Falling for Hamlet

by Michelle Ray

  “I doubt he made it up,” I said, pushing away the memory of how I had melted reading that same message a few weeks before. “God, how could you?

  That’s an old e-mail, and it’s private!”

  “No such thing, my sweet. I am doing this to help you. As the Bible says, ‘A good name is more desirable than great riches, and loving favor is better than silver and gold.’ Claudius and Gertrude are eager to find out the reason for Hamlet’s strange behavior, and I am anxious for them to forgive you for the party. Perhaps if you provide the key to unlocking this mystery, they’l come around. I’l bring this e-mail, swear it is love that is the source of the problem, and I wil promise they can take my job if I am wrong.”

  “Dad, no! Don’t do that.”

  He patted my arm. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Go back to the apartment and wait for me,” he declared, paper in hand.

  Back home, I waited in misery. Only the irritating ticking of our one nondigital clock broke the silence. It wasn’t going to work, and my father would be fired because of me. I tried to remind myself that it had been his choice and to reassure myself that he could find other work. He was wel liked and had had a long career as an adviser. He could parlay that into something. At the very least, he could hit the lecture circuit and let rich people pay for him to offer platitudes and anecdotes instead of making the rest of us suffer them for free. Or maybe it was time for him to retire. My stomach turned. Whether or not it was his decision to offer up his job, it would be a shame if his storied career ended because of a relationship he was against from the outset.

  Leaning on the kitchen island, I tried to think back on when my father had begun to mistrust Hamlet so much. Hamlet’s parents were often traveling or at formal occasions, so rather than leaving him at the mercy of the court nannies, my parents invited him to spend evenings with us. They had treated him like a second son, especial y my mother. Once we started dating, however, everything changed, especial y for my father. They stil invited him over, but less frequently, and they were more watchful of us. My door always had to be open, they always seemed to have questions to ask one of us, and they frequently had to get things that could, mysteriously, only be found in my room. It became laughable some nights by the third or fourth pop-in. Hamlet wanted to hang out elsewhere, but my parents wouldn’t al ow it on weeknights. Weekends, we were on our own, and I knew they were anxious about what we were doing, though they never asked.

  I slept with Hamlet for the first time the night of my mother’s funeral. The days between her death and the funeral were intense and showed me the best of what Hamlet was—giving, funny, and astute. Those days, he rarely left my apartment, insisting that he skip school to be with me, bringing me food, movies, listening to me cry, making me laugh. My father was a wreck but was busy with plans and trying to hide his grief from us. Laertes stayed in his room much of the time. Hamlet was what they couldn’t be. Our importance in each other’s lives solidified the day my mother was kil ed instead of his father.

  As soon as my mother’s funeral was over, Laertes went back to school, and my father stayed with Hamlet’s parents, as wel as with his col eagues, until late into the night. Hamlet and I slipped off to my apartment, and I remember the sinking feeling I had when I realized that, without my mom around, no one noticed I was even gone. And that feeling got mixed up with my nervousness at being alone with Hamlet, with suggesting what I was about to suggest. It was a confusing time—a time when my desire to push away my pain got mixed up with my desire to be with Hamlet, to replace pain with pain, or pain with love. I didn’t know which. But I knew I loved Hamlet and that he loved me. And so I let the warmth of his hand on mine quiet my fears.

  Al the lights had been off except the one in my parents’ bedroom. I stopped and listened for movement, but no one was there. My dad had just forgotten to turn the light off before heading to the funeral. It was the kind of thing my mother, used to my father’s distractibility, would have checked on before leaving.

  Trying to hold it together, I walked quickly to my room, Hamlet in tow. I grabbed my pajamas and slipped into the bathroom to change without saying anything. When I came out, Hamlet had taken off his suit jacket and tie and was sitting on my bed, leaning against the wal . He smiled the smal est of smiles while reaching a hand out to me. As I approached, I noticed his eyes were fil ed with worry. Something in his expression worked its way into my emptiness. I walked over to him, rested one knee on the bed, and asked him to have sex with me.

