing a candle flame, flickering close to one‟s eyes, but then the vision cleared until they watched a remarkable scene in the kitchen. Emmett‟s body was slumped over in his chair, lifeless, and Simple‟s body sprawled on the floor. There was also a faint image of a withered old Indian, spinning around and around in full tribal dress. Seconds ticked by like years. The bird blinked again, then movement outside the window turned its head. A car was driving up the dirt road. The sound of an engine grew louder. The bird blinked again and Simple felt himself return to his body. He staggered to his feet and stood facing Emmett. Emmett‟s eyes were open, unblinking. The blood had drained from his face, making him look in desperate need of a transfusion. “Are you okay?” Simple asked. Emmett uttered an unintelligible sound, and his eyes pooled with water. Finally he nodded his head. Simple watched a dilapidated ‟84 Ford Bronco, gunmetal gray with rust spots on the fenders, pull into the work yard and park by the barn. The engine died and the

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 79 driver‟s door creaked open. A young man leaped out of the driver‟s seat. He walked toward the back door. Emmett had recovered enough to mumble, “Who was that old Indian dancing?” “My grandfather.” “I didn‟t really believe….” “I helped you this time. Next time, you‟ll need to make the leap yourself; then it‟s up to you to fight the falcon for supremacy. For that you‟ll need an iron resolve.” A knock at the back door sounded like the tolling of a bell.

LANCE stared across an executive desk at Winston Chong, the Loan Officer at the State Street Commerce Bank. Winston had gray at his temples and wore the spectacles of a bookkeeper. He shook his head. “Lance, I want to help, but your business is already over-extended.” “I‟ll put up both my houses,” Lance said, without trying to mask the pleading tone in his voice. “Now, Lance, you know they aren‟t worth a million.” “I‟ll throw in my truck. It‟s not even a year old.” “You could throw in your firstborn, and I couldn‟t loan you half what you need.” Lance stood and began pacing back and forth in front of the desk. Other people in the bank stared, but Lance didn‟t even see them. His focus zeroed in on Winston‟s stony face. “Winston, you owe me,” Lance said, loud enough for everyone in the bank to hear. “I gave your worthless son-inlaw a decent job.”

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 80 Winston held up both hands, palms up. “Lance, the bank has regulations.” “I‟m desperate. If I can‟t get this money, I‟m going under.” “Lance, I want to help. I do. If you put up both your houses, I can go a half million, tops.” “If I don‟t get this loan today, your son-in-law gets fired tomorrow. You want him back at your house, eatin‟ your food while you listen to those three squallin‟ brats?”

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Chapter Ten LANCE rushed into Pitt‟s café and crossed the floor to a booth where Lester and Ned sat drinking coffee. He slid in next to Ned. “I tried to raise the million, but the bank would only go seven fifty.” Lester flashed a smile and held out his hand across the table. Ned pulled his wallet from his pocket and handed Lester a twenty-dollar bill. Lester beamed. “We had a bet. And we‟ve already made an executive decision to bring you on as a full partner, regardless of how much cash you put in, because you‟re our kind of player. Welcome aboard, partner!” They were all shaking hands when Miss Fallon wandered up, holding a coffeepot. “You want coffee, Mr. Bigshot?” she asked Lance. Lance, still glowing, said, “Naw, I can‟t stay.” “Well, shit. You ruined my whole day.” She turned and walked away. “Okay, partner,” Ned said, “there‟s a wrinkle that came up, and we need to move up the time lines.” “Great!” Lance said. “The sooner, the better.” “Opportunity waits for no man,” Lester said. “We need the deed papers and the money by tomorrow.” Lance‟s eyes grew cartoonishly large. “Tomorrow?”

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 82 SIMPLE opened the back door. Jude stood on the porch. His face looked scrubbed and pink and had no makeup or rings attached. He wore sunglasses, jeans, a green T-shirt, and dirt-brown cowboy boots. Simple wondered who this handsome man could be. Jude smiled. “Hey, Simple.” Simple cocked his head to one side as his heartbeat quickened. “Have we met?” “Oh, right. I‟m Jude, Emmett‟s grandson.” “Of course. I read about you in my journal this morning. I was expecting makeup and earrings. Come in. I‟ll put some coffee on.” Jude stepped into the mudroom, paused, and took off his sunglasses. Simple looked away. His ears burned and he couldn‟t bring himself to look into Jude‟s eyes. Jude stepped forward, close enough for Simple to catch a whiff of talcum powder and sweat-moistened skin. “I‟d love to read them some time. Your journals, I mean.” Simple offered him a half smile and pointed to his right, inviting Jude into the house. “Emmett‟s in the kitchen.” Jude sauntered into the kitchen but stopped dead as soon as the falcon came into view. Emmett sat in a chair at arm‟s length from the perch, feeding it another quartered mouse. “Holy Shit, Gramps. What are you doing?” “What the fuck does it look like? I‟m feeding my bird. Or was that some kind of trick question?” Jude sat at the table and stared, mesmerized by the bird‟s noble beauty. Simple busied himself at the sink, filling the coffeepot and putting it on a burner. The flame swathed it in blue.

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 83 Emmett finished his feeding and turned his attention to Jude, who still couldn‟t take his eyes off the bird. “Now you look like a man. You have no idea how that lifts my heart, son.” “You look better yourself. I overheard Lance telling Mama that he‟s bringing Judge Bradley out here tomorrow to have you committed. He‟s gonna put you in a sanatorium.” The pain in Emmett‟s face became visible, then deepened. “Son, I hope you never treat your father the way he treats me.” “As sick as you seem, maybe he‟s right. I mean, what will happen to you if you stay here?” “Well, don‟t go underestimating me, son. I‟ve got a surprise cooking that will teach that nose pick a thing or two.” Jude managed a smile, but it fell short of being convincing. Emmett cleared his throat. “Now, help me out here. You cut up those mice while I feed her.” Simple pulled coffee mugs from the cupboard. “The idea is to get her to come to you when you whistle. So whistle before you offer food. Then hold your arm out and see if she‟ll step onto your arm to get it.” Jude reached into the cage and seized a mouse. He grabbed the knife on the cutting board, then closed his eyes before he cut off the rodent‟s head. Emmett whistled and offered the bird food. “Tell me something, son. If I left the ranch to you, what would you do with it?” Jude jerked his head up. “I don‟t want it. Soon as I scrape together enough money, I‟m gonna blow this town and hightail it to San Francisco.”

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 84 “So you‟d sell it?” “Gramps, I have no interest in living out here with nothing but the cows to keep me company.” Emmett held his arm inches from the perch, whistled, then offered food. The bird stepped onto his arm to feast. “Ha! Look at that. Son, let‟s put our heads together and see if we can find a way to save this ranch. I‟d like to lure your father back here to work the land. The problem is, if I give him the ranch, he‟ll sell it and squander the money on his hot-shot business deals. But if we can save it, then our family could make something of this place and have a decent living here for generations to come.” Emmett coaxed the bird back onto the perch. Jude handed him another quarter. He held his arm a foot from the perch and whistled. Jude said, “He‟d never work the ranch.” With a flick of its wings, the bird hopped onto Emmett‟s arm and greedily took the food. “If he can‟t pay his debts,” Emmett said, “he‟ll sure as shit lose his tractor business. How else can he make a living?” The coffee started to percolate. Simple turned the gas down a notch before it bubbled out the spout, then told them that the coffee would be ready in two minutes and to help themselves. He asked Emmett if he‟d be okay alone with the bird. “You go ahead with your chores,” Emmett said. “I‟ve got this covered. Who knew it would be so easy?” Simple ambled through the mudroom and out the back doorway. As the screen door slammed behind him, he heard a flutter of wings and an angry screech. The kitchen seemed to explode into a madhouse.

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 85 Simple smiled as he shook his head and stepped off the porch. He crossed the work yard to the tack room, then returned a few minutes later, carrying his journal. He sat on the front porch and reread the last ten pages, to refresh everything that had happened to him since coming to Saint George, then he randomly flipped to a page here, a page there, trying to understand the forces that brought him to this porch. Finally, he turned to a fresh page, pulled a pen from his shirt pocket, and wrote about Jude, how being near him felt like a cup of cold well water on a blistering day. He filled an entire page, then half of another, before Jude sauntered onto the porch, wearing a cool grin. Jude plopped down beside Simple. Their shoulders brushed. Simple caught a whiff of talcum powder again, and underneath that was still the faint scent of man sweat. He felt the urge to drape an arm across Jude‟s shoulders and draw him nearer, but he suppressed it easily enough. He stared at the sky, watched the sun inch across a patch of blue. “You seem so content,” Jude said. “Of course. The work is easy, and your Grandfather is interesting.” “I‟ve heard him called lots of things, but never that.” “Maybe you should stick around long enough to form your own opinion?” “Don‟t you long for excitement, for something more than watching the horses graze?” “Horses are gorgeous. Everything here is beautiful and peaceful.” “Don‟t you miss the outside world?” “What‟s to miss?”

