Falling for Hamlet

by Michelle Ray

  Horatio, smiling slightly, put his hand over Hamlet’s mouth while some very serious woman in front of us shushed him. When she realized who had spoken, she turned back around red-faced. Her helmet of hair did not move, though her hands shook slightly.

  The song played on, and the newlyweds danced, pretending not to hear the murmur from our direction. The next time the singer reached the chorus,

  “Twenty-four little hours,” Hamlet interrupted with, “Is there much difference between twenty-four hours and two months, when it comes to remarriage?” He was loud enough that Gertrude faltered in her steps and Claudius made a move toward us, but Gertrude composed herself and pul ed him back.

  The dancing, I’m sure, was meant to continue, but when the song ended, Claudius took the stage. The singer grabbed her silver train in her hands and moved swiftly toward the drummer, making way for Claudius to use the microphone stand.

  “My guests,” Claudius began, holding up a champagne glass.

  Cameramen crowded in front of the festooned stage.

  “For Hamlet, my brother’s death is stil a fresh memory…”

  I turned and saw Hamlet wince at his own name.

  “… and I am aware that the kingdom is stil in mourning. Because of this, I attempted to act with discretion, to push aside my feelings. Yet I couldn’t fight nature. It was in my heart to love this wonderful woman, and my heart won the fight. And so my sister-in-law has become my queen.”

  “Bloody hel ,” Hamlet muttered.

  Claudius carried on with his formal, overly practiced speech. “It is with tempered happiness that Gertrude and I stand before you today. We have reluctantly felt joy in the midst of our mourning, and to this happy event, our wedding, we bring sadness. While we know not al have embraced our joy,” he said, narrowing his eyes slightly and scanning the crowd as if to root out the traitors, “we thank those of you that have come here today to celebrate with us. Cheers.” He raised his glass a little higher, and the crowd applauded.

  “I’d say I need a drink, but I made a promise.…” Hamlet grumbled.

  Horatio messed up his hair.

  Gertrude stood at the microphone wringing her hands and said, “Would everyone,” and she looked directly at her son as she said this, “please join us on the dance floor?”

  I suggested to Hamlet that he acquiesce, but he refused. As he walked to the cheese platters, he yanked the hood of his black sweatshirt, which he had defiantly worn to flout the black-tie requirement of the affair, onto his head. We al huddled in the corner for a while, chatting.

  Just before dinner, my father came and found me and invited me to dance. I did not know the song, but I was content to be with my dad as the band began the jaunty tune. The singer’s voice was playful as she sang, “Maybe I can’t live to love you as long as I want to / But I can love you as long as I live.” I knew it was meant to be sweet, but its lyrics made me feel melancholy.

  “I miss Mom,” I whispered in his ear. “I wish she could dance with you right now.”

  He squeezed my hand and pul ed me closer, so I wouldn’t see his eyes fil , I was sure. I stepped on his foot and we laughed.

  “She was a better dancer,” he teased. We kept listening to the accidental y sad song and I wished the band had chosen to play something else. When it was over, he bowed and kissed my hand, then released me to be with my friends. I lingered a minute to watch him transform from doting father and lonely widower to statesman with a mere lift of the shoulders and a purpose to his step.

  When I turned around, Marcel us was whispering to Hamlet. Marcel us held up his hand to me as I approached, and I stopped short. They whispered a few moments more, then Hamlet came toward me, his eyes dancing with excitement.

  “Sorry to do this, Phee, but I gotta run.”

  “Where are you—”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” He took my hands in his and kissed them. His hands were shaking, which didn’t match the thril I saw on his face.

  “I’l come down later. You think your dad’l be asleep by one?”

  “Probably, but your mom—”

  “Screw her,” he grumbled as he turned to go.

  “No thanks,” I joked.

  He stopped and swatted my butt. “Watch it,” he said, and his laughter calmed me. He walked out the side exit of the bal room with Marcel us.

  My phone vibrated in my purse.

  Lauren: U lookd pretty

  Me: I lookd like cotton candy

  Lauren: Hamlt there yet?

