by Michelle Ray
“Nothing.”
“It’s not nothing.” When he didn’t answer, I started to get up. “I’m going to get my dad.”
“Don’t,” he begged, grabbing my arm and pul ing me down again. When I stiffened under his grip, he let go and leaned back. “I was just talking, Phee,” he said, pushing a smile into the corners of his lips. But his eyes were dead. He took the page, ripped it out of my sketch pad, crumpled it, and tossed it aside.
It rol ed under my bed, but I didn’t get it. Instead I took his face in my hands and pleaded with him, “Please, Hamlet, tel me what you’re thinking of doing.
I can’t lose you, too. I can’t.”
He rose, and my hands fel pointlessly into my lap. “You won’t, Phee. Everything’s gonna be fine. You’l see.” Then he zipped up his sweatshirt and walked out.
Francisco: So Hamlet considered suicide.
Ophelia: I don’t know.
Barnardo: You were his girlfriend. How can you not know?
Francisco: Ophelia? He asked a question. (pause) He never spoke about it?
Ophelia: Well… yeah, he talked about it, but not in a real way.
Barnardo: Not in a real way? What does that mean?
Ophelia: Hamlet talked about a lot of things. He said he was going to climb Mount Everest one day. Maybe you should haul in some Sherpas and find out if they knew about that plan.
Francisco: Don’t be smart.
Barnardo: No risk of that with her.
11
“So if Hamlet wasn’t crazy, was it an act?”
Ophelia purses her lips. “No one is that good an actor.”
Zara raises her eyebrows. “Are you admitting to all of us that he was crazy?” Ophelia looks up at the stage lights and sighs. “I don’t know what to tell you. Truly. He was troubled.” Zara leans forward and touches Ophelia’s knee. “Both your personal life and school life were unraveling because of the attention you paid to Hamlet. Was it worth the sacrifice?”
Ophelia pulls at her sweater. “I did what I thought was right at the time.”
The next week, Horatio came home for Christmas. He canceled his trip to meet Kim’s parents, saying that I sounded tired, and after the weird messages he was getting from Hamlet, he thought he ought to return. Horatio and Hamlet spent most of their time together and, though I never told either of them, it was a relief to be alone. Knowing Horatio was taking care of Hamlet, I let go a little and was able to sleep and paint, and painting helped me to stop thinking. I didn’t check e-mail or cal anyone. I ignored my texts. I painted until my hands were as colorful as a garden and I’d fil ed paper after paper with images that had nothing to do with Hamlet or the king or the castle.
Final y I showered and changed, and when I went into the sitting room, I found a message from my dad that the boys wanted to go out for a movie and it was fine with him if I went. I headed up to Hamlet’s room, where I found him completely engrossed in something he was reading on the Internet and Horatio looking annoyed.
We waited for over an hour for Hamlet to log off, and I knew if we didn’t leave the castle soon, we would never make the movie. Of course we could have mentioned any film to the social secretary and it would have been played for us in-house, but there was something so much better about being in an actual theater with regular people, especial y for a comedy. As long as the guards were in plainclothes and Hamlet kept his sunglasses on or his hood up and his head down, no one bothered us, at least most of the time. We got the occasional tween girls screaming or hugging him without permission, but more often than not he went undetected, or people just whispered as he passed. It made their months that they could go around tel ing everyone they’d been in the same place as the prince, and it made us feel better for having done something together that was normal. And if Hamlet couldn’t stop fixating on his computer, we were going to lose out on our last chance for normal that night, and we al needed a laugh.
Horatio and I had been trying to entertain ourselves as best we could, but Horatio was getting impatient and my worries were starting to creep back. He signaled to me that it was my turn to try, so I walked up behind Hamlet, put my arms around him, and kissed him on the head. He didn’t look up, just patted my hands. I started massaging his shoulders and said, “You shouldn’t be reading those message boards. They’l drive you nuts.” Horatio jumped in with, “Some of the things people say are so ignorant.”
