I saw Mr. Raskin dancing with his wife again. I was doing my homework upstairs in my room when I heard Mrs. Raskin giggling. When I peered over the windowsill, I could just see over their fence and just under their porch enough to make out the happy couple, all dressed up, swaying and twirling to some old tunes. It made my heart happy to see them still in love in their later years. I applauded them after their song finished, but then they stopped dancing and shuffled inside.
A while later, my mom asked me why I had clapped. I told her that I saw the neighbors dancing, but she told me Mr. Raskin couldn’t dance anymore. She said Mr. Raskin is very sick and must stay in bed most of the day, hooked up to pumps and monitors that keep him alive. She said Mrs. Raskin must have been dancing with her brother-in-law who sometimes comes over to help take care of Mr. Raskin. My mom also told me that the old couple was becoming senile, that it was best I kept to myself and let them extract joy any way they still can. I thought my mom was wrong, though, as I had seen Mr. Raskin wear that same corduroy suit many times before. Either way, the Raskins only danced at night from then on. Many nights, I would drift off to sleep listening to those old songs and imagine them, younger, laughing and dancing the night away.
Sometimes at school, if I found myself alone in the bathroom, or just in the corner of the gym during PE, I would slowly sway and hum the old music. I occasionally would even spin through the doorway into class, hands full of books, before sitting at my desk and tapping my pencil rhythmically on my leg the full hour. I even considered asking my mom if I could enroll in dance, but I was afraid the other boys might’ve made fun of me. Even the little dancing I did in school got me in trouble.
It was the Friday before spring break, and I had been in such a great mood. I was sashaying down the hallway when one of my classmates shoved me into the lockers, one of which was open. I cut both my arm and lip on the door. After the initial shock, I pounced on the boy, knocking him to the ground. I slapped him as hard as I could, and when I did, the cut from my arm spewed blood across his face. The boy screamed and yelled for me to get off him, but before I did, I spit on him, causing more blood from my lip to splatter on his face. As we got up, one of the teachers grabbed us and took us to the principal’s office.
I was sent home early that day. My mom yelled at me the entire ride home, telling me how she had to pick me up during her lunch break and that she wasn’t going to have time to eat. She told me how she was already stressed about work. She complained that she was worried about leaving me home alone the rest of the day because one of the neighbor’s kids went missing a few months ago. He had been a classmate of mine. By the time we got to our street, she was ranting about how my dad had just moved across the country for work. I never even got the chance to get a word in, not that it would have mattered.
As we turned into our driveway, I saw Mr. and Mrs. Raskin sitting out on their front porch. Mrs Raskin sat in a rocking chair, while Mr. Raskin, back in his corduroy suit, was in his wheelchair connected to a small machine with wheels and a clear plastic bag hanging from the top of it. I watched them as my mom dragged me inside, but when I locked eyes with Mrs. Raskin, she scurried off inside. I hoped I hadn’t embarrassed them with my clapping.
Before leaving and locking the door, my mom emphasized again that I was not allowed to leave the house unless it was engulfed in flames. She left and I sat there stewing in frustration from school as well as the thought that I had made Mrs. Raskin uncomfortable with her dancing. I waited a few minutes before slipping out the door and walking over to the Raskins’ house. Mr. Raskin was still sitting outside in his motorized chair watching the birds flutter between the power line and the trees.
“Excuse me, Mr. Raskin,” I called out. His eyes slid over to me, “May I speak with you for just a moment?” He then shifted the wheelchair around and went inside. At first, I thought I wasn’t going to get to speak with them, but I noticed he left the door open. It felt like he was welcoming me in. I thought he might not be able to speak very clearly anymore, or maybe I was overcome with the need to apologize for spying on them. The lights were off inside, so I couldn’t tell if he was waiting for me from the sidewalk. I crept up to the porch.
“Mr. Raskin?” I said through the opening. Not long after, I heard those old tunes start to play. My eyes could hardly adjust to see through the darkness inside but I thought I could see Mr. and Mrs. Raskin dancing in the back room. Their silhouettes bounced across the shaded back windows. I was excited to get to see them dance so closely, but my blood turned cold when I saw Mr. Raskin sitting just inside, left of the front door. He was twirling his hand around as he watched them dance. They all three seemed to notice me simultaneously. Mr. Raskin stopped twirling his hand and Mrs. Raskin and her partner stopped dancing. Mr. Raskin then inched closer to me.
“Help,” Mr. Raskin uttered before taking a deep breath, “me.” My eyes shot back to Mrs. Raskin. My eyes had adjusted just enough to make out her dancing partner: my missing classmate from a year ago. I darted home, locked the door behind me, and waited for my mom to get home.
My mom and I didn’t speak much at all that evening. I didn’t know what to think, or what to say, about what I had seen, and she was already annoyed with me for earlier that day. I camped up in my room most of the night replaying what I had seen over and over again in my head. I wondered if the boy had just found a comfortable place to escape to, away from an abusive home, or if Mrs. Raskin was keeping him there against his will. Maybe it was neither, and it wasn’t the missing boy at all. It was dark, after all. I got into bed, rummaging through my thoughts, when I heard the music begin to play. I was filled with dread and wanted the entire day to just disappear, but I had to get up and look outside. Through the gap between the fence and the roof was not Mr. and Mrs. Raskin dancing, but a painted sign-
HELP ME.