  He was surprised, especial y since I had been the one pushing away his advances al along. He sat up straighter. “Do you think today is—”

  “Yes. Today. This is the perfect day,” I insisted, sitting down and facing him, my hands shaking. “I don’t want this day to be the day my mother was buried. I want to remember it as the day we first slept together, the day I lost my virginity.” He frowned and took my hand. “Ophelia, I don’t know. I mean, take some time. You’re pretty emotional and—”

  “I want to do it, and I want to do it with you. I want to know what al the fuss is about, and I want my first time to be with someone I trust.” He hesitated and scooted a few inches away, dropping my hand. “You know I want to, but Phee, this has been a big day… and what you’re asking… it’s forever. You can’t undo it once it’s done.”

  I was feeling a little frantic; I had to make him understand how important this was to me. I inched forward and clutched his leg. “I won’t want to undo anything. This is what I want.”

  He was almost as nervous as I was, I think. He was shaking and stopped a few times to make sure I stil wanted to go through with it. When he final y pushed himself inside me, I started to cry. I had to urge him to go on, and he looked so worried. It was overwhelming to be completely connected to someone and to have it come with such pain. Al I could think about was my mother buried mere miles from where her baby was leaving behind the last of her childhood.

  He kissed me as tears melted down my cheeks. “I love you,” he whispered.

  “I love you, too,” I whispered back, both to him and to my mom, whom I wanted to know I had found love.

  I’m not sure how much time passed between my father going to Gertrude and Claudius with my e-mail and the elevator doors opening. Long or short, it didn’t matter. The meeting had not gone wel .

  My father shouted from within, “Come with me now!”

  I popped up, stunned by the change in his mood, and grabbed my shoes. I put them on inside as the doors were closing. When I stood back up, he wouldn’t look at me. His hands, which held what I can only assume was my e-mail, twisted and mangled the paper. His knuckles were white, and the rest of his hands were deep red. He muttered under his breath, but I couldn’t hear what he said. I noticed that the back of his neck, the part sticking above the col ar of his white dress shirt, was the same color as his hands. I tapped my feet anxiously while I tried to figure out what had happened. If given a mil ion guesses, I never would have guessed what was coming.

  “I thought…” Gertrude began, once I was standing before her, “No, I was sure that those pictures of you at that party would have been the end of the humiliation you would bring upon my family, but it seems I was wrong.” She sniffed and crossed her arms, leaning daintily on the edge of her desk.

  My mouth was dry and I wanted to sit down, too, but if she didn’t sit on a chair, I was expected to stand.

  Claudius, who was standing next to Gertrude, his arms also crossed and his face set, continued. “Just this evening we received a disturbing message.

  A threat real y. A video of you and Hamlet… how shal I say?… engaged in… indelicate acts… has been uncovered.” I wrapped my arms around myself and squeezed hard, as if covering my suddenly naked body. I turned to look at my father, who had retreated to the wal and had loosened his tie. “How can that be?” I asked. “Hamlet and I never recorded…” I couldn’t continue. I shuddered and wound my arms tighter across my chest.

  “Who’s to say h
ow these things happen?” Gertrude said in a clipped voice. “The point is,” she continued, tapping her fingertips together quickly, “it is in the hands of someone who wants to hurt us, and that someone is demanding money. Now, we are wil ing to pay to keep you safe from public scorn, but in return, you must do something for us.”

  “What?” I rasped.

  Claudius leaned back on the dark wood desk next to his wife. Sinking down, a whisper of a smile on his face, he explained, “We need you to get information from Hamlet.”

  “What kind of information?” I asked, swal owing hard.

  Gertrude straightened up and touched her French knot. “Ask him why he’s been behaving so strangely. Find out his plans. He’s been so secretive lately. Your father says that love is the reason, but we’re not convinced.”

