Metacarpals

I am the right hand of Asher Levy. I love Asher and even though he’s never said it himself, I know that he loves me too. We both know that were it not for each other we would have both perished a long time ago. My skin is copper brown just like my master’s. You can see a pair of blue veins on the inside of my thumb. My fingertips are callused and I’ve got a bunch of little scars on my knuckles where my skin has been torn open and healed over multiple times. Scars left by teeth, wood, stone and cheekbones. My biggest scar is the misshapen elliptical one on my lower back, just above the wrist. I got it when I was a child, just nine years old. A little before the days when my nails would continually have dried blood caked beneath them that wasn’t my own. I got the scar when Asher poured hot grease on my back, grease from the bacon he was cooking one Saturday morning. The pain was excruciating and it made my skin blister and crack, but I didn’t flinch. The reason I mention me not flinching is because I used to flinch all the time when I was a child. I used to have these fits you see, I’d start to tremble uncontrollably like I was having a seizure and Asher didn’t know what to do. My master hated it when I had those fits because he couldn’t make his drawings when I would shake like that. He couldn’t sign his name or hold a knife or anything. Then one night when we were a little older, I guess Asher got tired of my fits because he slammed me into a wooden door and broke two of my bones. It hurt when he did that to me, if I had eyes I might’ve cried. I’ve never been the same since Asher shattered me, I think I might even be a little weaker because of it; but at least I quit having those fits.

Right now Asher and I are in his car. I’m wearing an Isotoner leather glove as I rest on the steering wheel. We are in a quiet little neighborhood, you know with all of the houses in rows and the streets shaded by the leaves of the Sycamores. Not that the streets need any shade right now. It is too early in the morning for that. It’s that time when the sun hasn’t yet risen, but it’s just light enough for everything to be a dark shade of gray. Or maybe it’s just the mist that sits over everything. My master and I are both watching the front door of this house across the street. It’s a white two story New England style home, with cast iron railing on each side of the front steps and a dark red front door. Asher waits until the door opens before he moves me to the ignition. A man steps out of the house, a Latino looking man with black hair and a green jacket with some sort of white writing on the back that I didn’t get enough time to see. We watch him patiently as he locks the big red door and makes his way to the black ’86 BMW parked along the curb in front of his house. The man turns on his car and drives up the street, my master follows suit.

Unlike the man in the BMW, we do not keep driving up the hill until we disappear from the house’s view. Instead we turn right at the stop sign and make another right to turn into the alleyway behind the two story house. These houses remind me of the one we used to live in when we were children. Do you remember those days, Asher? Those days when I used to help you climb the monkey bars and pick yellow flowers for Cynthia, the girl who wore the white dress with the green ribbon during Sunday school? Remember when she kissed us for the first time? You’re right Asher, you always are; we have no time to reminisce. We have a job to do.

We pull into the driveway in front of the little garage which sits behind the back yard. I help Asher pull up his red scarf so that it covers everything except his eyes. Then I check his coat pocket to make sure the leather case, the rectangular one about the size of a cell phone, is safe and secure in his pocket where I left it. I take Asher’s hat off of the dashboard and adjust it neatly on his head and then I adjust his red tie and open the car door. We leave the engine running, because we don’t plan on being here too long. After I shut the door, Asher presses my fingers between those of my lesser used brother so that both of our gloves fit securely.

My brother holds the wooden gate open so the three of us can make our way into the back yard. We walk up the broken concrete pathway until we reach the back door. The light turns on. For a second I think that we should turn back, but Asher knows better. As I cover my master’s eyes he is able to see the motion detector below the rain gutter. We are not afraid. My master studies the door for a second. Unlike the front door, this one is white and it has glass panels all throughout its frame. We can put tape over the panel next to the door knob and break the glass without it shattering and causing a disturbance, but Asher knows that would take too long. My master sees the little flower pot sitting on the corner of the stoop. It is covered by red, green and blue paint with yellow lopsided flowers and sparkles. My brother picks up the pot and we see the key underneath it. I take the key and my brother puts the pot back down.

My brother holds the knob while I unlock the door and Asher steps inside. We’re in the kitchen now. The kitchen is dark, but Asher has good eyes which quickly adjust. Some times when it’s really dark, I do the work of Asher’s eyes. My master stands on the door mat as slips his feet out of his leather shoes. It’s quieter this way. Asher walks across the tiles in his dress socks as I guide him with my fingertips along the tile counter. We stop, there is a little gray cat rubbing against my Asher’s leg as it purrs affectionately. Asher’s never been too fond of animals, but for some reason they seem to be pretty fond of him. Cat’s in particular. Asher, didn’t Joseph have a pet cat who would only purr for you and no one else? We’ll have to remember its name later on.