DON’T BE AFRAID.
FRONT DOOR.
I hopped back into bed and shut my eyes. I laid there for a moment, wanting it to be morning. I could hear the music playing. I couldn’t help but bob my feet. My curiosity got the best of me, and the liveliness in my feet built momentum into my legs. I snuck outside, careful to not alert my mom, and made my way to the Raskin house.
The front door was open. The lights were off again inside, but I noticed a glow coming from the left of the front door. I crept inside to see Mr. Raskin sitting in his chair, an old oil lamp glowing on the counter next to him. He beckoned me towards him.
“I’m sorry if I bothered you,” I said as I stepped to him. “I love your wife’s music and dancing. I didn’t mean to embarrass her.”
The edge of his mouth curled into what I thought was his best attempt at a smile. As I got closer, I could see all the machines he was connected to. The machine with the wheels and bag occasionally buzzed, a monitor beeped at a steady pace, but there were still tens, if not hundreds, of white strands that were hanging from the ceiling over him and running into the darkness of the rest of the house. Mr. Raskin used his hand to direct me to the oil lamp. He then raised his finger to his lips, letting me know to be quiet, before gesturing me towards the room I had seen Mrs. Raskin dancing with the boy earlier. I tiptoed into their living room. The lamp wasn’t very bright, but I could see the outline of the boy sitting on their couch. Mr. Raskin wheeled up behind me.
“He,” Mr. Raskin said, needing deep inhales before each word, “was.” I continued creeping towards the boy as Mr. Raskin spoke. “Already. Dead.” When that last word left his lips, I had just gotten close enough to see the boy’s lifeless body slumped against the couch. I moved the lamp to him. His face was disfigured, and his eyes were gone. Instead, straw poked out from his mouth and eye sockets. It seemed like most of what was left of the boy was only skin. I bit the inside of both my lips, sealing in a scream. Then I felt something touch my back, and I jumped away. I turned to see Mr. Raskin holding out a notebook. He poked it towards me again. Inside, he had left a note-
I married my wife when I was seventeen. I joined the military when I was eighteen. I served in the military for almost twenty years. Unfortunately, that meant my wife had to spend a lot of time alone. When I finally retired, I made a promise with her to never leave her alone again, and we sealed that promise every night with a dance. We’re deeply in love and always have been.
Not long after I retired, my health started to fade. It wasn’t long before I ran out of breath before a single song had finished. It got so bad that I could hardly stand. I tried so hard, each and every night, to try and dance just a little bit with her.
As my body fell apart, so did her mind. She sleeps most of the day and usually doesn’t know who I am. But, every time I turn on the music we loved so much, she starts to dance like the angel I’ve always known her to be. I just couldn’t let our promise rot before we do.
Mr. Raskin then started to wheel back towards the entry where we had originally met. I continued reading.
I found this boy face down in the gutter near the sidewalk just outside. When I saw him, I went straight to the phone and called the police, but they couldn’t hear me. My voice went out many years ago. I thought about what to do, but something just came over me. With the help of my brother, I picked the boy apart and made him into the puppet you see now. I dressed him in the same suit I usually wear. My brother also helped to string the house, allowing me to puppet the boy from the entryway to almost anywhere under this roof.
As I finished reading those last few lines, the boy on the couch started to move. He lifted into the air and began to sway. His arms bounced up and down as his legs dangled, but this time I could see the strings holding him up. I walked back to Mr. Raskin. He was back to twirling his hand around. Each strand of string that had been dangling above him was now tied to a different finger. His lips were curled back into that almost-smile. I looked back down at the rest of the note-
The bones are tied up in a bag under the sink. Please take them with you. Place them somewhere remote, but likely to be found. I want to give his family some closure. I don’t know how much longer this puppet I made will last, but it has given us some light in such overwhelming darkness.
Mr. Raskin clicked a button on the remote attached to his wheelchair and the music began to play. Mrs. Raskin came out from the other room, gliding over to the puppet. They began to dance.
“Mr. Raskin, I have an idea.” We continued to watch them dance. “Why don’t I stop by every night before bed and dance with your wife?” He looked up at me, still twirling his hand. His lips pursed as if he was about to cry. He then nodded his head.
Mr. Raskin and I watched them dance for another couple of songs before he stopped the music and Mrs. Raskin went off to bed. I went back to the boy, removed his suit, grabbed his bones from under the sink, and went home.
I brought the boy’s bones to school with me the next day and snuck away during lunch to the woods behind the school. I dropped his bones behind a fallen tree and returned to class. They found him later that week. I don’t know what Mr. Raskin ever did with his skin, but now every night before bed, I dress up in Mr. Raskin’s old corduroy suit, sneak over to Mrs. Raskin, and dance to those wonderful old songs.