  Me: Yep. intrstn

  That night, I waited up for hours listening to music. When Hamlet walked in, he sat on the bed, pul ed off his sweatshirt, then kissed me. It was a more passionate kiss than he’d given me in weeks. Looking back, maybe it wasn’t even passion. A better word might be desperation.

  Taking my hands in his, in a voice so quiet it was nearly a whisper, he asked, “If I did something bad, would you stil love me?” I started to pul my hands away, but he gripped them harder. My breath caught as my mind raced through the possible misdeeds he might have committed.

  “I haven’t done anything yet,” he assured me. “But if I did.”

  I exhaled slowly and studied his face, which was lined with worry. “What are you planning to do?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “I don’t—It’s not—Could you just answer my question?” He tucked his lips in and blinked rapidly. He twisted his mouth one way, then the other as if that effort would prevent more emotion from leaking out.

  “Hamlet, I think it depends—”

  “Yes or no?” he demanded, squeezing my hands so hard, I nearly yelped.

  I couldn’t think of what to say. No matter what I said, I was screwed—it was an impossible request. Placating him seemed to be the only option. If he was relaxed, I figured, he might explain himself. “Sure, Hamlet,” I said. “I guess.…” He nodded with chil ing finality and walked out again.

  I thought of tel ing my father, but he tended to overreact under the best of circumstances. I thought of tel ing Gertrude, but that would have been the greatest betrayal of al . I picked up the phone to cal Horatio, but it was the middle of the night, so I changed my mind. I decided to wait and watch. More and more, I was feeling trapped. I was both in the middle of things and left out of them, and it was a place I was quickly growing to hate. But what could I do? Listen, don’t pretend you have an answer. You weren’t there.

  Francisco: What’d you think of the hasty remarriage?

  Ophelia: Not my business.

  Barnardo: Bull. You were against it. We have the phone records.

  Ophelia: Fine. So what if I was? Did it change anything?

  Barnardo: Yeah, it helped you get Hamlet to want revenge.

  10

  Zara leans in to Ophelia. “We hear Hamlet started acting very strange after the wedding.”

  “People like to talk.” When Zara lifts her eyebrows, Ophelia concedes, “Well, he was under a lot of pressure. Especially from Claudius.”

  “Was he crazy?”

  “That’s a loaded term.” Ophelia recrosses her legs. “Um… I will say he wasn’t quite himself.” In the days fol owing the wedding, Hamlet said he didn’t want to be anywhere near his mother or Claudius, but he also insisted that he didn’t want to go back to school. He refused to go outside into the world, because he didn’t want to be fol owed or questioned or photographed. And as discreet as people within the castle were supposed to be, they were more curious and watchful, too. So during the day, he hung out in my apartment even when I was in class, creating a kind of half-life for himself.

  When I was with him, I spent most of the time worrying about how troubled he looked and how little he would speak and what “bad thing” he was planning on doing. I asked a couple of times, but he wouldn’t answer. I tried to go back to my routine, staying in the art studio after school and going to swim practice. But when I wasn’t with him, I worried even more and was total y distracted, so my coach kept yel ing at
me, and my art teacher, Ms. Hil , just stared with silent concern, which isn’t exactly good for the creative process. I couldn’t miss practice, since the end of the season was fast approaching, so I dealt with the shouting, but I decided to skip studio time and paint at home. But every time I got there and picked up the brush, al I could do was stare at Hamlet sprawled across my bed and think, What are you going to do? What are you going to do? Needless to say, I accomplished little.

  My father did not notice Hamlet’s constant presence, or else he would have insisted on a change or at least offered his thoughts on the matter. Things had been so busy fol owing the wedding, what with the shift of power and the flurry of requests for interviews and appearances by the royal couple, that he had not noticed what was happening.

  Gertrude final y asked my father to ask Hamlet to leave our home. My father, taken by surprise, stormed into our apartment and began lecturing Hamlet, who was watching an infomercial about tal ladders. (I had wandered away out of boredom, as we neither needed a tal ladder nor did I understand how an entire hour could be fil ed by discussing a ladder.) As soon as I heard my father, I ran back in from the balcony where I had been sketching, only to hear Hamlet say, “Got it, Polonius. No need to go on.” He stood, zipped up his black hoodie (his uniform at that point), and reached out a hand to me.