“You don’t believe this junk?” I asked, hoping that leaning in front of the screen might work.
Hamlet just leaned the other way and kept reading.
I continued, “Conspiracy theorists, crackpots. Come on, Hamlet, let’s just go.”
Ignoring us, he frowned and read. “Listen to this: Someone claiming to be a servant here says he saw Claudius putting poison in my father’s ear.”
“His ear?” Horatio laughed. “How the hel would Claudius get poison in an ear?”
“My dad was probably asleep. He loved to nap in the conservatory. Said the flowers soothed him.”
“Fine,” said Horatio, “but why not just poison his drink or something?”
Hamlet scrol ed down and said, “Because my uncle’s a sneaky piece of crap, and I bet it’d be harder to notice.”
“Wouldn’t poison have showed up in an autopsy?” Horatio asked.
“My mother rushed that whole thing, remember?” Hamlet rubbed at his temples.
Horatio shook his head and walked over to the computer. “If what that person says is true, why has no one else mentioned it? Publicly, that is? It would have to have been an incredibly elaborate cover-up. I mean, not a peep anywhere else? These things never stay quiet. Not for long, anyway.”
“Exactly,” I added. “And I didn’t see anyone there besides Claudius.”
“Wait, what?” asked Hamlet, final y turning to face me.
“In the conservatory that morning. When I got there, Claudius was leaving.” I felt a little shocked as the words left my mouth. It was the first time I had mentioned it to anyone. The first time I had actual y thought about it since that day. It sounded suddenly important, and yet it had been nothing more than a fleeting vision of Claudius with… a bottle in his hand.
“You saw Claudius?” Horatio asked. His large brown eyes widened, and my stomach flipped.
“Yes,” I said, trying to act very casual, “but he wasn’t acting suspiciously. If he had just murdered his brother, don’t you think he would have been running or something?”
“No,” Hamlet replied quickly.
“Hamlet, like I said, I was there. No one else was. Not a guard. Not a servant. Just me and the flowers.”
“And my dad.”
“I didn’t even know he was there. He must have been tucked in that back corner.”
“The only place with no cameras…” Hamlet’s voice trailed off.
“I was certainly caught on video. If anyone was suspicious, don’t you think I would have been questioned?” Frowning, Hamlet said, “Not if Claudius didn’t want it investigated.”
I looked at Horatio, who merely shrugged.
I wanted to reassure myself that it couldn’t have been anything, that I hadn’t missed something so important as a man escaping the scene of a murder. It looked like a bottle of water, the fancy blue kind we got at special events around the castle, just smal er. I wasn’t sure if I should insist that we al talk to security or if I should run from Hamlet, who was sure to be more than a little miffed if it turned out I had witnessed the whole damned thing and done nothing about it.
We waited in silence as Hamlet continued clicking the mouse manical y. Ten minutes passed. Then another ten.
“Come on, Hamlet,” I final y said, not the least bit serious, “Horatio and I wil take you to a strip club.” After a second, he turned his head, and a smile crept into one corner of his mouth. “You performing?” I pul ed my long hair on top of my head and pouted my lips. “I’m not on the schedule tonight,” I joked. “But I’ve got a stack of singles for ya. I�
�m sure we could get your security detail to look the other way just this once. Or maybe they’d welcome the distraction.” He half laughed, said, “If your dad joins us, I’m in,” and turned back to the screen.
I shuddered and then shrugged at Horatio.
“How about that movie?” asked Horatio. Hamlet didn’t even look up, so I fel backward on the bed with a surrendering sigh.
Horatio turned to me and said, “We could go.”
I shook my head.
Horatio picked up the remote and started flipping through the channels. After a few minutes he muttered, “So much for coming back and cheering him up.” He turned off the TV and said, “Ophelia, I’m leaving tomorrow, so there’s not much else I can…” I tried to give a reassuring smile. He had done his best.
“Hamlet,” I said, “you said you were thinking of going back to school. Are you going with Horatio tomorrow?” Leaning closer to the screen, he mumbled, “I don’t think so.”
