inspiration from the Happy Hermit

Stolen Fruit

This afternoon Miles and I set out on a fruit hunt.  We took the dog in the car and went to a street my friend Stacy told me about.  A place where there were supposedly fruit laden trees whose bounty fell right on street and the grass strip by the side of the road.

“OK, but, can you do that? I asked Stacy.

“If it’s on the street it’s free!” She told me, eyes twinkling.

“Legally it doesn’t belong to the owner of the tree.”

She’d looked it up to make sure she wasn’t breaking any laws when she went scavenging. Since Miles and I are treasure hunters, I was game. We love the thrill of the hunt, the great deal, the diamond in the rough. So free fruit definitely appeals. (pun intended) We’d been to this street of bounty once before. That time we’d gotten quite a few apricots and walked around the block and gotten two lemons and two grapefruits.  All were fallen fruit; on the ground, though admittedly, not always in the street. This afternoon we were striking out.

“Miles, I think we’ll call it a day.”

“Awwwww! Ok.” Miles agreed.

We started back towards the car, the dog straining at his leash to get out of the sun.

But then. The motherload. Well, the motherload still on the tree.

Right by the side of the street was a citrus tree heavy with ruby red grapefruit. The fruit was gorgeous, round and rosy.  Below the tree, a little ways under it, on the property of the house, there hung two perfect grapefruits.

I looked around. The coast was clear.

“Miles.”  l spoke to him in a loud whisper.

“Miles, see if you can scootch in there and get those. Quick.”

Did I mention Miles is my eight year-old with an anxiety disorder? So maybe not so smart to take him on a sketchy mission for fallen fruit.

“Mom. they’re not in the street.”

“I know, just...see if you can get them.

The dog was hot and panting and Miles wriggled under the tree and crouched beneath it, speaking to me in his high-pitched little boy voice.

“Mom….These are a little bit eaten. Ooh but there’s a good one.”

He reached up and grabbed a big pinkish grapefruit from a branch above him.

“Mom! I can’t get it.” He called out from beneath the tree.

The dog was baking in the hot sun. I had that panicky feeling that you get when you are doing something wrong and you’re worried someone will see you. Like taking sugar packets from a fast food place without actually purchasing any food, or parking in the handicapped spot for just a minute so you can shove the overdue library books into the return slot. My kid was under someone’s tree, taking their fruit.  I crossed into a little patch of shade.

“Miles come on out. Just leave it, it’s OK.” I yell-whispered.

He was still under the tree, futzing around.  We’d crossed the line. This wasn’t OK.

“Oww!  Mommy!”  Miles cried out.”

He was making a lot of noise in there.

“Miles….Shhhhhh - come on out sweetie, sh…… “

“I scraped my back on a branch.” He called out, in a his trembling falsetto.

I yanked the dog back over to the tree.

“Ok, sweetie, come on out, let’s go.”

Miles crawled back out towards me from under the tree. A grapefruit fell out of his hands and went rolling onto the street. I bent to pick it up and as I righted myself, I saw a man, the white-bearded, balding, glasses-wearing owner of the house, the tree and the fruit, come around the corner and look at us from the curb. We stood about twenty feet apart. We’d been caught ruby-red handed. The man glared at us.

“He was fetching a grapefruit.”

I called, my heart sinking to my toes. (Strange, I know, my use of the word “fetching” but it was better than “stealing” and felt less formal than “retrieving”).

“Would you like me to hand these to you?”

I asked him, holding out the stolen fruit.

“They touched the street, their yours now.”

He made a swiping motion towards the ground with his arm, disgusted with us. His face screwed up in anger, he shook his head. I turned with Miles and we started back up the street. The grapefruit felt like lead in my hands. I turned back to check on the man and saw him watching us, his cell phone at his mouth. He’d made a call. Was he calling the police? Over a grapefruit? What should I do? We walked a few more steps. I stopped walking.

“Miles,” I said, “I think that guy might be calling the cops.”

“But he said to take them.”