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 86 “Strolling down city streets, rare steak dinners in restaurants, going to the movies on Friday nights, baseball games and beer on Saturdays, falling in love.” “I don‟t think I‟ve ever done any of those things. I do most of my living inside, so it doesn‟t much matter what‟s going on around me. Guess I‟m just simple.” He cracked a half smile. “There‟s a beautiful, exciting world out there. I can‟t wait to get to San Francisco. Thinking about it is all that keeps me from slashing my wrists.” “I‟ve been reading about that outside world.” Simple held up his journal. “It spit on me because of the color of my skin. It locked me in a nuthouse, pumped me full of drugs, and treated me like an animal. Here I can be happy. Out there I‟m a failure.” “Happy? Do you mean cooking for my grandfather? Do you really enjoy his company?” “I‟m happy right now, talking with you.” “Can I read some of that?” Simple handed him the journal, saying that this volume went back to the beginning of the year. He had five others. Then he stared at the horizon again, going silent as a stone. Jude randomly selected pages to read: 11 March 2007 The staff orderlies hate me. They call me “Shitting Bull” for ignoring them, and for being an Indian. One nurse, Miss Walker, calls me “Redskin” and said there is no difference between “niggers and redskins.” It’s the one thing that she and I agree on. The way she said it, however, makes me feel sorry for her because it shows that she doesn’t know what it

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 87 means to be human. Wish there were a way to show her what she is, what we all are. 13 April 2007 This morning four orderlies filled a tub with ice water and forced me into it, holding me under until I was blue. More than once I thought I would drown before I froze to death. I found out afterwards that they were acting on Miss Walker’s orders. I can’t imagine what makes a person so hateful. 15 May 2007 Little did I know when it happened that Miss Walker did me a gracious favor with those damned ice baths. A month in the hospital, fighting off pneumonia, has set off an investigation. Miss Walker and two of the orderlies have been let go, and they will release me once I can travel, with the stipulation that I sign some agreement stating that I will not press malpractice charges. Jude read until lunchtime, then he shared ham sandwiches with Simple and Emmett. After the meal, he returned to the journal and read until the sunlight started to fade. He flipped to the last ten pages and read each one. He closed the journal and draped his arm across Simple‟s shoulders, squeezing Simple‟s neck. “No wonder you don‟t remember. I wouldn‟t want to remember that either. Is it true that your grandfather lives inside your head? I mean, he‟s not just your imagination?” “Everything in that journal is gospel. Of course, people say I‟m loony, so don‟t take it seriously.” “Then Emmett was really inside the bird?” When Simple nodded, Jude continued, “That‟s just like him. I grew up

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 88 hearing wild stories about him. He never did fit the Mormon farmer mold, and he sure wasn‟t—isn‟t—afraid of being different. Guess I‟ve always respected him for that.” Jude paused. “And is he really dying of cancer?” Simple nodded again. “You know, growing up, I never saw very much of him. He was never the type to play with children. The only things he ever needed were his wife, his dog, and this ranch.” Jude went silent for a moment, staring off to the distant mountains. “But I‟ve been coming out here once a week to check on him. He tells me stories about the old days, about some of the things he used to do. Some of his stories are bloodcurdling, although I know most of them are exaggerated.” “So you don‟t believe him?” “Oh, I think he has great fun pretending that he‟s John Wayne, but underneath he‟s an old softy.” “I‟ve only known him for a few days, but I‟d hardly consider him a softy. I‟d call him formidable.” “Formidable, yes. He fights with everyone, especially Lance. But other than the gay issue, he‟s not that way with me. Maybe it‟s because I‟m his grandson instead of his son. That makes a difference, I think, not so many battlegrounds to share.” “That sounds pretty shrewd for a country boy.” Jude laughed, quietly, affectionately. “Can you remember what your grandfather was like?” Simple shrugged. “He was about seven feet tall, ate rattlesnakes raw and all the coyotes he could trap. He had a scar clean across his face from a knife fight and eyes that glowed red when he was drunk. And on nights with a full moon, he drooled and—”

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 89 “Right,” Jude scoffed, “and I‟m Mary Poppins.” “Anyway, I was small and frightened of him. Guess I still am. Truth is, he‟s slowly taking me over again. I can feel him getting stronger.” “What will happen to you if he takes over?” “I don‟t know,” Simple said. Jude lifted the journal. “And what you wrote about me—” His voice softened and seemed bashful, “—that‟s true as well?” “Every word.” Jude pulled Simple closer. They kissed. A hesitant, shy kiss. Then, for the first time, Simple gazed into Jude‟s eyes. They seemed to glow from deep within. Jude said, “I need to go now. If I come back tomorrow, will you remember how you feel about me, and that I feel the same way about you?” “I‟ll keep you in my thoughts until I see you again, if you stay clear of drinking and those pills you take,” Simple said. Then he leaned forward and their foreheads touched. For the first time in years, Simple had something he wanted to hold on to. Their lips brushed again, and Jude playfully ruffled Simple‟s hair. “That‟s the first time anyone has ever cared enough to ask me to stop,” Jude said. They heard Emmett shuffling through the house, and they both stood as he fumbled through the doorway. He leaned heavily on his cane. Jude shifted his feet, cleared his throat. “I‟ll be going now, Gramps.” He looked Simple in the eye. “But I‟ll be back tomorrow.” Simple tipped his head to one side and smiled.

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 90 “Good,” Emmett mumbled. “We‟ll transact our business with the judge and Lance to witness it.” Jude ambled toward his truck. Halfway there he stopped and turned, asking Simple if he could take some of the other journal volumes to read. He said it fast, as if to get it out before he lost his nerve. “Tell you what,” Simple said, feeling the pulsating beat of his heart behind his eyes. “Tomorrow we‟ll read them aloud to each other. They‟ll be as new to me as they will be to you.” “I‟d like that,” Jude said. Then he hurried to his Bronco. The engine roared to life, and Jude‟s arm waved out the open window as he pulled onto the dirt road. Emmett seemed to study the Bronco‟s dust as it drifted on the breeze. “I never saw two boys more queer for each other than you two. No, no. Don‟t get me wrong. I‟m grateful, truly grateful. Jude is a decent boy, hardworking and kind. But a queer boy in this town doesn‟t have many suitors knocking on his door. He needs a man who‟ll do right by him. Maybe if you two settle down together, he‟ll give up that silly-ass idea of running off to San Francisco.” Simple held the screen door open while Emmett lurched back into the house, all the time thinking that the idea of going to San Francisco with Jude sounded very alluring.

AT

FOUR in the morning, Simple still held the image of how

the dappled sunlight had danced in Jude‟s eyes. He longed to nuzzle his face into the soft hollow above Jude‟s collarbone. He replayed their conversation over and over, felt his lips brushing Jude‟s, warm and sensual. He tossed, turned, stared at the ceiling, then the wall, envisioned Jude‟s

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 91 smile lighting up the room, felt the delicious anticipation of seeing him in the flesh again. He pulled on his jeans and stepped outside. A chilly wind whistled over the curved length of his bare torso, raising goose bumps. He stood in the silvered light of the half moon, glancing up at a star-riddled sky. Crickets chirped. Soon the eastern sky would lighten, and Samson, the bantam rooster, would announce the dawn. Simple‟s bare feet stepped across the hard-packed earth and suddenly, for the first time since his grandfather‟s death, he felt like he had come home. After years of loneliness and hardship, of being treated like so much trash, he had arrived at the place he wanted to settle. He felt a wave of satisfaction wash through his center. At the same time, he knew that within a week or two, Emmett would either abandon his body or be institutionalized, and Simple would be forced to leave this ranch. “Jude,” he whispered to the sky. He took a last look at the stars, making a wish as he breathed the cold air. Then he sauntered back to the tack room and sat on his bunk, waiting for Samson‟s call. He knew that if he didn‟t force his attention on it, Jude‟s image would return to the front of his mind and stoke his passion, which would warm his shivering body.

