THE SWEETEST RAMBUTAN she had ever tasted grew on their neighbor’s tree. When it was in season, the tree brimmed with loose hanging clusters of bright red fruit covered with fleshy pliable spines. Birds flocked to feed on them and bees buzzed with purpose, carefully guarding the delectable fruit hanging from the branches.
Over the years, the tropical tree had grown into an imposing presence beside the low cement wall that separated the neighbor’s two-story house and their split-level bungalow. The tree’s branches spread out proudly over the neighbor’s backyard, some of them crossing the property line and from the neighbor’s side to theirs.
When the neighbor entertained guests, their garden was also abuzz with activity. Guests chatted excitedly under the tree, admiring how prolific it was and how they had never tasted rambutan that sweet. The neighbors liked to prod their guests to pluck the red fruit right off the closest hanging clusters and into waiting baskets which they could bring home. Towering overhead, the fruit-bearing tree was a prized possession, its fruit unmatched by any other fruit in season.
THE FIRST TIME GEMINA TRIED the fruit, it happened by chance. She picked up a fruit that had fallen with a thud on their shed’s corrugated metal roofing. Curious about the proud reputation of the neighbor’s rambutan, she broke the fruit’s whiskered, leathery rind open with her thumbs to reveal a translucent oval pulp.
Rambutan fruit was refreshingly sweet and juicy with subtle notes of strawberry and grapes. In the Philippines, she knew of two varieties: tuklapin and supsupin. It was a bit of a challenge to eat the first, whose seed’s thin woody covering stubbornly clung to the pulp and stuck between the teeth when one bit into it. The second was less dense and easier to eat; that of the neighbor’s was even more luscious. From then on, Gemina wanted more. It was reason enough for her to go out of her way and instruct the house help to clamber up the shed and pick the clusters that conveniently hung over it.
ONLY THE NEIGHBOR’S MAID was home the day they decided to go rambutan-picking. She said the homeowners were away on vacation. But the fruit from the tree looked ripe and ready. Some of them had started to fall on the shed, having been eaten through by the birds and bees that got to them first. Time was of the essence, Gemina thought, and it would be a shame to see all that delicious fruit go to waste.
“Just the fruit on our side of the wall, ha…” she told her house help. It was meant to be a reassurance for the neighbor’s help, too, who had fallen quiet on the other side of the wall, looking on at Gemina and her busy ward in apparent bewilderment.
The tree practically straddled the low dividing wall between the two lots — its trunk was on the neighbor’s side but it leaned over theirs along with some of its branches.
What was on their side was theirs, Gemina thought to herself. The neighbor wouldn’t mind, she thought, making a mental note to notify them.
By the time they were done picking, the bright red fruit filled two big baskets. They feasted on the fruit and divided them into several bags. Fruit that sweet was meant for sharing with her fondest friends in the neighborhood: one down the street and another one three blocks down, even a third one in the adjacent subdivision. She remembered noticing how the fruit had remained untouched on the neighbor’s side of the wall unless the homeowners were there or hosting visitors. She sent part of their harvest for the neighbor’s maid who was surprised by the gesture but welcomed it.
Gemina thought of a way to pick the fruits farther up the tree. She fashioned a pole with a nifty hook out of plastic handles from two old mops and a metal hanger. Patiently, she waited for the unpicked rambutan to ripen a bit more and get as much nutrients from the roots, and for the next perfect opportunity.
THE NEIGHBORS were still away when it was time for the next round of picking. Her husband was home. From the study, he had seen the house help standing on top of the shed’s corrugated roof, precariously weaving the long pole through the tree’s higher branches.
“Get down from there!” he hollered, before storming into the kitchen where his wife was indulging in some freshly picked rambutan.”We can buy fruit outside, Gem. It isn’t worth it if someone gets hurt picking those stupid fruits.”
Gemina begged to disagree. Her husband hadn’t even tried the neighbor’s rambutan, although he had long admitted that he was not fond of it. He was missing half of his life, she thought. But it was futile arguing with her husband, a lawyer.
“You can’t just pick fruit from the neighbor’s tree,” he insisted. “That’s illegal!” He mumbled something about fruits falling on the invaded land being free from dispute on the condition that they had fallen naturally and were not shaken off or taken down by poles. “If the fruit still hangs on to the tree, that still belongs to the tree owner,” he said, citing Article 681 of the Civil Code.
Her heart sank at the thought that — without permission – she had been technically stealing the neighbor’s fruits. Of course, she knew she was going to let them know as a matter of courtesy. In fact, she was even thinking of reciprocating it with some act of kindness, because that’s what good neighbors do.
But her husband wasn’t fond of the neighbors next door. In fact, he had a beef with them. He had gotten word that they had been purposefully letting their Shih Tzu do its dirty business on the patch of grass right outside their gate.
“That man is really testing me,” he had said grumpily, referring to the man of the neighbor’s house.
There was a difference between a statement of fact and an unwarranted assumption. It was a distinction that her husband liked to make. But now, she thought, even he had a tendency to overreact. She doubted that the neighbor would not have done anything so uncouth. The test to her husband’s patience had probably come much earlier — when he and the neighbor ran for Board of Directors in the Subdivision and her husband lost by a hairline. Aside from his legal mind, her husband had been a resident for much longer and was in a better position to know what the community needed. She suspected that her husband had lost the vote some other way: he wasn’t around much and smiled even less. The neighbor, however, fresh from retirement, had plenty of time to make the rounds of the subdivision while walking his dog, attend monthly social gatherings and chum up with other members of the community.
It had come as no surprise then that her husband was livid that day he personally discovered that the neighbor’s mutt was, in fact, using their grass for potty training. Her husband had stormed into the house, complaining about the pile of dog crap flagrantly displayed on their front lawn outside their gate. He had warned about calling out the culprit and bringing the matter up to other officers of the Subdivision. Gemina had urged him to calm down. He was just tired, she said, telling him to give the neighbor a call or just let the matter rest.
“Gem, those people should be placed on a leash,” he said, throwing up his hands in the air. “No apology whatsoever and they are at it again! Don’t they know that we have an ordinance requiring pet owners to clean up after their pets? There should be some amount of accountability here,” he insisted. “And to think that the inconsiderate dog owner is a member of the Board! Someone has to teach him a lesson!”
Without delay, her husband had arranged to have CCTV cameras installed outside the house to fend off the unneighborly behavior. It was just like him to take drastic action when he didn’t like something or when he wanted something done.
After the last rambutan season, she remembered how he had called a gardener to cut-off the unwieldy branches that crossed over to their side. He didn’t like the mess of leaves and rotting fruit that collected on the shed and clogged up the gutter and pipes, creating a potential fire hazard and a magnet for rodents, snakes and flies. She had cast a wistful glance at the space where the tree’s lowest limbs should’ve been. It was as if someone had stolen them along with any hope of a neighborly peace.
BY JANUARY, the severed branches of the rambutan tree had grown back and were beginning to bud once more. By May, branches littered with blossoms, before sprouting clusters of small green rambutan bulbs with the promise of a more bountiful harvest. Summer passed and the rains came. By August, the rambutan tree was back in its full splendor.

Gemina’s eyes widened at the sight of crimson clusters of the hairy fruit dangling from the neighbor’s tree again, as if they were taunting her. She craved the fruit. Oh, how she craved the fruit; she could almost taste it. Oh, she thought, if only he could.