My brother and I search the cupboards until I find a can of cat food. My brother pulls out a saucer from one of the cupboards and the two of us open the can and dump the moist contents onto the plate. I place the saucer on the tile floor and the grateful feline begins to feast.

Now that the minor distraction is out of the way, we can continue our work. Asher knows the layout of this house. I’ve sketched the blueprints down multiple times until it became engraved in his mind. He knows how many steps it is from the kitchen counter to the front hall. All I have to do is locate the railing and Asher can find his way up the staircase. He is so wise; he tests each step, barely pressing each wooden board with his toes to make sure it doesn’t creak. The twelfth step makes some noise but I hold on to the railing while Asher skips over that one.

We are at the top floor now. To our left is the smaller of the two bedrooms in this house. The door is open and we can see on the shelves around the window a diverse population of furry creatures with buttons and plastic for eyes. They are staring at us like silent watchmen for their owner, but they do not speak. Their owner is no doubt the same person who painted that little flower pot hiding place outside. Perhaps the creatures do not speak because their master is not home. That is no surprise for Asher or for me. We remember the phone call the girl’s mother made to the family in the house three blocks to the east. During that phone call the mother said that her husband would be picking their daughter up from her friend’s house late this afternoon. Good news, because we don’t really want to catch the girl asleep in her parent’s bedroom. Weren’t you that same age, Asher? When you quit having nightmares which made you sleep in your parent’s bed? Does your son still sleep in bed with his mother?

Of course, Asher, of course there’s no time. The engine is running and the sun will be up soon. We turn left and step inside the master bedroom. The window is open and the breeze is making the pale white curtains dance like translucent specters in the dusk. Lying on the bed, wrapped in the thick white quilts is a woman with long silky black hair. Her breasts rise slowly in her cotton tank top as her eyes remain closed. Though it’s hard to see now, Asher and I both know from the days we’ve spent watching her that she has skin the color of the sand we used to construct castles at the beach when we were young.

There is no time to waste. My brother holds Asher’s coat open while I retrieve the leather case tucked inside. We open it up and pull out the pieces of the plastic syringe. My brother pushes the plunger inside while I secure the sterile needle on the end. The little glass bottle strapped into the spine of the case is next. I pull on the plunger, filling the syringe with air. Then my brother holds the tiny bottle while I pierce the foil on top with the needle. I press the plunger until it is all the way down and then I pull it back out, sucking the fluid inside. My brother pulls the bottle off of the needle and sets it gently on the nightstand. I hand the syringe to my brother and tap the side with my index finger. The bubbles float to the top and then I press the plunger again forcing out the air and a small stream of the fluid.

I hold the syringe and Asher sighs briefly. I cannot blame him for being hesitant; the woman almost resembles our mother. She rolls over with her left arm softly clutching the pillow, her head resting on the silk of her own hair. Her armpit is exposed, that is where we shall strike. It was so brief and precise that she didn’t even awake from her sleep. I hold on to the now empty syringe while my master keeps an eye on the woman. He watches her breasts as the rhythm in which they rise and fall gradually slows down until they stop moving all together.

My brother pulls a plastic sealable bag out of the outside pocket on his side of Asher’s overcoat. I return the protective green plastic casing to the needle and snap it into place before I pull the needle off and drop it inside the bag. My brother and I place the rest of the syringe inside the bag as well as the tiny glass bottle on the nightstand. My brother returns the plastic bag to the pocket and then helps me remove my glove. It’s nice to be outside again, to breathe fresh air. Asher steps closer and I brush the hair away from the woman’s neck. I press my first two fingers on the skin below her jaw. She is still warm, but I can feel no blood circulating through her arteries.

Our work here is finished, for now at least. There is no need to worry about making any noise as we descend the staircase. The cat is waiting for us at the bottom to thank us for its early breakfast. There is no time for pleasantries just yet. There is still a great deal that needs to be done before the day is through. My brother and I help our master put his shoes back on. We will leave the house and lock the door. I will return the key to its proper position beneath the colorful flower pot so that it will be as if we were never there.