Lord Fear

by Lucas Mann

When I heard his voice crack, a pained whinny and then a little gasp, the fantasy stopped. The bathroom door was open and I let myself think this was on purpose. The room smelled of shit and vomit and sweat. I breathed through my mouth. I tiptoed in to stand over him. The water shuddered when he writhed. The water was oily with his grime and the soap that he poured into it. The soap bottle lay on the floor next to him, squeezed empty, as though there was a logical correlation to be found—the more soap, the better the chance to be cleansed. The suds covered him, stuck to his arm hairs, clumped over his crotch. His knees broke through the surface, and I reached out to touch the skin that was available.

  His eyes were red. I’m sure they were other things, but all I remember is red, the brightness of it, the idea of it. He focused his gaze on me, and I thought I could see the effort in that.

  “Ow,” he said and then he smiled, but it turned into a wince. He put his hand on top of mine and it was heavy but I didn’t move.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  When he breathed, his body heaved. I watched his nipples poke through the water and then disappear again. His submerged skin was nearly translucent. He was perfectly visible but just obscured enough to be a glow, a suggestion, something approximating a human being, the outline and the general shading.

  He didn’t speak, so I stood to go.

  “Stay,” he said.

  I stayed. I reached out my hand. I wiped the wet strings of hair from his forehead, the way I remembered adult hands doing to me as a feverish child.

  He smiled and I asked why and he said, “Nothing.” We were quiet again.

  He took my hand and put it on his cheek, and I knelt beside him. I let my palm cup his cheekbones, still elegant. He tried to smile again, and there was such softness in it, such fear that I would not smile back. I think I was aware of that, how much he didn’t want me to not smile. I felt sadness and I felt love.

  “This hurts so much,” he said.

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Is this water fucking freezing or what?” he said.

  I put my hand in the water and it scalded, so I said no.

  “Bullshit,” he said.

  “Oh, maybe it is,” I said.

  “No, I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Over and over until it felt like there weren’t any spaces between the words.

  He didn’t tell me a story. There was nobody there to shape the story for him. There was no beginning to this moment, and he spoke of no ending that we would soon reach. He said that it hurt and he said he was sorry.

  He let his body slide lower, so just his face poked through the water. He put his hand on the edge of the tub, kept his fingers wedged between mine. I stayed to be sure he wouldn’t let himself sink. I stayed because we were touching. I stayed and watched the pain move in little pulses across his face. I wanted him to feel better than he felt.

  Acknowledgments

  This book could not have been written without the generosity of a lot of people. It was an act of collaborative memory, and my undying thanks go to every person who spoke with me about Josh, who took time out of their busy lives to dig into difficult memories. Many of the names have been changed, and I will not list them here, but each person brought so much kindness and intelligence to our conversations. You each breathed new life into his story for me. Thank you.

  My family, in particular, has been so open and supportive throughout the researching and writing of this book. Writing about family is, in many ways, the repeated poking of an open wound, an enormous and perhaps unfair request to make of those who lived the experiences. I am fortunate to have a family full of smart, caring, supportive readers and writers. To my mother and my father, my brother and his mother: thank you for your uncommon willingness to find value in this project. I am amazed by your generosity, both intellectual and emotional.

  Another thing that amazes me: how much it helps to have brilliant, honest writers looking out for you. Lord Fear would never have gotten off the ground if it weren’t for the tutelage of the great Amitava Kumar. It wouldn’t have reached its final form without Ariel Lewiton and Kristen Radtke, who took time away from their own work to help make mine better.

  Victoria Marini, my intrepid agent, reader, and friend, has championed this project for so long, with indefatigable patience, even in my brattiest moments. Thank you is not nearly sufficient, but thank you, Victoria, for everything. And thank you also to Keith Goldsmith, my editor, for your steady sage advice, for making this a much tighter book than the one you first encountered. And to Michiko Clark, as well, for embracing this book and working so passionately to publicize it.

  Finally, most importantly, I must thank “Sofia,” whose real name is much cooler and who has read every word of every draft of Lord Fear, including some really terrible early ones, and who I learn from every day. There will never a satisfactory way to say it: I love you. I love you.

  A NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Lucas Mann was born in New York City and received his MFA from the University of Iowa. He is the author of Class A: Baseball in the Middle of Everywhere, and his essays have appeared in Barrelhouse, TriQuarterly, Slate, and The Kenyon Review. He teaches writing at the University of Massachusetts Dartmouth and lives in Providence, Rhode Island, with his wife.