The Forbidden Fruit
By Kermit Hale
Ready to face the day, and resting in his comfortable old easy chair, Edgar Whitcomb watches the light of the dancing flames in his fireplace reflect off the bookcase to its left, and the portrait of his dear, departed mother to its right. The rustic mahogany walls glow as he thinks of her love and all the wonderful things everyone said about her at her funeral, many years ago.
He had been reading her old, dog-eared and marked-up Bible, but closes it and places it on the medium sized table next to him. He picks up his coffee mug and sips. The sound of rain against the window behind him is both bothersome and comforting. Everything needs its life-giving wetness, though it makes for muddy shoes and floors. Oh well, he decided recently, what else to do but clean, now that I’m retired?
He had been reading Genesis and was curious about the six days of creation and the Garden of Eden. His stately old manor nestles in a garden itself of various fruit and nut trees that had been planted by the descendants of the first Whitcombs to move to America. The account in Genesis captivated his attention. How wonderful it must have been in paradise…
Edgar had never married. His lineage about to end, he has become melancholy the last few years. He realizes that he very likely will be the last Whitcomb to live on the old estate. In an attempt to enjoy the remainder of his life, he has decided to give religion a chance and perhaps find solace in passing the place on to a church, or other institution that could benefit from it. These thoughts keep him from noticing a flicker of a shadow across the window as a form passes between the serene interior and the stormy, lightning-lit morning sky.
The sound of someone knocking echoes through the cavernous first floor. He rises and his lanky frame, not too tall but with longer legs than he would like, aches a bit from sitting so long. He walks across the hardwood floor, listening to the hollow sound of his footsteps echoing around him. The entryway, framed by two grand staircases, is home to suits of armor and other relics from a war-torn past. He opens the large, solid, and elaborately carved door.
“Murray? What the devil are you doing out this morning? Come in. Come in.” He steps aside as his friend enters, wiping his shoes on the old entry rug. The door closes and thunder bounces off it.
“It’s actually not such a bad morning, Eddie; a windy one for sure, but nice; not too wet or cold. It just sounds harsher than it really is.” Edgar shows his life-long friend to a chair across from his at the table.
“So, how are Judith and the youngsters? All well, I hope.”
“Yes, they are healthy and happy, thank you.” Murray is a bit shorter than Edgar and very rotund. His cheery smile has never failed to lift Edgar’s spirits, but his mustache always looks crumpled to Edgar: the hairs grow in a small spiral near the left of middle, which draw attention away from his sparkling eyes. Edgar has often commented that Murray should shave that “unruly bunch.”
Without sitting down, Edgar turns to go into the kitchen, asking over his shoulder, “Let me get you some coffee. Black, if I remember?”
“Thank you. But, perhaps with a touch of honey, if you have some.”
“Honey? Since when?”
“My doctor said I should use it instead of sugar. I’ve taken a liking to it recently, and found it goes well in coffee.”
Edgar’s voice drifts in from the near-by kitchen. “Have you eaten yet? How about a muffin with your coffee? Hilda baked them just yesterday.”
“Then by all means yes, and thank you. She certainly knows her way around a kitchen.”
He pours the coffee and stirs honey into it as he says, “So, my friend, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” He enters the living room carrying a tray with two large muffins and the coffee, and sees Murray fussing over the jacket in his lap, looking in it for something.
“I have a little problem I need help with. But, first, could we enjoy the muffins? It’s been a while since I’ve had the pleasure,” Murray says, letting the jacket collapse in a heap on his lap.
“Yes, it has been a while, hasn’t it? And no one else can do them the way Hilda can,” Edgar says as he sits.
“I’ll second that. How is the old girl, anyway? I haven’t seen her for some time now. I’m glad she’s still up to baking.”
“She is very well, thank you; and I will tell her you inquired after her health. I’ve tried to bribe her for her recipe, but to no avail. I believe she’ll take it with her to her grave. But she is Hilda, ever the faithful servant. I don’t know what I’d do around here if it weren’t for her. If she wasn’t married…”
“Speaking of which, you haven’t found anyone yet, have you?”
“No; no one.” They sit silently for a few moments, savoring the muffins which are made with cranberries, blue-berries and cream cheese, Hilda’s specialty. Edgar especially enjoys the glazed surface’s crunchy-sweetness, and the shaved almonds. When the last crumbs have disappeared, Murray begins.
