Simon Birch

I woke up on the morning of Simon’s birthday to the warm sun peeking through the curtains on my bedroom window. The tree branches outside were calmly swaying in the gentle breeze. I laid there for a while with my face towards the window, listening to the birds chirp happily to one another. I could hear my mother downstairs in the kitchen making breakfast. Pots and pans crashed together, bacon sizzled on the greased pan, and cupboard doors slammed shut. As I pulled myself out of bed, I wondered what Simon was doing at that moment. I wondered if his mom had made him a special breakfast, or gave him a gift for his special day, or if his father had wished him a happy birthday. But I knew better. I had only been inside Simon’s house a few times, when both his parents were gone at work, but Simon had sometimes told me a bit about them and how he was treated at home. It pained me to think how a parent could have that little love or pride for their own child, but then again my own father left me and my mother before I was even born, so it could be easily compared. As I pulled on my shirt and made my way downstairs, I could smell the bacon coming from the kitchen.

“Good morning, Joe,” said a stern voice. I took a few steps back and peered into the living room where I found my grandmother sitting in front of the fire, knitting needles upon her lap.

“Good morning, Grandmother,” I replied. “Good morning, Hillie.” Hillie, sitting in the chair next to grandmother, nodded respectfully.

“Now that’s a good boy,” grandmother said, turning her attention back to her knitting. I continued down the hall into the kitchen and greeted my mother.

“Joe, would you please set the table? And do add an extra chair, Ben will be joining us,” she asked. I grabbed the plates and cups and silverware from the counter and placed them on the table in the dining room, making sure to add an extra chair next to Mother’s for Ben. As I finished placing the silverware next to the plates, the doorbell rang. I hurried to the door to let Ben in.

“Morning, Joe!” he said cheerfully, clapping me on the back. I took his coat and hung it up and led him into the dining room. Grandmother and Hillie were just sitting down at the table as Mother brought in the steaming plates of food. She acknowledged Ben before sitting down and leading us all in a prayer.

“Ben, would you like to come with Joe and me over to Simon’s house later this afternoon? It’s his birthday and we thought we’d invite him for a picnic down at the lake,” Mother asked, scooping a pile of peas onto her plate.

“Oh yes, I’d be happy to come! I brought him a gift, figuring we would see him today,” Ben said before stuffing his mouth full of chicken casserole.

After dinner, Mother, Ben, and I walked down to Simon’s house. He lived on the edge of town in a tall white house with a big front porch. Nobody ever came down on this end of town; nobody really liked the Birchs’, what with their load of money, nice jobs, and abnormal son. Even I had only been in Simon’s house a few times, and we had been best friends since kindergarten. As we walked up the lane to the house, presents in our hands, we heard shouting from inside the old farmhouse. I looked suspiciously at my mother, but she only shrugged. The shouting continued.

“Let’s just wait here a minute,” she said softly, setting her gifts on the ground under a big oak tree. Ben and I did the same, and we stood there together, trying not to listen to the conversation going on inside. However, the voices of Simon and his parents echoed loudly, and every word could be heard and understood.

“- just stay in your room, your father and I are leaving!” Mrs. Birch yelled.

“But I want to go to Joe’s house!” Simon yelled back.

“You’re always at Joe’s, you can stay at home and make yourself useful for once! How do you think Mrs. Wenteworth feels having you intruding all the time?” Mrs. Birch retorted.

“That’s because whenever I’m home, you always yell at me or act like I’m not even here!” Simon shouted. “And Mrs. Wenteworth is more of a mother to me than you have ever been!” Silence.

“Simon, you are not normal. You are a genetic abnormality that happened to be born into this family, and only God knows why. You have dishonored our family name. We’re leaving,” Mrs. Birch said sternly. “Andrew, any last words?”

“I have nothing to say to this disappointment of a son of mine.” Another moment of silence. Suddenly, the front door opened and Mr. and Mrs. Birch stormed out, Mrs. Birch slamming the door behind them. They were halfway to their car before they noticed us standing under the oak tree. Mr. Birch looked at us with an expression of pure hatred.

“What do you think you’re doing!” he yelled. “You have no right to be on my property! I’ll call the cops!” Before my mother could say anything, the Birchs’ got into their car and pulled out of the drive, glaring at us as they passed. We stood there for a moment, not knowing what to do.

“Umm… should I go find Simon?” I asked, breaking the silence. My mother nodded, staring fixedly at the house. I hurried up the front steps and knocked on the door. Nobody answered. I knocked again. Still no answer.

“Simon, come on! I know you’re in there!” I called, still knocking on the door. Nobody came. “Simon, I’m coming in!” I waited for a minute before opening the door and stepping inside. The house was dark and quiet, except for a soft whimpering noise coming from upstairs. Slowly, I walked up the stairs. Simon was sitting in the corner, head in his hands, and he was crying softly.

“Joe, why do they hate me?” he asked, looking up at me with tear-filled eyes. I sat down next to him and put my arm around his shoulder.