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Chapter Eleven DAWN spread a glassy, orange hue over the landscape, staining the river a dull rust color. The cold air sweetened as it coursed over the meadows. Simple tramped to the kitchen, put coffee on to percolate, then stepped to the sink and removed his shirt. He sloshed hot water on his upper body, lathered with dish soap, then rinsed with a wet washcloth and dried with a dishrag. When the coffee was ready, he poured a mug and carried it down the hall. He intended to help Emmett prepare for the judge‟s visit, but Emmett did not respond to his knock. He knocked again, harder, then opened the door. The room was luminous. Simple, still standing at the doorway, gasped. The curtains were drawn, the windows wide open. Although the room was filled with nothing more than the ordinary light of a country sunrise, it seemed to Simple as if a silent camera flash had discharged. The bed, the dresser, and the picture of Jesus on the cross were revealed in their stark shoddiness, making the room seem even smaller, almost wretched, like an expression of the cancer eating at Emmett‟s body tissue. “Boss?” Simple called. “I‟m at the window.” Sure enough, Simple focused on the naked figure straddling a windowsill, with one emaciated foot on the hardwood floor and the other, out of Simple‟s view, dangling out the open window.

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 93 “I brought coffee.” “The sunrise is glorious. I can‟t wait to see it from a mile up.” “Are you okay?” Simple asked. “I‟ve been up all night, staring at the moon, trying to figure out what happened to me yesterday. The cold air helps me think.” Emmett‟s face showed a venerable, yet childlike wonder. A sparse pelt of gray hairs covered the surprisingly meager mass of muscles, stubbornly clinging to his skeleton. His blue-white skin shimmered in the light. Simple moved toward the windowsill while holding out the coffee. He told the old man that what happened was not something the intellect could understand. Emmett said, “It‟s terrifying to think that a body is just some flesh-and-blood vehicle that you can leave at the side of the road and buy a newer model. At the same time, it‟s so comforting. I didn‟t have a clue until you connected me with that bird.” Emmett raised his outside leg and swung it into the room. His fleshless buttocks remained pressed to the wooden sill. Taking the coffee from Simple, he sipped and moaned, either from the warmth, the flavor, or both. Then he scratched his gray wedge of pubic hair. “You missed the mark if you‟re still thinking of yourself as being separate from everything else. You, me, and the bird have always been connected.” Emmett‟s face scrunched up in thought, as if Simple had proposed a difficult algebraic question, finding the hidden value of x and y. Then his eyes widened. He drew an audible breath, and another. It was as if the dazzling light in

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 94 the room had penetrated his skull. His eyes pooled with water, and his lips mumbled a barely audible, “Yes.” “Sit on the bed and drink your coffee. I‟ll bring some hot water and shave you, then you can take a bath while I throw some breakfast together.” Emmett struggled across the room and sat on the bed. He propped the pillow against the headboard and sat with his back pressed into its soft whiteness. He reached for the bottle of painkillers at his bedside and popped three pills, then waited for the pain to retreat. Simple came into the room holding a chipped enamel pan of hot water, shaving gear, and a towel draped over his shoulder. “The pain bad?” “Like a nagging wife, it never leaves me in peace. The drugs only turn down the volume.” Simple crossed the room, sat the pan on the nightstand, and spread the towel across Emmett‟s bare chest. He filled his left palm with shaving cream and dabbed it across the old man‟s face and turkey neck, then he wiped his hands on the towel. He inspected the double-edged razor, hoping there was still some cut left in it. “Big job today,” Simple said. He drew the razor down Emmett‟s cheek, rinsed it in the pan, then scraped the other cheek. “You must convince the judge you can tap dance down Main Street if you have to.” Emmett stretched out his upper lip and Simple scraped it clean. “It‟s true,” Emmett mumbled, his eyes gleaming. “There‟s only one soul, a single life force, for everything.” Simple swished the razor in the water. Emmett tilted his head back while Simple pressed the razor to his throat and scraped away the foam. “Some things can‟t be talked about.

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 95 Words only confuse it.” Simple finished shaving the chin, then wiped Emmett‟s face clean with the towel. “You hungry?” “The coffee will do.” “Force yourself to eat something,” Simple said, using an authoritative tone. “I‟ll run some bath water. You clean up while I fry some eggs. You need help getting into the tub?” “Fuck you!” Emmett sipped his coffee and sat the mug on the nightstand. Simple grinned. “That Vicodin must be some kick-ass stuff.” “I‟d rather have wheat cakes. A whole stack.” “You got it, boss.” “And brush my blue suit and iron me a white shirt. Whatever comes, I‟m taking it in style.” “Should I spit shine your boots?” “You bet.” “You know,” Simple said, his voice growing soft, “even if they don‟t haul you away, you‟re getting weaker by the day. I figure you‟ve only got a week left to train that bird. Can you do that?” “I can die trying.” “Good for you,” Simple said. The old man nodded. “Whatever happens today, I‟m grateful to you. It‟s been a long spell since I‟ve felt like a man with a purpose. Thank you, Simple.” “Rain.” “What?” Emmett said. “I told you that if you ever became a warrior, I‟d tell you my real name. It‟s Rain.” Emmett nodded. “I like Simple.”

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THEY drove up the dirt road in a three-vehicle caravan— Lance in his pickup, Judge Bradley in his El Dorado with Sheriff Ansel Granger riding shotgun, and Jude in his Bronco. They parked in a row in the work yard, the engines went dead, four doors opened, and they all advanced to the porch in a tight posse. Walter Bradley, the county judge, was well beyond chubby, with dimpled cheeks, a wattle of fat under his chin, and a Clark Gable mustache. His thinning hair was dyed black. The roots were the color of cigarette ash, and he kept it in place with a generous amount of hair oil. He wore a brown corduroy suit with leather elbow patches, and he carried a worn, overstuffed briefcase. Simple and Emmett sat on rocking chairs on the porch. Emmett smelled of cologne and wore his only suit, a dark blue three piece that was shiny from too many pressings. The gold chain of his pocket watch dangled across his vest. His back was as straight as a lodgepole pine. He held an expression of supreme dignity in his eyes, like someone who had looked death eye to eye, and it was death that had backed down. Simple tried to hold a blank look on his face. He knew this fight could get ugly, and he wanted to stay out of it, hover on the fringes, and let Emmett fight his own battle. He was pretty sure Emmett was still strong enough to hold his own, but you could never be sure which way someone connected with the law would jump. “Emmett, good to see you looking so spry,” Sheriff Granger said as he folded his thick arms over his massive chest.

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 97 “Morning, Emmett,” Walter said, stopping at the edge of the porch. He snickered. “I can‟t remember the last time I saw you wearing a suit. You going to church on a Friday?” “What a surprise,” Emmett said. “Walt and Ansel. Now, you know I‟m not a churchgoing man. Naw, I‟m dressed up because I‟m planning to go courtin‟. I figure it‟s time I found me a nice fat widow that can cook up a storm and keep me warm on winter nights.” He paused to grin, then said, “Coffee‟s on the boil, be ready in a minute.” Simple willed himself not to look at Jude, who had a straw cowboy hat pulled down over his forehead so far it almost hid his eyebrows. Simple knew that if he did look, he would not just glance, but stare. The judge chuckled. “Coffee sounds grand.” Then he chuckled again. He was the kind of man who laughed before saying something, even when that something wasn‟t remotely funny. “We ain‟t forgot how to be neighborly,” Emmett responded. “How‟s Mary doing? And your boy, Andrew, is he back from Iraq yet?” “Mary‟s holding up fine. Andy‟s still at the war. Those boobs in the White House extended his deployment time again.” “I‟ll say a prayer that he makes it home soon, Walt. The Lord don‟t seem to listen to me, but who knows. Maybe the shock of me asking him for something will get his attention. And you tell Mary that I‟m still enjoying the quarts of tomatoes she canned for me last summer.” “Thanks, Emmett. I‟ll be sure and tell her.” “What brings you out here, Walt? Must be something important if you have to drag Ansel and half my family out here with you. You got some bad news to tell me?”