. “Eddie, the reason I came by today was to ask you something.” He pulls a rolled up piece of parchment from his jacket’s deep interior and begins unrolling it. Edgar leans closer and watches the mysterious object unroll. About two feet long and a foot and a half wide, it’s surface is yellowed and appears very ancient. He hears it crackle as it is spread out on the table between them. Edgar remains silent but he can see the thing is not very old, just made to look that way. The lettering on it is sharp-edged and appears to be recent.
“I know how much you enjoy puzzles and the like,” Murray says, “And thought you would be able to help me out. My club posed a teaser for the membership, and the first one to come up with the solution, if any of us can – or the best solution, seeing as it will be very difficult to prove any answer – will get their name engraved on the Roll of Honor Plaque, and a prize of one hundred dollars.”
Edgar looks at the scroll. It shows a garden scene: a large tree is in the center; two naked people are to one side, the woman picking fruit from some nearby tree; and the hand of God, holding a flaming sword, is coming out of the sky. Beneath the picture, words written in an old script ask the question: “What was the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil?” He sits back and wonders for a moment at the sudden coincidence of having just read about that very scene.
“I’m not a Bible scholar, Murray. Isn’t there someone else you can turn to?”
“I’ve already tried everyone else I can think of: my pastor, some church goers and a few learned scholars; and they are so varied in their opinions that I am not any closer to solving it than when I started.”
“Well, then, perhaps being a religious person isn’t a prerequisite for the solution. Maybe some old-fashioned logic and reasoning would be helpful.”
“That’s what I was hoping you’d say, dear friend.” Murray looks at him, sets his mug on the table and remembers when Edgar used to tell him about Sherlock Holmes and how he’d solved mysteries. Edgar reaches for his mother’s Bible and begins to read out loud the account of the fall of man from Paradise. Murray listens intently, nodding now and then to parts that are familiar to him. When Edgar finishes the section in question, he closes the book, leans back and is silent. Long seconds pass, Murray quietly waiting for what his friend will say.
“I believe the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil was…” and Edgar pauses, his eyes close, and Murray wonders if he has suddenly fallen asleep, but remains silent for as long as he can. And then, about to say for goodness sake’s man out with it, Edgar opens his eyes.
“I believe it was… yes, it has to be…” He looks at Murray, who is waiting as patiently as Job for his opinion and is leaning over to not miss anything; but Edgar stops short, sits back and looks at Murray and sips his coffee. “Yes,” he says eventually, “It makes perfect sense, if you consider everything. But before I reveal my selection, let me go through the reasons first. I’m afraid my choice would seem too outrageous if I just blurted it out; and I do believe I have your solution. The more I think about it,” and Edgar pauses a moment as if to illustrate thinking, then continues with, “The more I am convinced I am right.” He thoughtfully stares at the flames again and Murray begins to get impatient.
“I’m all ears, Eddie.” Murray sits back to give his friend some thinking room, and picks up his mug and sips his coffee. There is something in the back of Murray’s mind that he can’t quite remember, and it seems to be important to him, but, try as he will, it just won’t come.
Edgar speaks, breaking the silence at last. “Let’s start at the beginning, shall we? And we will take this puzzle apart, inspect each piece and then reassemble it to see if I am not right.” Murray nods silently.
“First, you remember how their ‘eyes were opened’ when they ate the fruit, correct?” Murray nods again; his coffee mug nestled in his hand, all but forgotten now that Edgar is beginning.
Edgar raises his right index finger, “Let me ask you something: What was it that caused the eyes of their understanding to be opened? Was it the fruit, or the eating of it?”
“What’s the difference?”
“A world of difference, if you ask me, and I’m glad you did. I’ll bet you anything that it wasn’t the fruit itself, but the eating of that which was forbidden; regardless of what it actually was. Let me see,” and he begins looking through the back of his mother’s Bible.
“Well, now that you mention it, I do remember hearing something about their disobedience causing the fall.”
“Exactly,” he says and closes the Bible again. “And all this time you thought it was the magic in the forbidden fruit, right?”
