Fiction:

It’s a Sin to Steal a Watermelon

by Walter L. Maughan

I considered it the better part of valor not to probe too deeply into just where the boys got the watermelon for our picnic. After all boys would be boys, I told myself. And when they offered, what could I say? They ought to be involved somehow in the preparations. In any case, stealing a watermelon was a minor infraction. Why, we had all been involved in such things at some time or other.

I soothed my conscience with these rationalizations until I learned where they had gotten the watermelon. And then there was no help for it. Obviously it was a sin to steal a watermelon, and that would have to be the topic of our next priesthood lesson.

Not only was it a sin to steal a watermelon, but it was a greater sin to lie about it. And that was the thing that really rankled in my brain after our visit to Sister Wagner’s house.

My young companion, Tom Learner, had made the appointment. And he seemed perfectly at ease as he rang the doorbell.

“Good evening, Sister Wagner,” Tom’s voice was sincere and friendly.

“My home teachers. Come in. I’ve been waiting for you.”

“And how are you, Sister Wagner?” I asked.

Her answer was noncommittal. I sensed there was something she was not saying.

I discussed the message we had prepared on chastity—not a subject that Sister Wagner needed to be greatly concerned about. Tom offered a beautiful prayer.

Then as we were preparing to leave, I said: “And how are you really, Sister Wagner? Is there something we should know about?”

With a quick glance at Tom, she said: “Come with me out back. There’s something you should see.”

Sister Wagner, widowed now 15 years, was proud of her garden. Many times as we visited in her home she had taken us to look at the tomatoes and carrots and peas. And, oh yes, the one watermelon plant.

You could almost see the hunger in her eyes as she talked about eating the two large green watermelons that were growing on that vine. Tom and I had joked about them, saying that they were almost like children to her and that she probably would not have the heart to eat them when they did get ripe.

Now as we came into her backyard she pointed at the garden. She was very near to tears. “If they had just taken the watermelons, I could have accepted that. But look at my tomatoes. It looks like a herd of elephants had been running through them. All that lovely fruit spoiled! And the watermelon! Do you know what they did with the watermelon? They threw it in the street out front—smashed to pieces.”

Weeping now in earnest she fled from us to the sanctuary of her house.

“Who could have done such a thing?” Tom fumed as I drove him to his house. “I’m gonna find out who it was and make him pay.”

He was putting on a good act. There were real tears in his eyes, and he almost convinced me. But the circumstantial evidence was just too great. Tom was the one who had suggested that he knew where they could get a watermelon for the picnic. I felt sure that he had involved the other members of the teachers quorum in the theft.

Sick at heart, I began to prepare the lesson I would give the following Sunday. I had enjoyed working with these boys. They were good boys basically.

Where had I failed them? It was difficult for me to believe that they—Tom especially—would steal Sister Wagner’s watermelons, knowing what they meant to her. Both of the melons had been taken, though only one made it to the picnic. The other one, as Sister Wagner pointed out, was dropped in the street in front of her house. Insult added to injury.

“Well, guys?”

They knew before I opened my mouth that this was not going to be the usual lesson.

“You want to tell me about it, guys?”

“What’s he driving at?” Mark Fenton asked. Tom’s face was a blank.

“Hey, fellows, when you offered to get a watermelon for the picnic I assumed …”

Slowly the light began to dawn in Tom’s eyes. I could see it expand and grow from a vague suspicion to certain knowledge.

“You, you think we took Sister Wagner’s watermelon?”

“What am I supposed to think, Tom?”

Suddenly the boys were all talking at once, each one pleading innocence. I had obviously taken them by surprise. Had I really misjudged them? Or had they simply not expected to be found out?

“Okay. Okay, guys!” I raised my arms for silence. “Perhaps I did jump to conclusions. If so, I’m sorry, and I beg your forgiveness. But would you just tell me one thing? Where did you get that watermelon?”

There followed a silence as profound as the outburst of protest that had preceded it. Tom looked at Mark Fenton. Mark squirmed in his seat and glanced at Billy Chavez. Eduardo, Billy’s younger brother, seemed to be profoundly interested in the pattern of the floor tiles. He studied those tiles as if he were hypnotized. The attention of the class focused finally on Eduardo, the shyest and quietest member of the group. They had chosen Eduardo as their spokesman, whether he liked it or not.