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 98 “Emmett, I‟ve heard that you‟re doing poorly. That you‟re hitting the bottle, your health is failing, and you can‟t care for yourself. I‟m here to see if there is anything I can do to help.” They stared eye to eye, unblinking. Simple watched Lance, who seemed to be studying the pattern on the tops of his hand-stitched boots. A falcon‟s screech sounded from inside the kitchen. As if that were some kind of signal to proceed, Emmett said, “Walt, I‟m grateful you‟re such a good friend. I truly am. But as you can see, I‟m stone-cold sober, and I have this young man here to care for me. Excuse my bad manners. This here is Simple. Simple, Judge Bradley.” “Pleased to meet you, Simple.” Judge Bradley chuckled. “I‟ve been hearing a lot about you. Folks in town say that you just flew off the loony farm.” Emmett‟s back stiffened. “Walt, everybody standing here has his own cross to bear, you and me especially,” he said. “Now the fact is that some hard-hearted son-of-a-bitch, who didn‟t bother to try and understand what Simple was going through, locked him up against his will and kept him a vegetable on drugs. They robbed him of five prime years. Now you and me been friends for six decades, and in all that time you‟ve been decent to me, a real friend, but if you ever again call this young man crazy in my presence, I‟ll spit in your eye and never say another word to you as long as I live.” Silent moments passed while the two men traded stares. Emmett finally looked over at Simple and said, “You left your journals on the kitchen table. Jude‟s not the only one in this family who can read. I‟ve been educated, ya know.” “Now don‟t get riled, Emmett,” the judge said, all smiles and apologies, wheezing a little and sweating a lot. He pulled

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 99 a white handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow. “I swear you‟re getting touchy as an old rooster. Maybe you do need to find yourself a good widow to take the edge off.” He chuckled at his own joke, then asked, “And tell me, was that a bird screech coming from inside the house?” He managed another mirthful laugh. “You bet,” Emmett beamed. “I‟ve decided to take up falconry. It‟s the sport of kings and princes the world over. Got me a fine specimen in the kitchen. Why don‟t you and me get us some coffee, and I‟ll show you my bird?” Emmett looked over at the Sheriff. “Ansel, can I have Simple bring you a cup?” Sheriff Granger nodded his head. “Black will do.” Judge Bradley laughed, then shuffled up the porch steps. He held the front door open while Emmett struggled to his feet and hobbled to, and through, the doorway. Lance made a move to follow, but the judge told him he‟d like a few words in private with Emmett. That time the judge didn‟t laugh, and there was no humor in his tone whatsoever. Simple followed them into the kitchen and poured two cups of fresh brew. As he did, the judge took a cursory glance at the bird, then sat on a chair at the table and opened his briefcase, rummaging around as papers spilled onto the floor. He extracted a yellow legal notepad and a pen, then scribbled a few notes. Emmett sat across the table, as if they were preparing to play cards, and put on his poker face. “Emmett,” the judge said with a humorless voice. “I need to ask a few questions, and I want straight answers.” “You think I‟d lie to you?” Simple placed two cups of steaming black liquid on the table between them. Emmett reached for the sugar bowl and dumped three scoops in his.

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 100 The judge pulled a handkerchief from his coat pocket and dabbed at the sweat beading above his lips. His cheeks dimpled into a coy smile. Then he waited for Simple to leave the room. Walking outside with another cup of coffee, Simple saw that Jude was now sitting in one of the rocking chairs. Lance and Sheriff Granger were still standing at the edge of the porch. Lance‟s face had turned a precise shade of purple. He pulled a knife from his pocket and unclasped its six-inch blade, then removed a block of pine and went to work, carving off wood shavings. Simple crossed the porch to hand Sheriff Granger his coffee, then sat in the vacant chair next to Jude. Being that close to Jude made his cheeks burn. Heat coursed through him in waves. He felt himself being drawn to Jude, like water to the moon. He didn‟t look Jude in the eyes. Rather, he stared at the young man‟s ochre-colored skin in the hollow where neck met collarbone, that whisper of soft skin only partly concealed by his T-shirt collar. Jude asked, “Do you remember who I am?” “The funny thing is, Jude,” Simple said, “I do. We sat here yesterday, reading my journals. I remember it all.” Before he lost his nerve, he asked, “Do you have any plans for the weekend?” Jude blinked. Simple held his breath. Before Jude could answer, Lance pointed the blade of his knife at Simple and hissed, “I told you to give him all the booze he wanted. That‟s what I‟m paying you for, God dammit. You‟re screwing my deal.”

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 101 Simple glanced up. “Emmett didn‟t want any booze. Your father has integrity. He just misplaced it for a time, or perhaps he was lured away from it.” “He needs to be hospitalized. This isn‟t just about me. It‟s a win-win for both of us. Him more than me.” “I can‟t do what you want.” “Then get the fuck off my ranch, or I‟ll have you arrested for trespassing.” “I‟m not on your ranch.” “In about ten minutes it will be, so you better start packing.” Silence settled over the foursome. Lance dropped his head and went back to whittling. Then Jude said, “Fishing. I was planning on catching me a mess of cutthroats.” “Got an extra pole?” Simple asked. “I‟ve got whatever you need, Cowboy. I‟ll pick you up at dawn.” A half hour crept by. Lance stayed stone silent. The shavings formed a pile at his feet, and he kept lifting his head to stare through the kitchen window. Jude made small talk, mostly telling Simple what he knew about San Francisco. “Yeah,” Jude said, “and they have a Chinatown where you can eat duck‟s feet.” Simple shook his head. “You want to go all the way to San Francisco to eat duck‟s feet?” “It‟s called dim sum. It‟s a delicacy.” Simple laughed. “And they call me simple.” Lance checked his wristwatch for the hundredth time. His head lifted, and his eyes riveted on the kitchen window. Simple glanced over his shoulder, noting that the judge and Emmett were walking across the kitchen and heading for the front door. When they shuffled onto the porch, a

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 102 smile dimpled the judge‟s rosy cheeks, and even Emmett was showing his dentures. Lance folded his knife, put it and what was left of the pine block in his coat pocket. He stared at the judge with a question etched on his face, but the judge ignored him. Simple hardly recognized Emmett. Even though Emmett still leaned heavily on his cane, his broken body about to fall over, the old man looked animated, like the weight of a millstone had been lifted off his chest, allowing him to breathe freely for the first time. The others didn‟t seem to notice the change, but Simple saw a new man standing before him. The burnt-out shell he had been caring for no longer existed. “Jude,” Emmett said. “You got a ten-spot in your wallet?” “Sure, Gramps.” “Hand it over, son.” Jude stood and dug his wallet out of his hip pocket, then extracted a bill and handed it to Emmett. Emmett handed him back a slip of paper. “That‟s a bill of sale for this ranch, the whole enchilada. Now you remember what you promised me. You‟ll never sell. This land has been in our family for six generations, and I‟m leaving it in your care.” “I won‟t forget, Gramps.” “Just a damned minute,” Lance rasped. “What‟s going on here?” The judge stepped forward and told Lance that his father was capable of making his own decisions, and what just happened was that they all witnessed the legal sale of the ranch to Jude. As of now, the spread belonged to him.

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 103 Lance stared at his son. His hopeful eyes grew large, and the ends of his mouth bent up into a slight grin. But Jude shook his head, telling his father that he wouldn‟t sell, that he‟d promised to keep the ranch in the family, for the next generation. Lance looked heart shot. Fists clenched, the rims of his eyes grew red. “Do you have any idea what will happen to me if I don‟t sell this ranch?” He spoke in a very calm voice that sounded deadly. “Lance, you dug that hole yourself,” Emmett said. “Now be man enough to pull yourself out of it. This ranch is security for your grandkids, and Jude will protect that to the death. If you lose your business, then you‟re welcome to move your family onto the ranch and make a go of it.” “I‟m no rancher,” Lance spat. Emmett nodded. “I won‟t make you do what you‟re not fit for, but it‟s either that or work for wages, and you sure as hell aren‟t cut out for that either.” “You sick bastard. You‟re trying to drag me down to your pitiful level.” Emmett bit his tongue. “You‟re more far gone than I thought, maybe too far gone.” The judge gave another lighthearted chuckle, then said that, much as he‟d like to stay for lunch, he had pressing business in town. With a cheery goodbye and a wave of his stubby fingers, he almost skipped to his El Dorado. Sheriff Granger walked over to Simple and held out his meaty hand. “I had you pegged wrong, young man.” They shook hands, Simple wondering all the while what the hell the sheriff was talking about.

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 104 The Sheriff strolled across the work yard and slid into the Cadillac‟s passenger seat, and moments later they were gone, leaving only a funnel of dust in their wake. “You want me to grovel; is that it?” Lance asked. When Emmett shook his head, Lance added, “Then why are you doing this to me?” “I‟m not sure I have an answer that will satisfy you, but I‟ll try.” Emmett shuffled across the porch and settled himself into the rocking chair that Jude had vacated. He tapped his chest with the curved end of his cane. “Something happened to me yesterday that shook my whole world. I‟ve been up all night trying to understand it, and I think I have it. Deep in the human body—yours, mine, everybody‟s— there is just one soul that we all share, as if we‟re just tiny pieces of the same puzzle. Spread on top of that is our ego, that crazy thing that makes us think we‟re so damned special. Now an overactive ego smothers the soul, making the soul feeble. It happens unconsciously. What I see in you is too much ego, and as long as you‟re playing the hotshot wheeler-dealer, your ego keeps swelling bigger and bigger, and your soul doesn‟t stand a chance. Vanity. Pure vanity is killing the soul in you. If you bring your family here and work the land, perhaps it will humble you. Then your soul will shine. That‟s why we‟re here in the first place, to make our sliver of the soul shine like the sun. It took me all my life to realize that, and I‟m hoping like hell it won‟t take you nearly so long.” Lance stared at his father with brown, impenetrable eyes. His chin trembled slightly. “You crazy old goat! I‟ll have this sale overturned. I‟ll bring a medically qualified doctor out here to commit you, then we‟ll see who gets this ranch.”

