Falling for Hamlet

by Michelle Ray

  “Come on,” he said, grabbing my hand and yanking me into the circle of guards who had fol owed. “Privacy, damn it. We need a place that’s empty!” His voice was shril . Two guards fanned out and began opening doors. When one signaled, Hamlet dragged me along with him.

  I was suddenly fearful that when we were alone, I would have nothing to say. What words would make him feel better? None. I knew from experience that talk meant nothing at a time like this. But I could hold him. And I could listen.

  He nodded almost imperceptibly at the guard, who nodded back and shut the door behind us. Hamlet’s angular face was pinched and red, his eyes unfocused. “Hamlet,” I said softly, and put my arms around him. My chest ached with sympathy and my own loss. I couldn’t help but mix this moment in with the day my mother died, and thinking of how much he had helped me that day, I determined to push aside my own feelings so I could help him.

  He sank into my embrace and wept openly. I could hardly hold him as his body shook and heaved.

  “My father, my father,” he rasped over and over. My shirt was soaked with his tears, but I held him stil , stroking his smooth hair and kissing it every so often. He broke from my arms and put his hands on his knees, gasping like when he was cooling down from a run. When he final y stood up and tucked his hair behind his ears, every bit of his face was wrinkled and distorted. “I have to go back out there. Damn it.” He walked to the sink, splashed water on his face, and pul ed the paper towels with a sharp tch-tch. He dried his face, furiously crumpled the paper towels, and let the flap on the trash can close loudly. Every sound was exaggerated. I just wanted to be somewhere quiet and familiar.

  “Come on,” he said, and he opened the door.

  Guards surrounded us as soon as we stepped into the hal , and we al began walking toward a set of double doors. Knowing there might be a dead body on the other side forced acid into my throat. I squeezed Hamlet’s hand. He misinterpreted it as checking in because he whispered, “I’m okay.” We al came to an abrupt halt. Too short to see around the guards in identical black trench coats, I could only hear Claudius’s voice. “Leave Ophelia out here,” he commanded.

  “But Uncle Clau—” began Hamlet. His request was cut off when Marcel us stepped between us, and the rest of the huddle moved forward through the double doors. Hamlet’s fingers slipped from mine and I stood on my toes, hoping to catch at least a glimpse of him. I couldn’t.

  “Marcel us, this is ridiculous. He wants me with him,” I argued.

  “But Claudius doesn’t.”

  “Why does he get—”

  “Go home, Ophelia. Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

  I left to find Horatio and tried not to think about hating Claudius, feeling bad for Hamlet, or how much I was going to miss the king.

  Francisco: (clears throat) Why did you text Horatio “find hamlet”? Was it so he could kill him, too?

  Ophelia: Of course not. They were best friends.

  Barnardo: We think it was a code. We think Horatio was in cahoots with you.

  Ophelia: Cahoots? Who even uses that word?

  Francisco: Answer the question. Did you and Horatio plan to murder the king and then get to Hamlet?

  Ophelia: That’s ridiculous. It was a text to—

  Barnardo: You two exchanged a lot of messages.

  Ophelia: Yeah, we’re friends.

  Francisco: Maybe we should bring him in.

  Ophelia: No, please. He had nothing to do with this.

  Barnardo: Unlike you?

  Ophelia: No. I didn’t either. God!

  6

  “What a shocking day for us all,” Zara says solemnly. A mother in the audience puts her arm around her young daughter. “That day you sent a message to Horatio but not Hamlet. Why is that?”

  “My father told me not to communicate with Hamlet.”

  “Did you always listen to your father?”

  Ophelia looks down and blinks rapidly. “No. But I should have.”

  Zara pats Ophelia’s leg.

  Ophelia twists the bottom of her sweater between her fingers. “Each decision that day seemed really important, but I didn’t know what to do, how to make things right.”

  Zara nods hard in agreement. “We were scheduled to tape a show that day on dog makeovers. It just didn’t seem right to carry on, but the puppies were ready, the stylists were all set with their specially designed outfits, and the runway had been built to scale. Hard to know what to do on a day like that. I think that day we were all feeling it.”