  I put up my hands, gesturing for them to stop. None of it made sense. I wanted to ask where the video was taken. And how. Hamlet and I never had sex in a public place. Not once. I wondered momentarily if Hamlet had secretly taped us, but I dismissed the idea. He was a lot of things, but sleazy wasn’t one of them. It didn’t have to be Hamlet, I realized with dismay. Al kinds of people had access to every room and crawl space in the castle. It could have been anyone. Hamlet had warned that someone would try to get to me. I should have believed him.

  “I don’t understand,” I said. “It seems to me that paying would be in your best interest. I mean, Hamlet’s in the video, too.” Claudius took a step forward and was suddenly too close. “Let us just say that there’s far more of you to be worried about.” My arms, which had slipped down, popped back across my chest and I stepped away from Claudius. “I’m not doing this. You’ve been using everyone to get to Hamlet, and I’m not going to al ow myself to be used by you.”

  Gertrude sniffed and began walking to sit behind her desk. “Then the video wil come out. And you wil leave the castle. Indefinitely.” I spun around to face my father. “Dad,” I begged.

  “Do this, Ophelia. Or leave my home.”

  I couldn’t believe he meant it. And yet, deep inside, I knew he and I had reached the breaking point. He no longer wanted to deal with my crap. He had warned me, as had my mother, that being with Hamlet would come at a price. What never occurred to me was that my family would end up paying, not just me. Protecting me blindly was no longer an option for him, and, even if it was, I couldn’t ask him to do it.

  I shifted from foot to foot, looking at my three accusers. “I’l make it easy for everyone. I’l leave tomorrow for Paris and live with Laertes for a while.” Claudius snarled, his gaze drifting the length of my body. “If those images come out, there won’t be a person in the Western world who won’t know your face… etcetera.” He squinted at me, and the corners of his mouth turned up slightly again.

  I took another step back. If I didn’t like the way he was looking at me, how would I feel about the rest of the world doing the same? It was humiliating enough when my clothes had been on and the pictures published just showed a kiss. But more? I shuddered and shut my eyes tight, trying not to imagine what might be on the video.

  But then a thought occurred to me. “How do I know you’re not making this up? Dad, have you even seen the video?”

  “I didn’t want to,” he said, pul ing at his face.

  “Wel , I do,” I announced, not real y sure that I did but certain that if I watched, I would make sure my dad was elsewhere.

  Gertrude smoothed her skirt. “Security has it locked away. It’s for the best.”

  I gritted my teeth. “Why should I believe you?”

  “Do you have a birthmark on your left hip?” Claudius asked, his eyes twinkling.

  I hesitated and said yes.

  “And you like being kissed by Hamlet on the neck?” he pressed.

  My father leaped out of his seat. “Enough!” He turned to me. “Ophelia, you wil do this or, so help me, I wil never speak to you again.” I couldn’t lose my dad. Not over Hamlet. I would do what they wanted, even though I knew I would never forgive myself for it.

  Quietly I said, “I’l talk to him tomorrow.”

  “And one more thing,” Claudius said, his smirk clear to see if anyone else had been looking at him. “Hamlet is going to a charity function tomorrow morning, and you wil ride with him. During that drive, you’d best get some information. And since we don’t trust that you wil tel us the truth about what Hamlet might say, your father and I wil be in the car with you. Hidden in front, of course.” I sucked in my breath and looked over my shoulder. My dad was sitting with his back to me, his head in his hands. My own head dropped. “Fine,” I said, trying not to think of how I was joining the long line of deceivers waiting to bring Hamlet down. Hamlet knew me better than I knew myself, and he had been right not to trust in me. Once again, I regretted confiding in my father. And I regretted that I had ever been brought to live at the castle.