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 105 “You‟re a slave to your vanity. Now that I‟m about to leave this life I can see that. You spend all your energy trying to impress the people around you, and for what?” Lance spun on his heels and marched across the work yard to his truck. The door slammed shut, the engine roared to life, and Lance‟s hand-stitched boot mashed the gas pedal against the floorboard. The truck spewed dust and gravel as it spun around the work yard and disappeared down the road. “Well, I think that went about as well as it could have, given the circumstances,” Simple quipped. They all let out a merry chuckle.

LANCE sat in his office, staring at the row of model airplanes on the shelves behind his desk. He was so damned mad he couldn‟t think straight, couldn‟t do anything but sit there, wanting to kill that old man. But, of course, murder was not an option, not now anyway. Then his rage turned on Simple. Murder was not an option there either, but there was something he could do, right now, if only for that sweet feeling of revenge. Lance flipped around his Rolodex until he found the number he wanted. He grabbed the phone and dialed a long distance number. “Denver Sunshine Clinic? This is Lance Bishop. Put me through to Director Peterson.” Lance drummed his fingers on the oak desk until a familiar voice came over the line. “Hey buddy, this is Lance. That Indian kid you sent my way didn‟t work out. I need another favor, and it‟s urgent.”

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Chapter Twelve SIMPLE carried a blanket under one arm and an ice chest on his shoulder while he trekked behind Jude. In the distance, the whitest clouds he had ever seen banked up against the mountains, looking like mounds of vanilla ice cream, piled onto the peaks. He listened to Jude whistling as he led the way. Jude carried a pole in each hand and had a creel resting on his hip. They came to a low waterfall flowing into a deep pool. Boulders lined the river, and cattails, firm and pale, crowded the far bank. The air smelled of sage, dry earth, and fastmoving water. Beside the pool, a stand of trees shaded a spot of level ground. The air had grown hot, and Simple had a layer of sweat coating his brow. The pool looked so inviting he wanted to dive in, but he knew they must fish first. He laid out the blanket and positioned the ice chest on one edge. Jude prepared the rods, attaching leaders to the lines and dry flies to the leaders. He showed Simple the fly he tied onto the end of Simple‟s line, a yellow-and-green-feathered speck he called “Ol‟ Faithful.” Jude moved right into “Fly Fishing 101,” explaining where the trout hid and how to lay the fly on the pool and let the current carry it over the fish. They waded a few feet into the water and Jude demonstrated. He held the rod pointed somewhere between eye level and vertical, pulled out some line, then flicked the rod back, letting out line, and pulling

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 107 more line at the same time he snapped the rod forward. Again and again. The line sang as it whipped back and forth. He let out more line with each change of direction. “You want it smooth as silk,” he said. “Ten o‟clock, two o‟clock, feeding more line each time. Smooth as silk.” All at once, he let the line drop onto the pool. The tiny fly plopped onto the water and floated downstream. Silver flashed under the surface, and a heartbeat later Jude yanked the rod up to set the hook. “You‟ve got to let him run,” Jude said. “Give him only enough tension to wear him down.” The fish coursed back and forth across the pool. With each pass, Jude retrieved line until he had the fish, a cutthroat trout, close enough to grab. He reached into the water with his free hand, clamped his fingers on the fish‟s jaw, and lifted. The fish was about a foot long, slim, and had a blunt head. Jude pulled the hook from its jaw and lowered it into his creel. “Kinda small, ain‟t he?” Simple asked. “There‟s an old saying,” Jude said. “A small fish is better than an empty dish.” Simple lifted his rod and fumbled through a myriad of faults, starting with a loose-wristed backswing and ending with the fly hooked to a tree branch. They retrieved the fly, and Jude coached him through a successful, albeit clumsy, cast. As Simple worked his line, Jude dropped onto the blanket in the shade and pulled a beer from the cooler. He opened the can and drank half in three quick gulps. When he set the beer down, he pulled a joint from his shirt pocket and patted his other pockets, looking for his lighter.

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 108 “That‟s it,” Jude said. “Now drop the fly just below that log and let it drift.” Simple dropped the fly on the water. “Are you an addict?” “No. I just like to feel good. And this helps me to feel better.” Jude lit the joint and inhaled. Simple glanced over his shoulder. “Don‟t it feel good, the two of us, together? Why do you need that?” Simple retrieved his line to cast again. “Being with you is the most fun I‟ve had in… hell, the most fun ever.” “It‟s not fun for me to see you drunk and high on dope.” “Jesus, Simple, don‟t be such a weenie. Our first date and you‟re already trying to change me.” “I like you fine. It‟s that dope that changes you.” Jude pinched the end off his joint and tucked it into his shirt pocket. He lifted himself to his feet and ambled up behind Simple, lacing his arms around Simple‟s waist. Simple asked, “Is that what this is?” “What?” “You said, „our first date‟.” Jude kissed the back of Simple‟s neck and whispered, “You bet, Cowboy. What did you think?” “I think Emmett would approve.” “I‟m worried about him. Maybe Lance is right about putting him in a clinic. At least he‟d get proper care.” “He‟s getting the care he wants.” Jude pressed his cheek to Simple‟s shoulder. “It‟s only because he thinks this crazy transfer thing will work.” Simple stiffened. “It‟s not crazy.” “He needs to be hospitalized.”

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 109 “He wants to die on his terms—the way he‟s lived his life, surrounded by the land and people he loves.” “But they might be able to cure him.” “If you want to help him, then be there for him. That‟s all he‟s ever wanted.” “You blame me for not seeing more of him?” Simple retrieved his line and cast again. “Visiting only once a week sends a clear message.” “It wasn‟t my fault. He pushed me away. He pushed us all away.” Jude dropped his arms from Simple‟s waist and took a step back. “I‟m not blaming you,” Simple said. “And we are not going to fight on our first date. Are we?” Simple‟s pole jerked toward the water. “Jesus, I‟ve got one.” He hauled the pole back to set the hook. “Give him line,” Jude said. “Play him.” Simple leaned out over the water, retrieving line. With a wicked giggle, Jude shoved Simple, who tumbled into the water and was swept downstream, still holding the rod high over the water. Laughing, Jude ripped off his hat and boots and flung himself into the water. He was swept along, fighting his way toward Simple. They met in the swirling water and pumped their legs until they stood in the shallows. They shared a sensual hug and kiss. When they broke apart, Simple held up a trout. Later, on shore, Simple poured water out of his boots, then draped his shirt over a bush to dry. He shimmied out of his jeans and spread them on a boulder, under the hot sun. He turned to Jude, who stood fully clothed, dripping wet and shivering.

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 110 “Here,” Simple said, “let me help you.” He reached for Jude‟s shirt, but Jude pulled away. “I can‟t believe you‟re so shy. You‟ve got to get out of those clothes.” Simple grabbed Jude‟s shirttail and yanked it up and over Jude‟s head, revealing a web of angry scars crisscrossing Jude‟s torso and belly. “Jesus,” Simple gasped, “these look like claw marks.” He ran his fingers over the bumpy scabs. Jude pulled out of his reach and crossed his arms over his chest, hiding as much as he could. He turned away, but Simple grabbed him and spun him back around. “It‟s nothing,” Jude said. “I‟m hungry. Let‟s eat.” “Who did this to you?” “They‟re old, okay? Just drop it.” Simple pointed out two on Jude‟s chest. “These are fresh.” Jude jerked away and retrieved his shirt. He looped an arm into a sleeve, but Simple stopped him. “You did this to yourself?” “It‟s none of your fucking business.” “You‟re my boyfriend. Everything you do is my business!” “I am?” Jude whispered. They squeezed together hard, kissing with an intensity that threatened to explode. Simple pulled back, touched the scarred flesh below Jude‟s neck. “This stops now. Promise me.” They kissed again while lowering themselves to the blanket.