“Well, sort of…”
“Of course you did. So did I, at first; but when you presented the puzzle to me, something told me to abandon preconceived notions and to think in a more logical manner. So, if the fruit wasn’t magical at all, or poisonous, it could be that God just picked that one out and said, ‘Don’t eat this one, or in that day you shall surely die.’ Now, question two,” and he extends a second finger, “Did they die when they ate it?”
“They realized they were naked, felt guilty and hid, and then they were expelled from the garden. No, they didn’t die.”
“Yes, Murray, they did. But they didn’t die in the sense you think. They died spiritually. They died to their innocence. But, since the fruit didn’t cause their physical death,” Edgar raises a third finger, “I will ask another question. Three: could it actually be a regular tree, with something on it that was edible?”
“I suppose. Why?”
“Because, from what I’ve read, some people say the tree was actually a metaphorical one, and could have been almost anything; even sex, for example. But, if it was a real tree, then we’ve merely to examine each type until we find one that would satisfy a few conditions, such as having something inherent in its makeup which would be full of symbolism. Provided, of course, the tree still exists today. Let’s continue.
“If their eyes were opened and they realized they were naked, that means their understanding was enlightened.” Murray nods, but is trying to remember what it was he has forgotten. “There was more to things now than they were aware of before,” Edgar continues. ” The ‘interior of things’ had been closed to them and now it is open to them, so to speak; and the fruit should have something about it that would symbolically reflect their eyes being opened, because the Bible seems to be full of symbolism; and,” he now raises a fourth finger, “Four: what better symbolism could there be than to have the fruit on the inside of the seed, as opposed to other trees with the seed on the inside of the fruit?”
For a few moments, Murray ponders this, and then nods thoughtfully; Edgar feels that his friend is beginning to think along new lines and should be ready for his announcement. But Murray is half distracted. It almost comes to the forefront of his mind, when Edgar asks a question; but Murray is so interested in what Edgar is saying that it slips back into the interior and is lost again.
“I think the Forbidden Fruit is the coconut.” Edgar sits back and watches the expression on his friend’s face. Murray doesn’t know what to say. He just sits there, gape jawed and speechless for the first time in his life; at least for about three seconds.
“The coconut! The coconut? What…? Why…? How…?” He can’t bring himself to ask if one has fallen and hit Edgar on the head, or not.
Edgar raises his right hand into the air, thumb extended as well, and Murray, annoyed at the display of fingers on Edgar’s part, waits for the coming question by suddenly realizing what it was he wanted to remember: a deal he and Edgar made a long time ago. He really does enjoy seeing how his friend’s mind works, though, and he wonders if it is the result of all the reading, or if the reading was a result of desiring to see if others think in a like manner as he. But, the coconut tree? Really, now.
“Five: what, exactly, did God mean when he told Adam to “tend” the garden?”
“Well, take care of it, I suppose.”
“Take care of it? How?”
“You know, water, weed…no wait; there weren’t any weeds until after the fall.”
“And, there was a mist that came up from the ground to water it. This was before the Flood, remember.”
“Yes, you’re right.”
“So, what was Adam to do in order to ‘tend’ the garden?” Edgar’s five fingers are still poised, as before, waiting for the answer before he adds another. This, Murray now knows (while thinking of a response), is for Edgar’s benefit alone, due to his repulsion of trying to keep numbers in his head from spilling out through his ears and onto the floor, as he jokes often as to what will happen if he tries to do mental computations. But try as he might, he can not see what his friend is getting at now. And he is looking for the right moment to mention the thing that has been bugging him.
“As fascinating as that is, I don’t see what it has to do with my problem,” Murray says at last, and sees that his coffee mug is about to spill. He sets it carefully on the table and folds his hands in his lap.
“Everything; but then again perhaps nothing.” Edgar lowers his right hand and raises his left index finger into the air. A flash of lightning followed closely by a clap of thunder causes Edgar to pause, while the sound fades, and he wonders how close that one was. “Six: could it be that all Adam had to do was to eat of the food there and possibly dispose of the excess fruit that ripened and fell to the ground?” Edgar leans close to Murray. “What is the oldest profession?” This is the first question he has asked without raising another finger with it and Murray wonders if this is because its a related question to the one just asked.
“Everyone says it is prosti…but they’re wrong. It was gardening, right?”