  I fol owed, and my father cleared his throat. “Dad, I’l come back later. I’l cook you a special Sunday dinner.”

  “I believe Gertrude wanted to speak to Hamlet alone,” he advised.

  Hamlet interrupted, “Then Gertrude can say so herself!”

  “Hamlet!” I admonished.

  He softened his tone and said, “If she wants me so much, she’l have to deal with Ophelia being there. I real y can’t be left alone with my mother right now. I don’t trust myself.”

  My father looked apprehensive but nodded in agreement.

  We found the newlyweds in the office of their social secretary. Gertrude fluttered over and kissed Hamlet in greeting. His arm tightened across my back, but he said nothing.

  Claudius cal ed out, “Son, how are you this bright afternoon?”

  “Son?” Hamlet spat. “I don’t think we’re ready for that.” Hamlet turned to leave, pul ing me behind him, but Claudius’s words stopped him.

  “Fine. Then, Hamlet, how are you this bright afternoon?”

  “Too much sun, if you ask me,” he answered sharply.

  Claudius tsk ed and asked, “Why is a dark cloud stil hanging over you?”

  I wished I hadn’t fol owed Hamlet upstairs, but I squeezed his hand to try to bring him back from his deepening anger.

  “Darling,” Gertrude said, stroking Hamlet’s cheek, “why are you stil in this wretched sweatshirt? It is neither stylish nor becoming on you, and the color… it wil seem to our subjects that you are stil in mourning.”

  He ducked away from her touch. “Seem? Seem? I’m not wearing black to make it seem like anything, Mother. If al of these things seem like grief, it’s because I feel grief. I—am—in—mourning. Aren’t we al ?” He raised his eyebrows and glared at her.

  Gertrude’s face became its typical mask, and her eyes flicked to me. She paused for a moment, then decided to speak in my unwelcome presence.

  Through thinly drawn lips, she counseled, “Be kinder to your uncle, dearest. You know you could spend the rest of your life looking for someone who wil measure up to the image you have of your father, but you wil find no one to match it.” Hamlet’s face was pinking, but he listened to the rest.

  “You know this is common. Al living things must die. Ashes to ashes and al that,” she said.

  “Yes, it is common,” he fumed.

  I had the feeling that he didn’t mean only the death of his father, but that he referred to her, as wel . She seemed to sense his insult and walked away irritated, though she had enough presence of mind to glance at Claudius, who stepped forward. It was clear that they had planned this verbal attack.

  “It is sweet and commendable, Hamlet, to mourn for your father. But you know that your father lost a father, and that father lost his. Each of them mourned for a suitable amount of time. But to carry on like this… it is a sign of, wel , stubbornness. And, frankly, it’s unmanly.” I sucked in my breath, and Hamlet muttered, “Son of a bitch.”

  Claudius heard what he said but simply narrowed his eyes and said in forced sincerity, “I love you, Hamlet, and I hope you can think of me as a father.” Hamlet yanked me out of the room at this point. I don’t know what possessed Claudius to keep speaking, but he yel ed, “We hope you wil stay with us and not go back to col ege!”

  Hamlet’s gait caught, but then he continued on.

  Gertrude chased after us and begged, “Please do this for us… for me. Stay with us. Do not go back to Wittenberg.” He would not look up but mumbled, “I’l think about it.”

  She couldn’t feel his sweating palms or see the pinched pain on his face, but I could, and his agony made me snap. I turned on her. “Gertrude,” I said, but paused to keep myself from tel ing her how much I hated her and wished her husband—her first husband—were there to scold her. “Don’t you see you’re messing with his head? First you told him to go, now you want him to stay.”

  “I love my son.”

  “So do I, which is why I think you should leave him alone. Can’t you see he’s upset?”

  “We are al upset,” she said slowly, careful y.

  With condescension that would have kil ed my father, I asked, “Are you?”