  Ophelia blinks a few times, her lips pressed together. Then she says, “So you know then.”

  * * *

  “You look dashing, Dad,” I said, pul ing at my father’s tie.

  “I’m not supposed to look dashing. I’m supposed to look mournful. A man who does not know his place is a man who loses it.” I cocked my head and answered, “Then you are a man who, despite himself, looks great, but in the most respectful, unpresumptuous way.” He pinched my cheek. “Ready?” he asked, putting out his arm.

  “Yeah. I told Hamlet I’d meet him upstairs.”

  He clucked quietly.

  “What?” I asked impatiently.

  “He should be with his family.”

  “Dad, he’s been trapped with his family for the past few days. He told me he can’t stand it anymore and just wants to be with me.” He raised an eyebrow.

  “I can’t not show up. He’s waiting.”

  “Double negative.”

  “Dad!” His grammar lessons always irritated me.

  “Sweetheart, you put too much effort into that boy at the expense of what’s good for you. As the saying goes, ‘To thine own self be true.’ ” I rol ed my eyes. “Dad, when I’m with him, I am being true to mine own—my own—whatever. True to myself. He’s important to me, as is keeping my word. I’l see you in a while.”

  He shook his head and walked to his room.

  As I rode up, my phone bing ed.

  Sebastian: Going 2 the funeral?

  Me: Course

  Sebastian: If u need anything, im here 4 u

  Me: K

  I hadn’t seen my friends in a few days, but they kept checking in, which was sweet. I couldn’t real y tel any of them what was happening—not the real stuff. Not how I hadn’t been able to sleep in a few days because I kept having nightmares about hospitals and funerals. Not how Gertrude had tried to keep Hamlet from everyone, including me, for days. Not how he had cried on the phone and how last night he had snuck down to talk after a sedative had pul ed his mother into a deep sleep. I would never be able to share these things with them, and I felt a wal being built between my former life and my current one. A wal I didn’t realize would be so hard to break through.

  When I left the elevator, the chambers were surprisingly quiet. One of the guards nodded at me and opened the door to Hamlet’s hal . I heard Gertrude talking as soon as he did. She was shouting about how she could not possibly go out and be seen in her current state. The pause must have been someone answering, but she did not give whoever it was much time before she continued shouting, “Your father. Your poor father!” I stopped, deciding whether to go on, and turned to face the guard, who gave an encouraging nod. I had made a promise, so I continued to Hamlet’s room. The door was open, so I waited in the doorway until someone looked up.

  Hamlet saw me first and waved me forward, but I didn’t enter. I knew better than to walk in with Gertrude’s back to me. She saw him gesturing again and turned, ready for me to be an intrusive servant she had to dismiss. Ful of rage, her eyes met mine. To say her fury dissipated would be an overstatement, but she pul ed out of her ful mistress-of-the-house posture and settled on annoyed. “What is it, Ophelia?”

  “Uh, Hamlet asked me to come up.”

  “Of course he did,” she said, then stood and straightened her skirt. “One time, Hamlet, one time it would nice if I was enough.” She turned back to me, her eyes narrow. “Your father wil be waiting for you, though
. We must al leave in a few minutes.”

  “I want her to ride with us,” Hamlet explained.

  Gertrude’s eyes flew open and her lips curled into a snarl. “Absolutely not. The plan has been set. The event scripted. It wil be you, me, and Claudius.”

  “But Mother, I need her.”

  She drew her lips into a thin line. “I need you. Alone.”

  “But Uncle Clau—”

  “Nothing more. I need you to do as you’re told. Don’t think I’ve forgotten the leaving-for-col ege debacle. Stormy was very disappointed by that, as was I.

  I wil see you, and only you, in one minute. Ophelia.” She nodded as she left, wiping her smeared mascara.

  He made to argue, but I put up my hand as I walked to him. “Forget it,” I said, trying not to be angry myself, knowing it would only make it worse for both of us. I laced my fingers through his and said, “I’l be in the car behind yours. I’l be sitting behind you at the service.”

