Education of Simon Lane Read online

  Book One of the

  Memory Lane Series:

  The Education

  Of

  Simon Lane

  By

  Pat Cromwell

  Dedication

  To Howie for his eighteenth birthday.

  A special thank-you to Monti and Vi for making it so much better!

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  The Education of Simon Lane

  by Pat Cromwell

  Red Rose™ Publishing

  Publishing with a touch of Class! ™

  The symbol of the Red Rose and Red Rose is a trademark of Red Rose™ Publishing

  Red Rose™ Publishing

  Copyright© 2009 Pat Cromwell

  ISBN: 978-1-60435-315-0

  Cover Artist: Honey Jans

  Editor: Monti

  Line Editor: Vi Bowen

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews. Due to copyright laws you cannot trade, sell or give any ebooks away.

  This is a work of fiction. All references to real places, people, or events are coincidental, and if not coincidental, are used fictitiously. All trademarks, service marks, registered trademarks, and registered service marks are the property of their respective owners and are used herein for identification purposes only.

  Red Rose™ Publishing

  www.redrosepublishing.com

  Forestport, NY 13338

  Thank you for purchasing a book from Red Rose™Publishing where publishing

  comes with a touch of Class!

  The Education

  Of

  Simon Lane

  By

  Pat Cromwell

  Prologue

  “Where are you Simon? Answer me now, boy, or you’ll regret it.” The old man’s voice bellowed through the room, followed by the clashing of the front door against its weather-beaten frame. The small boy scurried across the hardwood floor of the cold damp living room and then slid into the kitchen, looking for a pace to hide. He moved quickly to the far side of the room, concentrating on his father’s approach and simultaneously stilling his nerves for the inevitable lesson to come.

  “Did you hear me call for you, or are you as deaf as you are dumb?” The old man slammed the bag he was carrying down on the kitchen table, and Simon watched as he methodically removed the contents—a six-pack of beer, a carton of cigarettes, and a bag of generic potato chips.

  He held his breath, hoping and praying the moment would pass, that the old bastard would concentrate on the items now scattered haphazardly across the table and forget about whatever Simon had or had not done. But as was the norm, luck was not on Simon Lane

  ’s side.

  It never was when it came to his father and what he grew up to call his education. Simon Lane

  was educated in the school of hard knocks, and today was like practically every other day of his six year existence. With his teacher’s arrival at the broken down, piece-of-shit house that Simon called home, so arrived the lesson. The knocks were literal—he carried various scars from the countless blows inflicted on his body by the monster that raised him…his father…his teacher.

  And, just his luck, he had a shit load of cosmic punches, too. Simon leaned back carefully, so as to not make a noise. His father reached for the bag of chips and then paused midway in opening them. The sardonic grin Simon had come to loath spread across his father’s face.

  “You hiding in the corner, you little shit?”

  “I was resting,” Simon replied without any hesitation. He knew if he said he wasn’t hiding his father’s punishment would begin sooner rather than later.

  “Well, get over here and sit with me.” His father pulled out a chair and flopped down in it as if he were tired and carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. Simon’s expression, however, remained neutral. No way would he give his father the satisfaction of witnessing tears or seeing him shake and shiver. Instead, Simon willed himself not to cry. His father was a mean son of a bitch, and in addition to being Simon’s primary caretaker, he was also the Dean of Simon’s schoolhouse, which specialized in the art of malevolence, both physical and mental. Simon pulled out the chair to his father’s left and sat down. He placed his hands on top of the table and waited.

  “You know,” his father uttered several hours and several beers later, “even before your sorry ass was born, you were the single worst occurrence of my otherwise happy life. Why is that?” The old man leaned back in the rickety chair and glared at Simon.

  Occurrence.

  The man had actually used the word occurrence. It wasn’t the first time Simon’s existence had been referred to in such dehumanizing terms. When Simon was old enough to use a dictionary, he looked the word up and thought that perhaps his father wasn’t as ignorant as his actions would indicate. The old bastard had managed to take a seemingly misplaced word for a human being and turn it into a symbol of his son’s worth. Simon accepted his lot in life as an occurrence, but he vowed to make his future a better occurrence than his childhood.

  Simon hunched his shoulders and lowered his eyes, concentrating on his fingers, intertwining them absently. He knew what was coming next and had learned it didn’t quite hurt as much when you didn’t see the blow coming. And come it did. One minute his focus was fixed on his fingers, the next he lay motionless on the floor, gasping for breath. He had to hand it to the old bastard, with age came strength. His father’s punches seemed to grow stronger with time.

  “Answer me, you piece of shit, or I’ll beat you.” The softly spoken cadence of his father’s voice always sent a chill down his spine. His teacher—his father—balled up his fist and slammed the young boy across the head. Simon, just as stubborn as his old man, refused to speak, to cry, to utter even the slightest sound.