  If she were a cobra, this would have been the moment when those weird flaps would have popped out of the sides of her head and her fangs would have spewed poison. She opened her mouth, but before she could say anything, the elevator arrived and Hamlet snatched me away from her.

  As soon as the doors separated us from them, he said, “You’re crazy to talk to her like that.” I shrugged and gritted my teeth. “Aren’t you always tel ing me to stand up to her?”

  “Yeah, but wow. Hel of a way to start.”

  “It’s not the first time,” I said with a sigh, and leaned my head against the metal elevator wal , wondering what the exchange with his mother would cost me. “I used to hold back, but since your dad… it’s been harder for me to keep quiet. Especial y when she treats you like a pet or a little boy.” His face darkened and he kicked the wal , making the elevator shake. “God, why? Why did my father have to die? Why did she marry Claudius? Why so soon?” In what had recently become a common gesture, he ran his fingers roughly through his hair, making it stand up in every direction. “Everything just seems so… wrong. I have no use for them… or for anything.”

  “Not even me, sweet prince?” I asked, not at al hurt, but looking for a way to distract him. His eyes met mine, and it seemed to pul him out of his head. I pressed, hoping for a smile if not a laugh, “What, no sex joke? No, ‘But I have a lot of uses for you, wink, wink’?” He stared at me for a moment and added cool y, “I never say ‘wink wink.’ ”

  “Maybe not, but you’re not even going to make a snide remark? You’re slipping.”

  He gave an exaggerated wink and said suggestively, “I could use a little slipping.”

  I clasped my hands in a mock prayer of thanks. “And he’s back.”

  I didn’t feel much like kidding around, to tel the truth, but I knew Hamlet needed it. I found everything Claudius and Gertrude had said to him distasteful and disturbing. What was their rush? They had obviously moved on, but most of us hadn’t, and certainly not Hamlet. It had been merely two months since the king had died, and they wanted life to return to normal. For Hamlet, there would never be a “normal” again, and the fact that Gertrude, especial y, didn’t see it was shocking. I hoped he would go back to school, and fast. In truth, I was not sure how many more of those conversations he could take, nor could I imagine the consequences if his mother and uncle (for I would never cal him Hamlet’s father, or even stepfather) did not let up. With dread I wondered if the “bad thing” Hamlet
had spoken of might involve them.

  When we got back to my apartment, my father came out of his office. “Why are you back? Didn’t your mother want you home?” Hamlet kept walking, so I explained, “They had a fight. Can he just stay a little while, Dad?” My father chewed his lip and watched Hamlet’s slumped figure pass down the hal way to my room. Reluctantly, he nodded and said he’d be working from home for a while and that Hamlet had to leave before dinner.

  When I got to my room, Hamlet was sitting at the foot of my bed with my sketch pad in his hands. He didn’t even look up, so I sat at my desk and started doing homework. After I finished analyzing a poem, I tossed the textbook aside and slid onto the floor next to him.

  He was scrawling “To Be” and “Not to Be” over and over.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “That is the question.”

  I studied the scribbled page and tried to figure out what he meant.

  He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, his voice distant. “Is it better to suffer through life, to deal with al the crap thrown at you, or to fight against your problems by ending your life? To die is to sleep. That’s al . And by sleeping, we escape everything that tortures us. That’s the dream, then, isn’t it? The perfection of nothingness.”

  A chil ran through me. It sounded like he was talking about suicide. Was he just thinking aloud, or was he formulating a plan? If I came at it headlong, I thought he might freeze up, so I tried to fol ow his logic and keep him talking. I suggested, “When you sleep, it’s not nothingness. You dream.” He opened his eyes and looked at me. “There’s the catch, huh? When you die, who knows what dreams might come? What’s in the afterlife—if there is one? That’s the scary part. That’s what keeps us living out our long, painful lives. Who would put up with the heartache and the injustice of life when one could just get a knife and end it… except for the fear of what comes next? Fear of something worse makes us too scared to do anything.” My own fear bubbled over. “To do what, Hamlet? What are you thinking of doing?”