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 111 EMMETT stood across the kitchen from the falcon, holding up a bloody mouse carcass. He whistled, but the bird stood firm on its perch, glaring at the meat. “You know you want it, you mangy bitch. Come and get it.” He whistled again, and the falcon opened its wings and flapped across the room, landing on Emmett‟s gloved arm. As it fed, Emmett whispered, “That‟s it, you beautiful creature. Just like a two-step—I lead, you follow.” He carried the bird back to its perch and stroked its head. “You and me make a fine pair. We‟ll dance on the wind from Mexico to the Tetons.” He picked up another mouse flank, then hobbled through the doorway and across the living room. From the far wall and out of sight of the bird, Emmett whistled again. The bird flew into the room, landing on Emmett‟s arm. It gorged as Emmett said, “That‟s it, you magnificent son-of-abitch! You and me are a team.” The falcon‟s head tilted, and they stared, eye to eye. “I‟d kiss you, but you‟d probably bite my lip off. I ain‟t into no rough-trade shit.” The bird tore off another hunk of mouse.

SIMPLE and Jude lay on the blanket, facing each other, both naked. Soft kisses and caressing hands. Simple kissed the wounds around Jude‟s neck. “Why do you do this?” Simple asked. “It‟s just….” “Something you enjoy?”

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 112 “Stings like a bitch.” “Then why?” “Who knows?” Simple shook his head. He touched a scar. “This hurts me, too. I feel it.” Tears pooled in Jude‟s eyes. “I don‟t mean to. At night, alone, my head spins until I can‟t think. Everything hurts so bad.” “What hurts?” “Being alone… it helps to bleed it out. When the pain is on the outside, I feel better inside.” Simple kissed Jude‟s lips again. “Next time, call me. Night or day. Call me before you….” Jude pulled away and sat up. “It happens at night. If I call, you won‟t even know who the hell I am. So what‟s the point?” “Right, I won‟t.” “So I‟m fucked.” Simple shook his head. “Move to the ranch. If we‟re together, you won‟t get lonely.” “You couldn‟t deal with waking up with a stranger.” Simple gripped Jude‟s arm and pulled him back down. Jude tried to jerk away, but Simple held him in place, pressing them together. They kissed. “I‟ll deal with it,” Simple said. Simple rolled onto his back, and Jude pressed his head on Simple‟s chest. He began to hum “Just as I Am.” Simple smiled. “I like that tune. Let‟s stay like this all day.” Later, sounds rolled across the brush—men talking and footsteps getting closer.

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 113 “Shit,” Jude barked. They both jumped up, made a grab for their clothes, and ran as if the demons from hell were on their heels, laughing all the way to the Bronco.

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Chapter Thirteen JUDE‟S Bronco pulled into the work yard and parked. The doors flew open, and Jude and Simple stepped from the cab. Simple pulled a string of trout from the back, and they moseyed toward the house. Emmett stood on the porch, leaning heavily on his cane. Beside him, the bird was tied to its perch. “What the hell took you so long?” he growled as he lifted his cane and shook it at the younger men. “Let‟s get to work. Jude, untie this bird when I get across the yard.” He stepped off the porch and hobbled toward the barn. “It‟s too soon,” Simple said. Emmett shuffled faster. When he reached the barn, he turned to face the bird. “We‟re running out of time. Jude, let her rip.” “Are you sure, Gramps?” Jude said. “I know what I‟m doing,” Emmett said. “Do it.” Jude jumped onto the porch, untied the bird‟s jesses, and removed the hood. Emmett held out a piece of mouse flank and whistled. The bird spread its wings and glided upward. It circled the yard, drifting higher. Emmett whistled again, the meat visible in his leather-covered fist. The bird landed in a cottonwood tree. It stared down at the meat in Emmett‟s hand as the old man continued to whistle. “All that work,” Simple spat.

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 115 Tears welled up in Jude‟s eyes. He dropped his head and ambled inside the house. Emmett‟s whistles grew weaker. Simple bent to one knee, took his clasp knife from his pocket, and cut a sizable hunk of meat from a trout. He carried it to Emmett and told him to try with fish bait. Emmett held the shiny flesh over his head and managed a weak whistle. “Come on, you little bitch.” The falcon took to the air, made three loops around the yard, and landed on Emmett‟s arm. As the bird greedily devoured the meat, Simple raced to grab the hood and pull it over the bird‟s head. “You want me to carry it inside?” Simple asked. Emmett rasped, “I‟m a warrior, goddammit! I can do for myself.”

JUDE stayed for dinner. Simple cleaned a half-dozen trout while Jude dug a shallow fire pit in the work yard and built up a good blaze. As the logs burned down, Jude placed strips of raw bacon in the empty cavities of the fish, then wrapped them in tinfoil and placed them on the coals. As the fish roasted, Simple foil-wrapped potatoes and ears of corn, then tossed them on the coals beside the fish. While Jude turned the food packages with tongs, Simple set the table, and Emmett cut up another trout and fed its flesh to the falcon. None of them heard the car that pulled to the side of the road, a quarter mile from the ranch, or saw the three burly men jump out and take off across a field, heading for the barn. The sun had set by the time Jude carried a platter of fish and vegetables into the kitchen. Simple and Jude

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 116 chowed down. The fish was delectable. The bacon had permeated the flesh to give it a rich flavor. The corn was sweet and slathered with butter, and the potatoes were crispy on the outside, but the perfect texture inside. Everything was piping hot and fragrant as heaven. They ate as the sky turned a brilliant shade of lavender, and the first stars bit through the colorful dome. Emmett didn‟t have much of an appetite. He pushed his food around the plate while staring at the wedding band on his finger, so much so that Jude asked him what was wrong. The old man shrugged his shoulders and mumbled something incoherent. When Jude shook his arm, he said, “I‟m hurtin‟, and you ate up all my pain killers. First thing tomorrow, you make a drugstore run.” Jude slid a slim box from his pocket, removed a joint, and fired it up. He passed it to Emmett. “This will take the edge off.” Simple shook his head. “Not a good idea.” “He‟s in pain,” Jude said. Emmett took the joint, staring at it with melodramatic concentration. “I haven‟t smoked in fifteen years. Fuckin‟ cancer got me anyway.” He held the joint to his lips and inhaled. “Christ, that‟s harsh.” Emmett offered Jude a hit, but he refused. “Never thought you‟d be offerin‟ me a joint,” Jude said. They traded horselaughs, and Jude added, “You must be feeling better already.” “Feels like I‟m ridin‟ a rocket,” Emmett barked. “Well, strap yourself in and finish that puppy. You‟ll be at warp speed before you know it.” Emmett laughed. “Aye, aye, Scotty. Let‟s give her everything she‟s got!”

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 117 Jude and Simple traded grins. Simple nodded toward the porch, and they piled the dishes in the sink and left Emmett floating on air. Simple accompanied Jude outside. They built up the cooking fire, then sat in the rocking chairs to watch the flames, talking horses and bird dogs that Jude had owned, life on the reservation, why Lance had two families. They got up every now and then to piss or to throw more wood on the fire, to keep the talk going. They were respectful of each other‟s opinions, and both seemed cheered by the companionship. Jude talked about San Francisco, making it seem like Shangri-La. Simple couldn‟t imagine such a magical place. The wind picked up. Flinty gusts came across the pastures, bringing yips from distant coyotes and ruffling the fire into red, silken sashes. Then Jude said he needed to leave, and Simple followed him to his Bronco. “Will Emmett be okay on that stuff he‟s smoking?” Simple asked as Jude reached for his door handle. “He‟ll be better than okay. That‟s Thai stick. He‟ll be moonwalking on the roof.” “You never answered my question. Will you move here and live with me?” “I‟ll be back at dawn with all my stuff. After I get settled, we can fish. I know a fishing hole where nobody else ever goes, so it‟s great for skinny-dipping, too.” Jude went silent for a moment. Simple had the distinct feeling that Jude was blushing. Simple told him that he‟d have to show him how to cast again. He had already forgotten how. “I can show you in a finger snap.” Jude stepped behind Simple. One arm slipped around Simple‟s waist, hugging

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 118 him. The other arm lifted Simple‟s right hand to shoulder height. “It‟s all in the wrist.” Jude moved Simple‟s arm in a casting motion. “Oh, I almost forgot.” Jude pulled something from his shirt pocket and handed it to Simple. “It‟s a snapshot of me, and my name is written on the back. I thought you could put it in your journal to remind you of who I am, so I don‟t have to keep introducing myself.” Simple brought the picture close to his face, but it was too dark to make out the image. “Simple,” Jude whispered, nuzzling the back of Simple‟s neck, “if I move here, you‟re gonna stick around awhile, aren‟t you?” “For as long as you want me.” “What will you do if my dad moves back onto the ranch?” “I like your description of San Francisco. Maybe we‟ll go there.” “No shit?” There was a slight tremble in Jude‟s voice as he pulled away from Simple and turned him around so they were face to face. “Well, it‟s just wishing, but who knows?” Jude‟s grin slid into a wide smile. Simple was sure that Jude would lean forward and kiss him, and he did. They held each other, and Simple nuzzled his face into the soft skin along Jude‟s neck. He inhaled the aroma of smoke from the fire, and under that was the faint scent of the river. His head began to spin. Another moment passed before Jude pulled away, opening his door and sliding behind the wheel. The engine roared to life, and the Bronco began to move, slowly at first, then gaining speed. Simple called out, “If you get lonely, call me.”