  “You’re an abomination! You’re nothing but a fuckup! You fuck up everything, you worthless little shit!” That was his father’s favorite saying, usually followed by the typical rhetoric spewed by a sorry fucking parent. Then, the old man proceeded to kick Simon in the gut with his steel-toe boots. He dragged him across the cold, dirty linoleum floor and flung him—without much effort—into the 12 x 36 cage with the family’s dog.

  “You’re why some animals drown their young. I should have left you on the church steps.”

  Why didn’t you, you miserable old fucker? Simon always thought those words, but he never said them. Had their roles been reversed, without a doubt, his father would have left Simon with choice words trailing behind him, deep lacerations, and surely a broken rib or two.

  He never wanted to be like his father.

  Harry, Simon’s Yorkshire terrier, merely hobbled closer to the opposite wall of the cage, making room for his owner. The dog had become used to Simon being in the cage with him, plus he was the boy’s best friend. Simon squeezed his eyes closed and tried to block out his father’s harsh words and the thumping of his heavy feet as he approached. He ranted and raved, and then whimpered and moaned, begging Simon’s forgiveness.

  As if, Simon thought. His father’s excuse was the same as it had been in the past and surely would be again in the future—he was missing something important in his life, and it was all Simon’s fault.

  “It was the spirits, Simon…I was missing your Momma. I was drunk. I am drunk,” he amended. “It’s the alcohol, boy. You believe me, don’t you, boy?”

 
With that apology would come more talking. His father would talk for hours after a beating, and Simon would listen, never uttering a word. He dared not, especially since the topic centered on his dead mother. Simon never knew the woman, but as sure as he sat huddled in the corner of the cage, praying his father wouldn’t strike him again, he hated her.

  “A saint…your mother was a saint, boy,” his father cried. Simon could not help but flinch at the words because he hated his mother—completely.

  Would a saint abandon her son to a mad man?

  By the age of nine, Simon knew, without a doubt, that his father was most definitely a mad man. Unlike most kids, Simon knew what was happening to him was not normal. He also knew, without a doubt, that if his mother were the saint his father spoke so highly of, surely she would be here now, protecting him.

  But she wasn’t.

  He wiped his nose and thought, to hell with her, too. She was no saint. Simon branded his saintly mother a certified monster, as well, for leaving him. His father had begun to weep; he would cry now for the rest of the night, cry like a hungry baby. His body trembled from the emotions, and his face bore the onslaught of salty tears for this big loss that Simon unwittingly created. Simon could give less than a fuck about his father’s tears and sadness, or that saintly woman labeled “mother.”

  Simon dabbed at the blood on his nose and flexed his toes, his fingers, arms, wrists, every movable limb on his body, to make sure they still worked. He watched his father’s stiff and wobbly movements as he searched for another bottle of beer to ease the pain of missing his wife, and he knew the cycle of parental abuse would began again. Someday, Simon swore on his life, someday he would be a man, big enough to leave the bastard behind. He would live a better life than his father.

  “If only…if only she was still here. If only I had gone, too,” his father said. Death. Now his father was speaking of dying. Do it, you old bastard, do it. Die. At that moment, Simon’s desire was to stand over his father’s body, stiff with rigor mortis, because he believed the old bastard deserved death. He itched to strike the deathblow, but he would not bloody his hands on the man.

  “You destroyed everything, you little shit. Everything! And you always will! I should do to you what you did to her. You’re nothing to me, you little shit. You’re nothing but a little, fucking, sorry magnet for sorrow. Whatever you touch, you little shit, you’ll destroy. You can’t help it. You’re nothing.”

  Simon couldn’t help but whimper. Granted, someday he would be free of his father, but he knew he would never be free from the crime his father consistently made him pay for. Simon’s crime had been the ultimate offense, one he could not deny, or run from, or pretend did not exist. For years, his father had made a point of educating Simon on that one fault.

  Simon had killed his mother, and his father hated him for it.

  “You killed your mother, you little bastard!” his father screamed. “She died having you! It’s not right, you being here and her gone. You’re a worthless, little shit! You ruined everything and you always will!” His father collapsed his head onto the table, and Simon leaned back, mesmerized by his father’s convulsing frame.

  Through the years, his father added to the list the various new ways Simon managed to destroy his father’s life. But none was as powerful as the original. His father never allowed him to forget the reason for his education, constantly reminding him of the one transgression that he, and eventually Simon, would never forgive.

  But someday, Simon vowed, someday it would be okay. He would find someone who would love him. And it would not be a fake bitch like the mother that abandoned him, but a real saint, and everything would be okay.

  Chapter One

  Simon Lane

  leaned back in his seat, staring out the window of Parker Crane’s jet, which flew over the Great Lakes en route to Chicago. Parker was engrossed with his Blackberry, shooting out emails to his henchmen regarding the meeting he and Simon had abruptly brought to an end.

  Parker Crane was the embodiment of cool, always prepared and a master of the three S’s—self-control, self-command, and self-restraint. Parker had a natural presence that men—if they were honest—would admit to envying. Simon held a certain hero worship for the strikingly handsome black man and often wondered what Parker’s secret was.