  “I prefer being behind you.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “Even today with the sex jokes? That’s real y…”

  He blushed slightly. “Sorry. I’m just… I’m trying not to think about any of this. It’s too—” His forehead crinkled and he looked away.

  Like Hamlet, I was also trying not to think about what was happening. I focused on him because the rest was too hard. Too strange. Too familiar. I kissed him and he walked me to the door.

  When I got to the car, my father was standing next to my brother, who had returned from Paris for the funeral. Laertes was shaking his head. I pretended not to notice and climbed across the backseat to sit by the far window. Laertes slid in next to me, and my father sat across from us so he could continue glaring at me.

  I refused to look at him but stared at al the people who were laying flowers and candles and pictures of the king out in the street. For the past three days, people had streamed to the castle and added more. There were layers and layers, and I wondered who would clean it al up in the end and if the stuff would be thrown away or saved. Probably thrown away.

  I saw a large man who looked like he spent his days lifting very heavy things weeping openly, letting thick tears drip down his face and onto his nylon jacket. It was a face I wanted to sketch, but I wouldn’t. Instead, I would try to forget it, because I couldn’t watch his grief without thinking about the man we had al just lost. A lump formed in my throat, but I didn’t want to cry in front of anyone that day. I had promised myself that I wouldn’t. And I couldn’t be there for Hamlet if I was wrapped up in my own feelings. I pul ed my sunglasses over my eyes and stared at my lap.

  Moments later, I heard the crowd let out a cheer and I looked to see what it was. Gertrude and Claudius were leaving the lobby. He was supporting her, and she lifted a hand weakly to acknowledge her subjects. Hamlet trailed behind, hands in his pockets, head down. For once he did not play to the crowd.

  Reporters and average citizens alike took pictures as the family got into the lead car. His tie flapped over his shoulder, blown by the wind just before he dove into the backseat. I knew Hamlet would have preferred to have a hood to hide himself further, but it was not to be. The caravan moved as soon as their door was closed.

  “Unbelievable. They can’t even mourn in peace,” said Laertes, scowling.

  “This is the life they expect. Part of the job,” my father answered. “Everything about their lives is prescribed,” he said, staring at me. I sighed and looked back out the window at the people lining the streets. Another wave of sadness passed through me, so I returned to staring at my lap.

  Hamlet’s father was a man I’d always loved. He was so important and so busy, but he tried to make life seem as normal as possible for al of us. He always made time for Hamlet and made me feel like family. He came to a couple of Hamlet’s lacrosse games and even attended my school art show the time my father couldn’t make it.

  Sitting in the limo on the way to his funeral, I remembered a ride I’d taken with the king right after Hamlet broke up with me for the first time. Hamlet hadn’t even bothered to come home from Wittenberg but cal ed to do it. Bastard. Somehow someone found out, which meant I was left in Elsinore to deal with the press myself. Not exactly myself. The guards and PR people camped out at the front of the lobby, blocking the reporters’ entrance and answering questions when they could. But stil , it was intimidating. And I was pissed.

  Marcel us escorted me to the underground garage and told me I should travel with an extra guard until the whole thing quieted down. While I waited, a stretch limo pul ed up and the king exited the elevator.

  “Ride with me,” he said, though it was a question rather than a command.

  I looked at Marcel us, who nodded, and I slid onto the leather seat.

  As we passed the crowd of cameras, he shook his head. “I wish I could outlaw al of that nonsense, but reporters are like my wife—they listen only when they want to.” He smiled broadly and patted my hand.

  His kindness actual y made it worse, and I had to look out the window so he wouldn’t see my tears.

  “You don’t have to talk about it, but what happened?”

  When I had composed myself, I turned to him. “Your son,” I began, attempting to keep some accusation out of the word son, “decided that he didn’t think it made sense for us to stay together now that he’s away. Said it wasn’t me and asked if we could be friends. He couldn’t have come up with anything more original?” My voice quaked with fury.

  “Ah,” was al he said for a while. Then, in the voice he used to soothe his subjects, he continued, “You are right in saying that those phrases are too often used. But as his father, I must confess I think he might mean both.”

