Martin Grubenmacher had always been ashamed of his appearance. It wasn’t just that he was short—a lot of short men compensated for their lack of height and went on to lead wildly successful lives. Look at Napoleon. Look at Mickey Rooney. All of Martin’s ancestors on his mother’s side had been short, and that hadn’t stopped them. His grandfather had even been able to joke about it with the name of the family business, “Short Stops, Incorporated.”
No, it wasn’t his height, but the thickness around the middle, combined with his stubby, somewhat bowed legs, that had caused the children at school to nickname him Humpty-Dumpty. “Humpty-Dumpty sat on a wall.” “You look a little scrambled today, Humpty.” “Fallen off any walls lately, Dumpty?” Taylor North—he could never forget that she was the one who started it. And as soon as she said it that first time, everyone started calling him that. But still, he didn’t hold it against her. It meant that she noticed him, and that was enough.
Of course, it wouldn’t have been so bad if his father hadn’t liked the nickname so much he’d started using it at home. “Hide the scrambled eggs, Florence. We wouldn’t want little Humpty to get a complex.” “Looks like the king’s horses forgot a piece of the puzzle, today, Humpty. Better go back and try again.” Then he would laugh as if it were so funny.
Martin usually went to the Short Stop business office every morning precisely at nine. He knew the other employees whispered behind his back that his mother made him a vice president in the family business just to give him something to do, but Martin felt that he really made a difference. Designing the window displays at all of the gas station/mini-marts was an important task, critical to total sales volume. Someday, when she was gone, all of the mini-marts would be his.
Of course, he wished he could get a salary. He hated having to ask her for money all the time. But his mother said that vice presidents don’t take salaries if they want to maximize profits. She said she didn’t take a salary either.
Still, Martin felt he was luckier than most people, because he truly loved going to work every day. The business office was located on the top floor of the A. E. Larson Building, right in the heart of downtown Yakima. Even though the building was only eleven stories, it felt like a skyscraper because there were no other tall buildings around it. With its art deco shape, and flagpole perched on top, it reminded Martin of a cross between the Empire State Building and a rocket ship, ready to blast off. His office was his second favorite place. He loved the way he could turn his big leather armchair towards the corner window and look out and see for miles. It made him feel like he was on the bridge of the starship Enterprise. Warp speed, Mr. Sulu!
But Martin didn’t go to work that day. It was the morning of the Wine Gala, and there were too many other things to do. Details to solidify. Taylor would be very angry with him if he didn’t make sure everything was perfect.
He climbed the stairs to the Widow’s Perch. If his office was the bridge of the Enterprise, this room was his own personal shuttlecraft. Clear nights were the best, when the sky was filled with billions of stars. Here, he could see everything.
Exactly at nine, Martin heard footsteps in the stairwell. A head appeared where the circular stairs came up through the floor. What the visitor saw was an octagonal room, about eight feet in diameter, with 360 degrees of windows. A door led to a narrow balcony, really only a walkway, enclosed by a wooden rail. Martin rarely went out on the walkway. The height scared him, and he was afraid that the flimsy rail wouldn’t support his weight. The visitor stepped up into the room and looked around, smiling at the way Martin had decorated his special hideaway.
“I’m not disturbing you, am I?” the visitor asked sarcastically, seeing the pudgy man sitting in a beanbag chair near the floor, his hands folded in his lap.
“N-no, please, come in. There’s a lot we have to talk about.”
“Is there?”
Martin wasn’t sure if he was being mocked. It was important to be deferential. “A-about the Wine Gala tonight?”
“You’re not having second thoughts, are you?”
“Oh, no. No, not at all. I just… I need to go over it again. My part, that is. I’m not… I’m not entirely clear on what I’m supposed to do.” Martin heard his own voice come out like a simpering whine, and hated it. He wanted to be confident, poised like his visitor, but it never seemed to work out that way. Martin could feel a thin layer of perspiration on his brow, but he didn’t want to embarrass himself by wiping it away. Instead, he reached in his pocket for his tin of Altoids, slipping a peppermint surreptitiously into his mouth. He didn’t offer a mint to his guest.
“It’s really very simple. We’ve gone over this before.” The visitor was contemptuous, and made little attempt to disguise the fact. Nevertheless, the plan was repeated, slowly, until Martin knew it by heart.
“You’ll be there, won’t you?”
“At the Wine Gala? Of course. Everyone will be there. But you realize we can’t discuss the plan there. Too many people. That’s very important. If you speak to me at all tonight, it must be about something neutral. Just act naturally.”
Martin nodded. “Act naturally. All right.” He’d rarely been given this much responsibility, and it both frightened and excited him.
“But is it really necessary to… uh… you know. I mean, it seems like such a drastic step. I’m sure that if we asked him, Steve would…”
“That’s not your decision.” The guest glared, reminding Martin with a glance who was in charge. Martin was ashamed that he’d even questioned the plan. Of course, it was the right thing.
“You won’t screw this up, will you?” the caller asked, gazing out one of the windows in the direction of North Faire. The Widow’s Perch had a clear view of both the winery and Taylor North’s house.
Feeling a drop of sweat beginning to roll down his forehead, the small man reached for a Kleenex. “No, of course not,” he said, wiping his forehead. “The garden. I know exactly what to do.” The visitor moved to the window that looked straight down to the garden below.
“Is that all?”
“Uh, uh, no… there was another thing… the bottles?”
The guest nodded. “You won’t forget about the bottles, will you?”
Martin shook his head like a schoolboy. “I won’t forget.”
“Good.”
Martin stood up and followed his guest to the stairwell, then listened until the descending footsteps could no longer be heard. He tried to breathe deeply, slowly, deeply, slowly. Things were going to be so much better after tonight, he thought, so much better. Taylor would be so pleased with him.
Martin went to the wooden box in the corner and opened the lid. He looked at the binoculars, but left them in their case. Not much to look at this time of day. Instead, he reached for the framed photograph. He’d taken it last year at a food and wine fair in Walla Walla, when Taylor still wore her blond hair long, to her waist. He liked it much better that way. It looked more like it had when they were in grade school together. He propped the photo up in the window, and arranged his beanbag chair so he could look at the picture, with Taylor’s house in the background. Any apprehension he had about the Wine Gala slipped away, as he thought about the payoff.
Taylor’s dress in the photo was black and tight. She was turned almost with her back to the camera. He imagined, as he always did, that he was reaching up to her neck, first stroking her hair, then moving it aside and pulling down the zipper. Past her waist, past her hips. Underneath, he pictured her in skimpy black lingerie, a little black bra and a garter belt holding up her black stockings. He pushed the black dress off her shoulders, let it fall to the floor, reached around her from behind and cupped her perfect breasts in his hands.
Martin Grubenmacher closed his eyes and swayed back and forth in his beanbag chair, making a small noise of delight. What he loved most about the Widow’s Perch was that he could see miles and miles in any direction, but no one could see him. He was in control. He was the captain of the starship Enterprise.