“Why not?” I asked, somewhat surprised. He had been clear after their last conversation that he wanted to get as far away from his mother and Claudius as possible, and that if his going would upset them, then al the better.
“I have business here.”
Dread crept into my chest and I asked, “What business?”
“My business,” he said, stil looking at the screen, his frown deepening.
I turned to Horatio and asked, “Has he talked to you about this?” Horatio shook his head weakly, which made me not believe him. “This is crazy, Hamlet. Whatever plan you have, you should drop it.”
My frustration and confusion were growing. There were clues everywhere, but I couldn’t put them together—not in any way that made sense. It was like being thrown into a maze blindfolded. A maze with an invisible monster that I knew I had to stop.
“Hamlet,” I said, “as much as I’d love to be with you more, you can’t stay here. What are you going to do, skulk around the castle indefinitely, watching your mother and Claudius do… whatever it is they do? Yuck.” I was grasping for anything at this point.
He was final y looking at me, which was something, but he didn’t reply.
I knelt at his feet. “Hamlet, I know what I promised, but I don’t want you getting into trouble.”
“I can’t go, al right?”
“This is madness!” I stood, grabbed my coat, and walked out. I clutched my hands together, praying that he wouldn’t do something that would ruin both of our lives.
Hamlet woke me the next morning by letting steam from a fresh cup of coffee waft under my nose. I sat up and took the mug, hoping that the reasonable Hamlet was the one sitting beside me. His eyes, twinkling and focused, told me that it was. He said he wanted to make up for missing the movie by taking me to the museum of my choice. Funny thing was, the best art around was housed in the old part of the castle, so I suggested we start there. I would be ditching school, but as long as none of the guards ratted me out and I intercepted any messages from the school secretary before my dad came home, he would be none the wiser. Staying in had the added benefit of no security detail and no crowd, we could carry our coffee (which was terribly important, given my uncontrol ed coffee addiction), and we could talk about whatever we wanted (which we could never do out, because the public always eavesdropped on his conversations).
We wandered the corridors, and after an hour, we had made our way to the former royal residences. Their brocade canopied beds, imposing doors, and gold leaf moldings made me glad Hamlet’s parents had created something new. While impressive to tourists, these rooms didn’t suit the times or the personalities of the former king and current queen, which was why they had built and moved into the other building.
At the far end of what had traditional y been the reigning queen’s bedroom there hung a tiny photograph, too smal for tourists to see. It was of Hamlet as a toddler sitting on his father’s shoulders while his mother, standing to the side, beamed at them both. I was never sure why it had not been brought over to the new part of the castle, since the canopy hid it from public view, but I had loved being able to cross the velvet barriers in order to see it. As I neared the photo that Hamlet once cherished, I froze, realizing too late that it might pain him.
Hamlet pressed forward and studied it, sighing. “We were happy once.”
“You’l be happy again,” I offered, drifting to his side.
“You make me happy,” he said, pul ing me onto his lap as he sat on the formal chair beneath the frame. “I’m sorry about last night. I just lose myself. I need to figure out what happened, is al .”
“If your dad’s death was natural, then it’s awful, but that’s it. And if it was Claudius, and Claudius wants this covered up, there’s probably nothing you can do about it. I’d love to have you around al the time, but you have to get on with your life.” I wasn’t sure if I thought it was possible, but it seemed like the right thing to say.
He pushed his nose into my neck and nodded. “I know you’re right, but I have to find out for sure. And I have to avenge my father.”
“Avenge? What are you talking about?” Fear slithered through me, and I pul ed back to look at his face. When Hamlet didn’t answer, I begged, “Don’t do anything crazy, okay? If this is about Gertrude and Claudius—”
Hamlet winced.
“We could go somewhere,” I suggested. “Leave al this behind. Start a new life.”
Hamlet shook his head and looked back at the photograph. “No. My father needs me to do this.”
“Your father?” I asked.