  I clenched my teeth but listened to him despite my intense desire to open the door of the moving car and let the reporters have me.

  “It can’t be you because he loves you. He always seems a little… lost or sadder when you’re not around. Being a young man, especial y one in his position and with his looks, there are many… temptations.”

  My stomach turned as I imagined the temptations and what they were doing with him at that moment.

  “And as for being friends, wel , I’m sure he’s sincere about that, too.”

  “Right.” My bitterness threatened to swal ow me whole. When Hamlet and I began dating, we said it wouldn’t ruin our friendship. Ah, the lies we tel ourselves. “Because it’s always been Hamlet and Ophelia. Ophelia and Hamlet.”

  “Not always. When you were three, he asked to have you removed from the castle because you kept stealing his toys.” His glass-rattling laugh exploded from his throat, and I couldn’t help but smile a little. “Hamlet even wrote a proclamation. Misspel ed half the damn thing, but it was very impassioned.” We pul ed into the driveway of my school, and my smile faded. The driver had cal ed ahead, so their security guards were waiting out front to escort me past the reporters.

  I smoothed my plaid uniform skirt, worrying more about having to face my classmates and their stares than the cameras. No one ever thought I might need protection in side the classroom.

  The king sighed. “This wil pass, and if my son has half the brain I think he has, he wil come back to you. And then you can decide if you stil want him when he does.”

  I wiped my face and asked, “How do I look?” My lashes were stil wet, and I knew my eyes were red and puffy.

  The king’s lips twisted just like Hamlet’s did whenever he was about to tel a lie. “Wel … do you have any makeup?”

  “I’m not al owed to wear it at school.”

  “Then you’re gorgeous.” He handed me my backpack. “Deep breath and good luck.”

  At the cemetery, the scale of the event overwhelmed me. Enormous flower arrangements flanked the walkway and encircled the graveside. Flags flew; soldiers stood at attention in their dress whites; a brass band played melancholy versions of patriotic tunes. Leaders and dignitaries from other lands had come to pay their respects and waited as our group passed. Afte
r the ceremony, most would try to speak to Gertrude, and probably to Hamlet and Claudius, too, but until the king was laid to rest, they would keep a deferential distance. As we walked, Hamlet turned a couple of times to look back at me, and I smiled as smal as I could.

  I noticed my father looking through the crowd on our right, and I knew it was for my mother’s grave. It had been a long time since we had visited.

  Involuntarily, we al looked in its direction as we turned the last bend in the path to take our seats. Laertes put an arm around my shoulder. After we walked a few paces, I whispered, “Maybe we should come back tomorrow.”

  “Not a chance. This place creeps me out,” Laertes whispered back.

  “Mom would like it,” I suggested.

  He grimaced and walked a few steps ahead of me to catch up with our father. I craned my neck one more time, then walked to my seat next to my father.

  We were, as expected, directly behind the royal family. I touched Hamlet lightly on the back before sitting and folding my hands demurely in my lap. I thought of the reporters taking this in and knew that, were the occasion not so solemn, they might take a swipe at us, asking why we weren’t sitting together or maybe even why we were back together at al .

  My mind drifted again to our first reconciliation. Everyone advised against it—my friends, my brother, my father, and, of course, Gertrude. But when he came back from Wittenberg for Christmas vacation, our families had to travel together to Switzerland. On the plane he told me he couldn’t stand being without me, that there were no other girls he liked as much, and my anger dissolved almost instantly. Our being together wasn’t just convenience. It was an inexplicable attraction that had grabbed hold of us when I was fifteen and hadn’t let go of us since. Oh, how I wish it hadn’t been that way, but it was.

  The minister began the service, and everyone sang a hymn, the sound enveloping us as it rose and echoed eerily at the end.

  My father stood to deliver the first speech. “Our king,” he began, overenunciating as he did only at press conferences and when lecturing me, “was not only a great leader but a man whose moral character was beyond reproach. He taught his subjects through his actions. He was never false to any man.