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 119 “See you at first light,” Jude said. The green dashboard lights exposed his smile. Simple waved a hand, feeling a tinge of disappointment that they hadn‟t kissed once more. I should have kissed him again, he thought. Still, the anticipation of tomorrow brought an exciting rush up his spine. Then there were fifty feet between them, and there was nothing to do but walk back inside. Before he had ambled halfway to the porch, three orderlies rushed out of the barn, trotting toward Simple. One carried a straitjacket and all Simple‟s journals. The orderly carrying the jacket growled, “You fucked up, faggot. Say hello to your old padded cell!” Simple had no idea who these men were, but he felt an overpowering instinct to fight and raised his fists. As the three drew close, Simple punched the one with the jacket. He staggered backward and fell. Simple kept swinging, getting three or four good licks on the other two before they tackled him to the ground and pinned him. Once immobile, the third orderly pulled a hypodermic syringe from his pocket and leaned toward Simple. A swift kick from Simple knocked the hypodermic from the man‟s hand. The two orderlies holding him hauled him to his feet and held him, facing the fire. The third orderly balled up his massive fist and hammered Simple in the face once, twice, a third time, then three quick jabs to the gut. They held Simple while the third orderly gathered all the journals from the dirt and held them over the fire. “No!” Simple shrieked. The orderly laughed as he dropped them, one by one, into the flames. Simple struggled to free himself, but all he

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 120 could do was watch his history, his only memory, shrivel in flames. All three orderlies were laughing now as the third retrieved the hypodermic syringe, picked up the straitjacket, and advanced on Simple. As he pressed the needle to Simple‟s arm, he said, “By tomorrow you won‟t know you‟d ever been away from your cell.” The front door creaked open, and Emmett tottered onto the porch, hefting his shotgun. He aimed over their heads and let go with a round. The three men jumped back, letting Simple slump to the ground. “Don‟t be a fool, old man. All we want is the redskin.” Emmett lowered the barrel to chest level. “Git, you bastards!” The third orderly bent to grab Simple, but Emmett fired another round, catching the orderly in the shoulder. He jerked back and hit the dirt with a thud. The other two grabbed him by the arms and dragged him away. A moment later one shouted, “We‟ll be back at sunup with the sheriff.” Emmett blasted another round, and the three took off at a dead run. Emmett hobbled off the porch and stood over Simple. “This is no time to lay around, son. We‟ve got work to do.” Simple flung the syringe aside and struggled to his knees. He felt his face for busted bones. He found nothing broken, but the pain was bad and getting worse. “We need to do the transfer now,” Emmett rasped, “before those bastards come back.” “Yeah, right. I‟m whipped, and you‟re stoned on that Thai-whatever.” “It‟s now or never, son. Let‟s see what you‟re made of.”

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 121 “You‟re still too weak. The only way you can make the leap is if someone leaps with you. But there‟s no coming back this time because you‟re not strong enough to overcome the bird.” Simple lifted himself to his feet and staggered to the fire pit. The journals were ash. He dragged himself to the woodpile and loaded his arms with logs, then dropped them on the fire. “I can‟t let you do this,” Emmett said. “There‟s one other who can help you make the leap, but it could be deadly.” “I‟ll die anyway.” “Not for you, for me.” Simple marched to the woodpile and loaded up on more logs. He threw an armful on the growing flames, building up a tower of logs that would burn most of the night. He stumbled into the kitchen, where Emmett and the bird were face to face, like two gladiators staring at each other from across the ring. Simple whispered, “It‟s time.” “I have only one regret.” Emmett glanced down at the gold band on his finger. “I wish I could somehow take this ring with me. I hate the thought of losing that connection with her.” “You‟ve got a new life ahead of you, difficult and dangerous. Why bring baggage you don‟t need?” “You‟re right. Still?” Emmett hobbled out to the porch and sat in a rocking chair. Simple carried the perch and two chairs onto the porch and set it up with the bird facing Emmett. The falcon and Emmett glared at each other, preparing for battle.

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 122 Simple stepped off the porch, staggered to the fire, and pulled off his shirt. Dark clouds smothered the sky to the north. The air smelled like hot metal. The fire boiled with demonic energy, and he felt the heat of it like a blowtorch on his bare skin. The fire illuminated Emmett‟s leathery face, showing the intricate cobweb-like lines carved into his flesh and making the old man‟s eyes gleam red. Emmett began to slap the porch beside him with his cane, thumping the hard wood again and again. He copied the same rhythm that Simple had taught him. Once the proper beat was established, he glanced over at Simple and nodded. Simple danced, whirling around in a tight circle, slowly at first, then building in tempo. After twenty minutes, Simple signaled Emmett to stop. He tilted his head toward the mountains, straining to listen with every fiber of his being. The wind gusted through the trees with a bestial drone and raised a dust plume over the fire. Simple squinted against the fine grit, smoke, and cinders. He signaled for Emmett to continue, and the old man took up the thumping again. The vibration of the cane made a weird moaning noise when it struck the floorboards. After an hour, Simple heard an eerie screech behind him. A shiver rattled his entire frame. It took all his will power not to stop and look. He kept focused on his dance. “This is it,” Simple said to Emmett. “Power spirits have come. Keep thumping and be ready.” While he continued to spin, Simple lifted his arms over his head and chanted, in his tribal dialect. His words came slow and relaxed, as if he were singing a love song. As he sang, his fingers wove through the air, as if forming the words out of wind and smoke.

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Chapter Fourteen JUDE sprawled on the bed in his dingy trailer house, clad only in briefs. The bedside lamp shed yellows rays over him. Sweat glistened on his torso. His head jerked one way, then another. His ragged breathing sounded loud in the silent gloom. His hand reached out and hovered over the razor blade on the nightstand. His fingers touched the cold metal, lingered, then he snagged the cell phone instead. He punched the speed-dial button and pressed the phone to his ear. “Pick up, damn you, answer.” He redialed manually. “You promised. Where the fuck are you?” A minute later, he bounced the phone off the wall. “Fuck!” Covering his face with his hands, he turned his back to the nightstand and curled into a tight fetal position. But a heartbeat later, his head inched around until he stared at the razor blade. He reached for it, brought it to his lips and kissed it. With tears flowing, he brought the blade to the base of his throat.

THE fire had dwindled to red coals. Simple continued to dance, kicking up a cloud of dust, but there were also two ghostly figures dressed in full ceremonial gear, one Simple‟s

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 124 image and one the image of Simple‟s grandfather. The two figures fought each other as Simple‟s body continued to dance. Time bled by. The fire flared up into a whirling flame again as Simple‟s spirit overcame his grandfather. The old Indian made a gesture of submission. In the dim light, as Simple‟s spirit returned to his body, his grandfather‟s spirit transformed into an immense shadow that floated over the porch and hovered behind Emmett. Simple heard a scraping noise on the porch, the sound of something solid and heavy dragging over wood. Emmett began to beat the porch in a furious tempo. Simple signaled him to slow down, but he dropped the cane, and it clattered on the floorboards. Emmett jerked his head around to see what was behind him, but as he did, the immense blackness lunged, engulfing him. Emmett jolted upright, then shrieked while falling backward. Simple scrambled to help him back onto the chair, then handed him the cane. All the blood had drained from Emmett‟s face. Simple signaled him to continue the thumping, but Emmett could only stare in astonishment at the shadow that consumed him. Simple watched a specter vault from Emmett to the bird, but Emmett remained conscious, staring with unblinking eyes at the blackness that didn‟t have any visible boundaries. Slowly, a silhouette crouching on the perch emerged from the mass that was superimposed on the night sky. It began to take form as Emmett, Simple‟s grandfather, and the bird battled for supremacy of the feathered body. The shape was awesomely silent. The density of the shadow‟s blackness made the night sky seem pale.

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 125 Simple began to dance again. His feet stomped the ground with the same rhythm that Emmett had pounded out with his cane. He chanted, and his voice grew in volume. Emmett slumped over, but Simple ignored him now, intent on his power dance. The wind died. Everything went silent—even the crickets hushed—as if the universe were holding its breath. A minute later, the bird shrieked. In the distance, the sound of the wind drifting through the trees grew into a steady pulse, like the slow beating of a heart. Simple continued to dance as the moon crossed the sky. He spun and spun until exhaustion crushed him to the dirt beside the fire‟s dying coals. The last thing he heard before losing consciousness was the falcon‟s shrill call.