“Yes, that’s right, Murray, my friend. Gardening, and in the Garden of Eden: where there is no irrigation, no weeds, no thorns or thistles; there were no clothes to buy, wear, wash, or mend; nothing to do, really, but commune with God and eat and enjoy life: Paradise.
“Seven,” and Edgar raises another finger. Murray wonders just how many more fingers he will need. “So why eat a coconut?” Edgar lowers his hand, signaling the end is near. Murray wishes Edgar could get over his repulsion of numbers and not have to rely on fingers like a school child. And that was their agreement: if Murray would let Edgar teach him how to play chess, Edgar would let Murray tutor him in math. There is silence as Murray tries to think of something poignant or at least witty, to say, but draws a blank and doesn’t reply. But Edgar’s voice brings him back to the moment at hand.
- And here’s my point,” Edgar continues, “If they were to open it, they’d have to bash it against a rock, or visa versa – beat it to death literally in order to eat it- (shades of Cain and Abel, no?). That sounds like violence and hard work to me.” Murray is still silent, but nods his head, thoughtfully engaged on two subjects at the same time; something he has always had trouble doing..
“Did you catch my drift here?” Edgar looks at Murray as if to say what’s the matter, or are you listening? Murray nods but remains silent.
“Violence and hard work in the Garden of Eden. Think about the implications of that for a moment.” Edgar closes his eyes again, folds his hands in his lap and Murray sips his coffee absentmindedly, trying to imagine what it must have been like.
“And the interior of the coconut has a white milky liquid: white like God’s purity. And we know what the shedding of blood represents: forgiveness of sin, or of disobedience, symbolized by the milk spilling out when it is opened. Don’t you see?” Edgar opens his eyes and stares at Murray. “The coconut has all this inherent within its make up. God forbade it because of the hard work and violence necessary, and for the inherent symbolism of His purity, and of sin and the subsequent need for atonement, which was beyond their present ability to understand (at the time of the warning). And all neatly wrapped up in one fruit.”
“But, the coconut isn’t a fruit.”
“Let’s see if that’s completely accurate.” Edgar looks at a reference in the margin of the text, and then thumbs through his mother’s Bible, mumbling a reference of book, chapter and verse and finally stops at a place near the end. This simple act on Edgar’s part astonishes Murray. Here is his friend, who avoids numbers and mental computations whenever possible, remembering a string of numbers. This is the first time in their friendship that Edgar hasn’t had to write numbers down, and Murray wonders if it has to do with his focus on the subject matter and not the numbers themselves. Murray’s psychiatrist friend will be immensely interested to hear this. And Murray is very encouraged about this display on Edgar’s part, for it shows a latent ability to do mental computations. “Ah, here it is. Jesus said that we shall know people by their fruit. What did he mean by that?”
“Okay, I get it. You’re trying to say fruit doesn’t have to be fruit, or that there are different types; correct?”
Edgar nods and says, “People often talk about the fruit of their labors, referring to the thing their labors produce. I, for one, do not wish to eat the fruit of a carpenter’s labors. However, the fruit a coconut produces is another matter. Hilda used to bake delicious coconut macaroons, too.”
Just then, they hear the front door open and Hilda walks in, shaking the rain off her umbrella. She is wearing a white apron over her red, flowered dress. Her gray hair, streaked with remnants of red hair, is done up in a bun, her spectacles are covered with water, and she takes them off to dry then on her apron as she says, “Good morning, gentlemen. It’s good to see you again, Murray. How is everyone in your neck of the woods?”
“Just fine, Hilda. Edgar and I just finished two of your muffins; and they were wonderful, as usual.”
“I’m so glad you enjoy them. If you’ll excuse me now, I have things to do, and I didn’t mean to interrupt your conversation. Edgar, if you’d like me to make some more macaroons, I’d be glad to, but we have no shredded coconut on hand. If you could be a dear and get some later…”
“It will be my pleasure, Hildie.” Edgar calls her Hildie when she’s present, because her little granddaughter calls her that, and Edgar thinks it sounds so cute. Hilda always smiles warmly when he calls her that, remembering her granddaughter.
“Now, where was I?” he asks Murray, after Hilda leaves the room. “Oh yes, she used to make macaroons, just wait until you taste one, and the fruit of a nut tree is the edible part it produces, no?”
Murray says, “Well, I can’t argue much about that.”