  I had planned on going home but hit the button for the basement level instead. I walked out of the elevator fol owing the trail of fluorescent lights to an anonymous, freshly painted white door and knocked. It swung open quickly, revealing three wal s of smal television screens al showing different parts of the castle. I gasped when I spotted a black-and-white image of my father sitting in his office.

  “What the—Ophelia!” exclaimed the short blond security officer who had reached behind his swivel chair to open the door. He leaped up and moved to block my view of the TV screens in the room.

  A guard with a dark beard and angry eyes rose from his chair and flicked a switch, turning al of the TVs off. “How did you find this room?”

  “I’ve lived in the castle my whole life. Security has always been here.”

  “What do you want?” growled the dark-haired one.

  “I—”

  “Get out,” he barked.

  “When we were kids, the guards always let us—”

  “Wel , you’re not a child anymore.”

  “No kidding,” said the blond guard, his blue eyes sparkling.

  I wanted to twist the smirk off his face but was so shamed by the insinuation in his voice that al I could do was look at my feet. What had he seen?

  Where the hel were those cameras?

  The dark-haired guy stepped closer. “The rules are different now. You are never to come here again.” His tone was definite to the point of being a threat, so I backed away. He slammed the door, and I heard it lock.

  “Damn it,” I muttered as I headed back down the hal . A camera was pointed right at the elevator, so I turned and headed for the stairwel .

  As I reached for the door, Marcel us opened it and we both jumped in surprise.

  “Ophelia, what are you doing here?”

  “Nothing. I’m leaving.” I squeezed past him and started up the stairs, unsure of what those men knew, but wanting to run away from their leers.

  “Hey, are you al right?”

  I hesitated. Marcel us was nice, but he wasn’t a friend. Until recently, we had never exchanged more than a few words. His job was to be invisible to us, a menace to others, and a pair of watchful eyes. I had only seen him laugh twice, both about some comment Hamlet made directly to him. At al other times, Marcel us was professional, impenetrable. He could be trusted with our lives, but I didn’t know if he could be trusted with my secrets.

  When I offered no reply, he asked, “Can I help?”

  I hesitated again. “I came… I wanted to know about the cameras.”

  “What about them?”

  “Where they are. What they see.”

  This time, it was Marcel us who fil ed the stairwel with silence. His eyes glanced into the corner and I saw a little red light. Another camera. A smal one.

  So smal you wouldn’t have seen it if you weren’t looking for it. He turned his back to it and lowered his voice. “I can’t tel you that.” Then he added, even softer, “But I can tel you there are more than you think.”

  My gaze met his. I chewed on my lips and absently twisted one leg around the o
ther. Gripping the railing, I tried to remember what I had seen in that brief moment in the security room. Elevators, the rooftop, offices. What else? The lobby, the old castle’s staircase. It was too quick. Had I seen any of the residences? I couldn’t remember.

  “What specifical y are you asking about?” he asked.

  My face flushed. “I was just wondering what they’ve seen… of me and, uh…” I wanted to fold into myself rather than finish the sentence. “Hamlet.” Marcel us’s eyes widened in understanding, and he looked away. Did it mean he had seen it and was embarrassed to tel me? Or was he embarrassed by my asking? By the time he spoke, his face had settled into professional neutrality.

  “I’m not aware of anything that would… cause you special concern. But since Hamlet is my charge, I can ask around.”

  “They’l know I’m the one who wants to know,” I answered.

  “Let me handle the others. I’ve been here longer than most. Though you wouldn’t know it, since the king—” He stopped himself. “I’l get back to you.” I nodded and pinched my eyes shut again at the thought of my dad seeing anything that I did with Hamlet.

  Marcel us leaned in close and whispered, “Meantime, Ophelia, watch your step ’round here. I can’t say I understand anyone’s motivations anymore.” If he were a different man, he might have patted my shoulder or cheek. But he stood rod-straight and strode back into the hal toward the security room.

  The next morning, when Hamlet saw me sitting in the limo, he started to walk away.