Miles looked up at me, his blue eyes huge. I shouldn’t have mentioned the police.

“I know, but I think we should return these grapefruits.  It’s wrong, we shouldn’t have picked them.”

“Okay.”

Miles agreed. We turned back and walked to the side of the house. The man was no longer at the curb. I was grateful for that. Miles held Dusty’s leash as I walked up the curving stone path to the front door and placed the two grapefruit on the welcome mat at the entrance. Somewhere inside the house a dog barked. We started back down the street. Okay, that was done, that felt better. I turned when I heard a noise behind us. It was the man. He held the grapefruit. He placed then on the curb next to his car.

“They’re yours now!” He yelled at us. “You shouldn’t be stealing fruit!”

“I’m sorry.” I said. “We’re sorry.”

Miles started to whimper.

“You should be sorry!” He was still smoking mad.

“How do you think I feel?” He said, the sun glinting off of his bald head.

“No one rings my bell to ask, no one gives me anything in return!”

Miles’ whimper accelerated into a high, loud tea-kettle-like keening.

“Mommy, I’m scared!” He howled.

The man turned and stormed back into his house.

“Miles it’s okay.” I tried to comfort him.

“It’s okay.”

“I’m scared!” He repeated, tears pouring out.. “Mommy, I’m scared!”

“It’s ok, you don’t need to be scared.”

Miles was blowing a gasket. He doesn’t do small when it comes to emotional reactions. I’m often embarrassed in public by Miles’ over-the-top response to some mildly upsetting circumstance. A scraped knee brings about wailing like he’s lost a limb. A brother got a treat that he didn’t, that’s grounds for a full scale meltdown.  This kid says “owie-mommy” when he’s not physically hurt. He’s just been told to turn off the ipad for the tenth time. I urged him down the street, struggling to hold on to Dusty’s leash, my cell phone and the empty bags I had with me for fruit gathering with one arm, while trying to pat him on the shoulder with the other. I hoped the man heard Miles, that the man was embarrassed for frightening my kid. For the very first time I was kind of happy for Miles’ reaction. Yeah. We were wrong. It was bad... but man, that guy was a jerk.

“Why did you tell me to do that?” He hiccuped.

His crying had slowed a bit, he was no longer wailing. I was glad there wasn’t anyone around to hear that bit. It made my heart ache like a bad tooth.

“I’m sorry, Miles, I shouldn’t have. It was wrong. Do you accept my apology?”

I looked down at his dirty, freckled face. My sweet little guy.

“Yes.” He sniffled. But I could tell it was lingering with him.

I tried to act cheery. I suggested we take the man a plate of the cookies we are baking this afternoon for Miles’ lemonade stand and he brightened at the idea.

We are home now and he is doing Minecraft and I’m thinking about what a shitty move that was as a parent. I am also thinking that we learned a lesson the hard way, both him and myself.  I can’t bend the rules. It’s not ok to take someone else’s fruit. We will make the cookies and I need to figure out if I have the balls to wrap a plate of them up and leave it on the doorstep of that man.  In my mind i’ve written a story where his heart warms to us and we become friends and there is a happy ending. I’ve also, in my mind, written the ending where the plate of cookies is undiscovered until morning at which point it’s too late because the racoons have gotten into them and made a mess. Or, there’s the ending where the man comes out, yells at me again and doesn’t accept the cookies. That’s the worst ending. There’s also the ending where we don’t bring him anything.  We didn’t take the two offending grapefruits off the curb after he’d put them there and stormed back into his house. I held Miles’ sweaty warm little hand as he sniffled and the dog pulled us back to the car. We got in and turned up the AC and I put on the song Desposito to cheer him up and get his mind on something else. When we got home he sat on the couch looking troubled.

“Miles we really can take that man a plate of cookies tonight.” I said, ruffling his hair.

“Ok, that would make me feel better” He said.

I guess i’m taking cookies over there.  Its nice to know my son has a decent moral code.  Apparently I need to work on mine.