“We are now touching on symbolism, and symbolic ‘fruit’ would have to come from a symbolic tree. But, I remind myself, I am assuming it wasn’t entirely a symbolic tree. So I am faced with the other implication here: that fruit doesn’t have to be peaches, apples or bananas; but it could be the ‘fruit’ of a coconut or something else entirely. Did you know a tomato is not a vegetable but a fruit?” Murray shakes his head. “Yes, it is,” Edgar says and then leans back, eyes closed again and Murray sits silently.
“And having the fruit on the inside makes it easy to avoid,” Edgar says, sitting up and opening his eyes again. Murray has always wondered why he thinks with his eyes closed so much, but never remembered to ask him why. Perhaps today will be the day.
“Especially then,” Edgar continues, “When it would be so easy to eat other things. And here’s a bonus question: Don’t you think curiosity played an important role in this whole affair? A coconut sloshes around when you shake it; it was forbidden, so therefore it must be important, and they viewed it as desirable; perhaps because the serpent told them God wanted the knowledge for Himself. I think God called it the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil due to their limited condition: they wouldn’t have understood anything deeper He could say because of their innocence.”
Murray scratches his head. Then he remembers his coffee, picks it up, finishes it off, replaces it on the table and looks at his friend.
“I think you have a very strong and valid argument for the coconut.” Murray says and begins chuckling. “And to think, only a few moments ago I thought you were crazy for suggesting it.” He starts to roll up the scroll and stops. “If they accept your hypothesis, I’ll be forced to share the money with you, you know that don’t you?”
“Keep the money, and sponsor me when I apply for membership.”
“You mean that? I’ve been trying to get you to join for, well, for ever. What made you change your mind?” He finishes rolling the scroll and places it inside his jacket. They stand and slowly head towards the door. Murray’s mind is racing now, to find an opening to insert his thoughts on the tutoring agreement, and maybe even about closing his eyes to think. It isn’t that he’s afraid Edgar would be offended, but that he wants to be as polite about it as possible, in case Edgar would balk and want to put off tutoring indefinitely.
“If they are that inquisitive, then perhaps I’d fit in better than I realized.”
“Eddie, I have another request to make. Would you do me the honor of presenting your theory to the club, on my behalf? Sometimes I get tongue-tied and on this point, well, I don’t I think I would be able to do it justice.”
“But wouldn’t that give them the impression that it wasn’t your solution, but mine?”
“That doesn’t matter. They said we could resort to any reference or other persons we wished; so long as we are the one to present either the solution or the one who delivers the solution on our behalf. I really think we have a chance to win this thing hands down.”
Edgar opens the door for his friend and says, “I’d be honored to, old friend. What is the protocol for applying for membership?”
- They’re a nice bunch of guys.”
“Thanks, but I would like to wait until after the presentation to tell them, though; that way I can judge their reaction to me. And I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to come around, but I never fancied myself a club person. Perhaps I’m getting old, bored, lonely or all three.”
“And maybe, the next time I visit, you can teach me how to play chess,” Murray says, thinking here it comes, Murray old man, I wonder how he will respond. “But I warn you,” he says to Edgar, ” I remember our bargain.”
“What bargain was that?”
“That if I let you teach me how to play chess, then you will…”
Edgar finishes the sentence for Murray: “…Let you tutor me in math. I had forgotten, but it’s still a deal, old friend.”
They shake hands and Murray says, “By the way, Eddie, I’ve noticed lately that whenever you are thinking hard, you close your eyes. May I ask you why?”
“I’ve always had a hard time focusing when I am engaged in new thoughts. Closing them shuts out distractions, and helps to keep my thoughts from running away from me. It is something I read once in a ’self-help’ book. Does it bother you?”
“Well, to be honest, it doesn’t bother me, as much as it makes me wonder why. But now that you’ve explained it, I won’t let it distract me in the future.”
“That is good, because when I teach you to play chess, there’ll be no room for distractions. Chess is like a house of cards: one wrong move and the whole of your plans can crumble in an instant. That’s part of the fun of the game.”
“Got to run now,” Murray says and holds the jacket over his head and runs to his car. Edgar stands there feeling the wind on his face and watches Murray, and thinks about the presentation, the club and the thought that maybe, just maybe, he’ll be able to figure out what to do with his estate.