“You know something you’d like to tell me, Eduardo?”

He looked at me with something like panic in his eyes. I wanted to let him off the hook. But if the answer did not come from him, there would be no answer.

“Tell me about it, Eduardo. Where did you get the watermelon?”

Soft, like the southern breeze in September, came his voice.

“From old m-m-m-. …”

“Would you repeat that, please, Eduardo?”

“From Old Man Peters.” He seemed relieved after it was out.

Relief washed over me like a mountain wind in summer. They had not stolen Sister Wagner’s watermelon. They had taken one from Old Ma … Mr. Peters’ big field. He had so many. Surely he would not miss one. Still, I had set out to make a point.

“Hey, guys. I do apologize for thinking you would do something like that to Sister Wagner, a widow with only one small plant. But you know stealing is stealing. Were you all involved in this?”

They nodded their heads affirmatively.

My plan would require only minor alteration, a change of characters. “Well, fellows, you know what I think we had better do?”

They knew all right but were hoping I would not say it.

Each agreed that, since I insisted, he would go with me to visit Mr. Peters later that afternoon. At the appointed time I picked each of them up and we drove out to the Peters’ farm at the edge of town.

I had not talked to Bill Peters in a long time, though we went to school together some years back. He was not a member of the Church but had married into a prominent Latter-day Saint family. His children were totally inactive. I must confess that I felt somewhat ill at ease going to see him. I wondered if it was worth it for one small watermelon. But we were already committed.

He was tinkering with his tractor when we pulled into the yard. I got out of the car and approached with some trepidation.

“Hi Bill.”

“Walt? Been a while.” He extended his arm to shake hands and then drew it back. “Hand’s covered with grease. You won’t want to shake with me.”

The boys were still keeping to the security of the car. I motioned them to join me.

“Looks like a delegation,” Bill Peters said.

“Oh … uh … how are things going, Bill?”

“Been better. Tractor won’t run. Cow got into the lucerne the other night and bloated. Still might lose her.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Bill. You have a nice looking watermelon patch.”

“Hmph! Had is more like it. Kids got into the field and knocked the best melons off the vine. What they didn’t ruin the cow did, on her way to the alfalfa field. Whoever got into the melon patch left her gate open.”

The boys were beginning to squirm noticeably.

“Well, Bill, that … that was what we came to see you about.”

“Figured it was when I saw you coming.”

“We’d like to pay for the damage, if we could.”

“Walt, I wouldn’t know what to charge. Probably a couple hundred dollars all told. But, kids! They don’t know what they’re doing. Did you ever steal a watermelon? They think it’s fun. Isn’t when you’re on the other side. I donno. I wouldn’t feel good about taking their money. I will accept an apology.”

Each of the boys in turn expressed his regret to Mr. Peters. They were deeply penitent. And none of us felt like we had really solved the problem. I did not know what more we could do.

Two weeks later I learned what kind of stuff that teachers quorum was really made of when I got a call from Bill Peters.

“Walt?”

“Yes.”

“Bill Peters. I just had to tell you how much it has meant to me …”

My pause must have suggested to him that I did not know what he was talking about.

“Your boys,” he said. “That Learner kid’s a great mechanic. Got my tractor going like a charm. Brought his big brother with him, who works at the garage. And the other boys have been working around the place.”

I was speechless.

We talked about it during priesthood meeting the following Sunday.

“Don’t you guys know it’s a sin to lie?” My voice was quavery as I said this.

“Lie?” Tom Learher’s voice was indignant. “We didn’t lie.”

“No,” Mark Fenton broke in. “We just didn’t tell you everything.”

“We wanted to surprise you,” Eduardo spoke shyly.

Suddenly I needed a tissue. After wiping my nose, I asked: “Did you learn anything else from this experience?”

“It’s a sin to steal a watermelon,” Billy Chavez spoke for the group.

Illustrated by Sharon Seegmiller