“I don’t know, Simon, I honestly don’t,” I said. “But you’re always telling me that God has a plan for you. So this has to be part of His famous plan then, doesn’t it?” Simon wiped his eyes.

“I try to believe it, Joe, I really do,” he sniffed, “but sometimes I doubt it. Everybody hates me. My family hates me. I don’t even like calling them my parents because I’m ashamed of them.”

“It’ll be ok, I promise,” I comforted. Suddenly I remembered my mother and Ben waiting outside. “Mother and Ben wanted to know if you wanted to go down to the lake for the afternoon. After all, it is your birthday.” Simon grinned.

“I’m twelve now, Joe,” he said, still smiling. “You know what that means?” I shook my head. “Maybe I can ask Mary if she’ll go on a date with me!” He looked hopefully up at me, and I stared down at him.

“Are you serious?” I asked, trying to stifle a laugh.

“Yeah! I think she likes me. Remember when she said I was cute?”

“That was three years ago at the Christmas program when you played baby Jesus for the first time,” I reminded him.

“So?” Simon asked. I shook my head, laughing, and got up.

“So are you coming or not?” I asked, looking down at my friend. He nodded, and I helped him to his feet. “Well hurry up, Mother and Ben are waiting outside for us.” I followed him down the stairs and waited for him while he slipped on his sandals and grabbed a towel from the bathroom. Outside, Mother and Ben were sitting under the big oak tree, talking to each other softly.

“There you boys are, we were starting to worry you weren’t coming back out!” Mother exclaimed, smiling.

“Hello Mrs. Wenteworth, hello Ben Goodrich,” Simon said as we reached the oak.

“Hello, Simon, happy birthday!” my mother exclaimed, pulling Simon in for a hug and planting a kiss on his forehead. “How does it feel to be twelve?”

“Not much different, Mrs. Wenteworth,” Simon repliled, shaking Ben’s hand.

“Well, we haven’t got all day,” Mother said. “Simon, would you like to go down to the lake for a picnic and a swim for your extra special birthday celebration?”

“Oh yes please, Mrs. Wenteworth.” He grabbed my mother’s hand and led us down the driveway, and he didn’t let go of her hand until we reached the lake ten minutes later.

Simon and I decided to swim first, then open his gifts and have our picnic snack. We tore off our shirts and raced each other into the water, splashing like frightened ducks. We swam out to the raft, heaved ourselves onto the floating dock, and laid there for what seemed like ages, both of us staring in opposite directions of the lake. The lake was calm and peaceful; nothing disturbed the rhythmic ripples on the surface of the water except for the occasional fish that leapt into the air and dove back in. After a while of lying there, I heard Ben call for us from the shore.

“Hey boys, thinking about coming in anytime soon? It’ll be dark before we even start our picnic!” Simon turned to me, a look of panic on his face. He dove into the water and started swimming as fast as he could back to where my mother and Ben were setting up a blanket in the sand.

“Hurry up, Joe!” he yelled back at me. I jumped in and followed him back to the shore. My mother was waiting for us with our towels, and she wrapped us up. “Thanks, Mrs. Wenteworth,” Simon said, sitting down on the blanket next to Ben. I joined Ben and Simon on the blanket as my mother brought over the picnic basket and Simon’s gifts.

“Gifts first!” she announced, handing Simon three packages wrapped in brown paper. He took them and eagerly began unwrapping the first one. He tore off the paper and took out a small box.

“More baseball cards? Sweet, thanks Joe!” Simon said, quickly looking through the box of cards before placing them on the blanket next to him and grabbing the next parcel. My mother had given him his own Bible, as he had not yet carried one of his own. We always took an extra one from our house to church every week for Simon, so my mother thought it’d be fitting to get him one of his own (“Wow, thanks Mrs. Wenteworth!”). He hugged the leather-bound book before setting it down next to the baseball cards. Lastly, Ben’s gift. I knew Simon would love Ben’s gift, but I didn’t realize just how ecstatic he would really be. He almost gave me a heart attack when he unwrapped it!

“My own armadillo?!” he squealed loudly, proudly holding up the plastic model of an armadillo. “Oh Ben, thank you thank you thank you!” He reached over to give Ben a hug, clutching the armadillo under his arm. The figurine was bigger than Simon’s head; he had to either look around it or peer over the top of it to talk to us when he held it in his lap. We sat there for a long time, the four of us, eating sandwiches and watermelon and cookies, laughing and talking about anything and everything. We talked until the sun began to set, then realized we still had to walk home. The whole afternoon, I hadn’t once thought about the argument we overheard earlier that day. Simon seemed to have moved on quickly and not given it another thought. Was it always like this? I asked myself as we started walking back through the trees, Simon hand in hand with my mother again. Did this happen more often, that Simon had learned to act like nothing ever went wrong? Were his parents always that cruel to him? What was I not seeing? I spent the rest of the walk back home pondering those thoughts. I hardly even noticed when Simon looked up at my mother, with deep affection in his eyes, and said:

“Thanks for everything today, Mom.”