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Chapter Fifteen JUDE leaned against the headboard, dazed. Rivers of blood oozed down his chest. His cell phone buzzed, pulling Jude out of his stupor. He leaped for the phone, brought it to his face, and screamed, “Because nobody fucking cares!” “What?” “You asked me why I do it. Because nobody gives a shit about me. And you‟re no different. Where were you?” “I‟m in my office,” Lance slurred his words, “and I need to talk to you right now, mister. Get your butt over here, fast as you can.” Jude felt his face cave in, hell, his whole being. He swiped a paw over his chest, smearing blood like melted butter. “I‟m on my way.” He pulled himself off the bed and staggered to the bathroom, where he kept his bandages. Thirty minutes later, Jude stood in the doorway to Lance‟s office. Lance poured himself three fingers of Wild Turkey and set the bottle on the desk. He was already sloppy drunk. “Pour yourself a glass,” Lance slurred. Jude shook his head. “I‟m on the wagon.” “The big rancher now,” Lance said. “Too proud to drink with your ol‟ man?” Jude stepped into the room and dropped into one of the chairs, facing his father.

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 127 Lance‟s eyes grew round as he noticed his son‟s bloodsoaked shirt. “Jesus H. Christ! What the hell happened to you?” “Twenty years of being your son.” They glared at each other. Lance tossed a stack of papers across his desk. “Sign the last page. Your grandfather will never know. I promise.” Jude lifted the papers and tossed them back. “I put up everything I own for this deal,” Lance hissed, “including your mother‟s house. If you don‟t sign, your ma will be living on the street.” “Why? What is so damned important that you risked everything?” “It‟s for you, for Ma. I slaved my whole life to become somebody—something more than another broke shit-kicker. It‟s all so you can be proud of me.” Jude glanced at his lap, unable to hold his old man‟s stare. “You didn‟t have to be special. We only wanted you to give a shit about us.” “Without this deal, I‟m nothing! Just another hick in a two-bit town. Who could be proud of someone who shovels shit for a living? This is my chance, my opportunity to prove to everyone—” “You‟ll have to prove it without my help, and without the ranch. I‟m moving out there. Me and Simple are gonna run Herefords, maybe plant corn.” Lance knocked back his drink, pouring another. “You won‟t see that fucking queer again. He‟s halfway back to the nuthouse by now.” Jude stood. “What did you do?” “What I had to do.”

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 128 Jude snatched the whiskey bottle and hurled it against the wall. It smashed and splattered, but Jude didn‟t see. He was already racing out the doorway. “Son! Come back here. Son!” Lance lifted his whiskey glass, stared at it, then heaved it across the room. He staggered to his feet and knocked over one of his prized model planes. He grabbed the handset of his phone and smashed the plane. When it was destroyed, he attacked the next plane. One by one, in a cold, drunken fury, he demolished them all.

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Chapter Sixteen THE growl of Jude‟s Bronco woke Simple. He opened his eyelids, and a stream of red sunlight burned his eyes. He lay shivering where he had dropped from exhaustion, next to the fire pit, his face pressed to the warm ashes. His body was stiff, and his neck screamed in pain as he twisted his head to stare up at the porch. Emmett‟s lifeless body was slumped over the rocking chair, with the falcon perched on his shoulder. Somehow, the falcon had bitten through its jesses and freed itself. Something gleamed around its beak, metal reflecting the dawn‟s light. Simple looked closer. The bird was holding a golden ring in its beak. Simple glanced down at the old man‟s left hand and found that the ring finger was missing. Simple lifted himself to his feet and wiped the ash from his face and torso. A moment later, the Bronco pulled into the work yard and Jude stuck his head out the driver-side window. “Where am I?” Simple asked. Jude emerged from the Bronco and staggered toward his grandfather. As he came abreast of Simple, he leaned into his lover, wrapping his arms around Simple‟s torso. As they hugged, an electrical current snapped between them. Their silent embrace seemed to satisfy a shared hunger, while Jude‟s heat revived Simple‟s chilled body. They hugged for a long time, their bodies forming a single column against the dawn, staring at the bird.

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 130 “I knew it,” Jude said. “I knew you‟d be here. I just fuckin‟ knew you wouldn‟t leave me—yeah, I redlined it all the way here.” The falcon shrieked, then opened its impressive wings to full span. It lifted away from Emmett‟s body with a casual flap of its wings, veering skyward, then wheeling smoothly in four loopy circles before gliding north. The ring, secured in its beak, still glinted in the morning light. Jude‟s heartbeat became slow and steady, like his breath. He began to hum a tune—“Just as I Am”—as he rocked Simple back and forth. To Simple‟s vast surprise, he remembered the tune, and in his head he followed along with the words. He pressed his cheek into the soft hollow where Jude‟s collarbone joined his neck and let the faint vibration coming from Jude‟s chest lull his exhausted mind back into a calm slumber—not a deep sleep, but rather, a drowsy stupor. “Come on, Cowboy.” Jude‟s voice pierced Simple‟s dozy fog. “You‟re asleep on your feet. Let‟s get you to bed. When you wake up, I‟ll tell you a long story.” A shake, a push, and they ambled toward the tack room, with dawn‟s light hammering their backs golden. Simple heard a faint screech, trembling over the morning air.

18 June 2007 Emmett was buried yesterday. The funeral was held at the cemetery, and it was, predictably, a large one. He had been well known in the town for many years, and moreover, Emmett, although hardly a man to encourage affection from

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 131 anybody, had enjoyed the popularity that remote men sometimes mysteriously attain. Jude and I went up to the coffin together. It was not a pleasant sight. The undertaker had made him into an indecent, shut-eyed, chalky counterfeit. But above the gravesite, high overhead, a single falcon worked the updrafts, wings spread, sailing on the wind. It made us both feel better. I would have loved to stay on the ranch and help Jude make something of that place, but after Lance lost everything he had to the bank, he moved his two families onto the spread, so there was no way that would work. Jude feels the same way, of course. Lance will most likely never forgive him. Jude said we’ll be in San Francisco by sundown if this “bitch Bronco” holds together. I’m very much looking forward to seeing the red bridge he talks about, and people living on hills so steep it takes your breath away. I feel a bubble of emptiness inside my head, where before there was something heavy and throbbing. I think it is my grandfather’s absence. I didn’t know until that night how powerful Grandfather was. I was weak. I’ve always been weak. I know now that, all those years, his only purpose was to make me strong enough to live without his help…. Emmett was too weak to make the leap, so my Grandfather grabbed hold of him, and they leapt together. Now they are linked in a feathered body, soaring over the vast and lonely mesas. At least I hope so. They are so much alike. Now they can share life together, and Jude is here to fill that empty space in me. My memory has returned. Not of earlier times, but starting with a dozy embrace on the morning Emmett flew away. My memory, my life, starts with that single gesture of

Simple Treasures | Alan Chin 132 charmed happiness: being wrapped in Jude’s ardor, my frozen body warmed by his beating heart. Nothing will ever mar that image as I tumble through this difficult life, just as I am.

About the Author

ALAN CHIN enjoyed a twenty-year career working his way from computer programmer to Director of Software Engineering, but he lost interest in computer science when he began writing fiction. He walked away from corporate America in 1999 and never looked back. Since then he has traveled to over forty countries, scuba dived the Great Barrier Reef, tracked black rhino in the Serengeti, and dined in most of the capitals of Europe. Oh yes, and he‟s published four gay-themed novels and two screenplays. In addition to writing, Alan is making a name for himself as a literary critic for several online publications which include: Examiner.com GLBT Literature column, Queer Magazine Online, and the Lambda Literary web site. In 2007, QBliss magazine awarded their Pride In Literature award to Alan for his debut novel. In 2010, Alan‟s novel, The Lonely War, swept the Rainbow Literary Awards, taking top honors in four categories: Best Fiction, Best Historical, Best Characters, and Best Setting. Alan currently spends half of the year traveling the globe and the other half writing at his home in northern California. You can visit Alan‟s web site at http://alanchin.ne and his writers blog at http://alanchinwriter.blogspot.com You can also e-mail Alan at [email protected].

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Copyright

Simple Treasures ©Copyright Alan Chin, 2011 Published by Dreamspinner Press 4760 Preston Road Suite 244-149 Frisco, TX 75034 http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/ This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Cover Art by Reese Dante http://www.reesedante.com This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. This eBook cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this eBook can be shared or reproduced without the express permission of the Publisher. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press at: 4760 Preston Road, Suite 244-149, Frisco, TX 75034 http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/ Released in the United States of America August 2011 eBook Edition eBook ISBN: 978-1-61581-936-2