  “Are you okay, Simon? You seem a million miles away.” Parker set aside his Blackberry and focused his penetrating gaze on Simon.

  “I was just thinking.”

  “The meeting went well; don’t you think?”

  “It went better than I had expected. It’s only a matter of time before Capital Bundle realizes they are well and truly screwed. All that’s left is how I will divide it up for a rapid disposal.”

  “Ah, yes. That’s a task I know you’re looking forward to.” Parker chuckled.

  “That’s what I do—acquire a company, dismantle it into nice, profitable chunks, and then walk away with a handsome gross margin. I never pretended to be a builder, and those who call me a carpetbagger can kiss my ass.”

  “Your conscience doesn’t bother you?”

  “I’m living the American dream.” Simon expelled an aggravated sigh. “I have nothing to be ashamed of. I pay my taxes and I employ a shit load of people. Don’t try to guilt me. I don’t see you signing over your family’s assets to the poor and downtrodden.”

  “We all have our cross to bear.” Parker was always calm when he spoke, never betraying his real thoughts.

  “Yes we do.” Simon regretted the gloomy spin of his words.

  “However, you get far too much pleasure leveling the sledgehammer, Simon.” Parker obviously had chosen to ignore the undertone, much to Simon’s relief. Parker bestowed an uncharacteristic smile with his reply.

  “Nothing I do is illegal. Certain factions of our government who love deregulating in the name of democracy give guys like me and you a stamp of approval to do what we do. Hell, even when we fuck up, they pat us on the head, replenish our cash flow, and send us right back out to do it again. We had a deal, Parker. I control picking that mediocre enterprise apart and watching it die a slow and painful death. Don’t get sentimental on me now and attempt to backpedal.”

  “Me, sentimental? You’re kidding, right? My word is my reputation, and I certainly wouldn’t jeopardize it by jumping in at the last hour to save Capital Bundle. I know what you’re trying to imply, and you can forget it. The fact the flabby-ass CFO just happens to be my ex-wife is inconsequential. You of all people know there’s no love lost between me and Jamie. I just hope you know the potential consequences of your actions.”

  “Her scheming and manipulations have cost me more than money.” Simon averted his eyes from Parker and stared straight ahead. Her meddling is just one of the reasons my life’s as fucked up as it is. “I’m simply returning Jamie’s favor. The bitch has it coming.”

  Simon turned back to the window and glanced out at the clouds, dismissing any additional conversation with Parker, who obviously didn’t care about pursuing the discussion. He caught Parker’s reflection in the window. Again, he was on the blackberry engrossed, as usual, in business. Simon lowered his eyes to the land below and let his mind wander to the one memory that plagued him repeatedly.

  Lilly.

  She was supposed to be his saint, his saving grace.

  When Simon met Lilly, she dispelled the darkness that had been his existence from the moment his mother died. When he met Lilly, he took all her good and then shattered it. Simon had to admit that his father was right. The old man always said Simon was a very, very bad boy, and if something was pure and good and whole, he would surely destroy it.

  Truer words were never spoken.

  He had killed Lilly’s spirit, just as he’d killed his mother by being born.

  It seemed to him that no matter what he did, if something could go wrong, it inevitably did, and ten chances out of ten, it was Simon’s own actions that created the mess. When he thought of Lilly, he had no choi
ce but to admit that he had excelled and graduated with honors from the School of Murphy’s Law. Just as his educator, his father, had always told him he would. Simon thought back to his father’s definition of occurrence, and proved the bastard right. Simon was as his father had always ascertained—a number-one fuckup.

  Well, at least no one could accuse his father of being a liar. His father had always said Simon would destroy the happiness of anyone moronic enough to care for him. One thoughtless, reckless act had cost Simon the one person that was able to touch his soul and make him feel—something other than hate and shame. And in return, he’d destroyed her. That one night had cost him everything. It had cost him her.

  Man did he fuck that relationship up.

  Yep, his father had been right about him, all along.

  “Earth to Simon—is anyone home?” Parker Crane nudged him.

  “I was loss in thought. Are we landing?” Simon automatically snapped his seatbelt in place.

  “We’re about to.”

  “Do you want to grab a beer with me before I head out to the country?”

  “You’re stalling, Simon.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ll have to go home sooner or later. I don’t understand you, Simon. You have a good woman in Millicent, but your neutral attitude about her gives a person the idea that you don’t care one way or the other about her or your relationship.” Parker sat straighter in the leather seat.

  Simon glared at him. The man was obsessed with his ex-wife’s cousin, who just happened to be Simon’s fiancé. Simon met Millicent Rogers after his debacle with Lilly, but he felt as if he’d always known the delicate blonde beauty. Parker spoke of her often, something that Parker’s ex-wife, Jamie, hated and made no bones about voicing displeasure for very loudly. Simon now wondered just how obsessed Parker really was.