His face was suddenly relaxed. He brushed his hair out of his eyes, turned to me, and said, “Forget it, Phee. Nothing serious today, okay?” He lifted me up, tossed me over his shoulder, and lightly spanked my behind. I fleetingly thought that anyone who could change moods so quickly had to be kidding about avenging or revenging or whatever he had been saying, and as he ran us out of the room, I let that idea chase away my concerns. My peace of mind did not last long.
Every night for a couple of weeks, Hamlet came to my room after my father was asleep, only to rise again and leave just before dawn. I asked him where he was going, but he wouldn’t tel me. After the first few times, I stopped asking.
During the hours he was with me, he usual y sat awake by the window or wrapped his arms around me and stared at the ceiling. I couldn’t figure out how to help him. Al I knew was the lack of sleep was helping neither his judgment nor his mental state, and it wasn’t helping mine, either.
One night, he shook me awake. “I need you to come with me,” he said.
“Where?” I asked. Forcing my sandpapery eyelids to stay open, I looked out the window at the stil -dark sky.
“Please.”
My head ached, and my body wouldn’t move as fast as I wanted it to. Hamlet lifted me to my feet, took my hand, and led me to the elevator without saying anything.
My mind was lagging, so it took me a minute to realize he was taking me out. “My shoes,” I whispered, not even considering that I was in my pajama bottoms and a T-shirt with no bra. I moved to grab my sneakers.
“Forget them,” he said, and the doors opened. I hesitated, but he pul ed me in after him and pushed the button for the conservatory. I was tempted to ask him questions, but my mind couldn’t form them fast enough. He ran his fingers through his hair roughly, then pushed the already lit button. Then again.
And again. Al the way up he pushed the button. I squeezed his hand, hoping at least that would make him stop or look at me, but to no avail. I peered up at the security camera in the corner of the elevator and wondered if it recorded sound as wel as picture. I decided to wait before asking any questions and bit my nails instead.
We exited the elevator, and Hamlet escorted me inside the conservatory. I shuddered, suddenly wide awake. I hadn’t been in there since the king had died, and I doubted many others had, either. The air felt stifling, not tropical and romantic, as it used to feel.
Hamlet let go of my hand and walked quickly alo
ng the path. He returned to where I was standing, then continued in the other direction, pausing only to check the dim corner where his father’s body had been found.
He waved me over, and I forced myself to go. His eyes darted around and he asked, “Do you believe in ghosts?” I lifted my eyebrows and replied, “Not real y.”
He looked over my shoulder and, fearful of what might be behind me, I turned around slowly, but nothing was there.
He frowned. “Neither did I. But my father…” he began. “My father has been talking to me.”
“Like in your head?”
“No, like standing in front of me. On the roof. And right here.”
The cold was seeping into my feet, and I started to shiver. Or maybe it was the ghost talk that got me. Either way, Hamlet didn’t put his arm around me.
He didn’t even notice.
I stood trembling and wondered what to say. “I know you’re upset, but—”
He shook his head quickly. “He was here. On this spot. You don’t believe me. I knew it. God! Why did I bother tel ing—” He stormed across the garden, peering behind bushes as he went.
“Hamlet, you might have thought—”
“Don’t say it didn’t happen,” he said, running back at me. Stopping short in front of me, he waved his finger in my face. “I talked to him. I talked to my father. He told me things. Things no one else could have known. Now I have to kil Claudius.” He ran both hands through his hair before spinning around and exiting through the glass doors. I hustled down the stairs to my apartment as fast as my quaking legs would take me.
I didn’t believe in ghosts. Hamlet didn’t believe in ghosts. We used to watch those ghost-hunter shows and laugh our butts off at the “experts” and the ridiculous suckers who hired them. And now Hamlet was tel ing me that not only had he seen a ghost, it was tel ing him to do things. I thought it might be schizophrenia but then remembered that he’d have voices in his head, not ghosts of dead fathers ordering him around. I just didn’t get it.