Falling for Hamlet

by Michelle Ray

  Beep. “Young lady, it’s your father. It’s almost midnight, and you’re not home. Not like you. Not like you at al . If this is your idea of independence, then we shal have a talk. You tread dangerously, my dear. How can I trust—? It is a bold mouse that nestles in the cat’s ear. Come home this instant! Do you think—” I pressed Delete.

  Beep. “Ophelia? Horatio. Hamlet’s tel ing the truth about Amsterdam. So… your dad said you didn’t come home last night. You’re kil ing him. Hamlet, I mean. Your dad’s pretty ticked, too. Hamlet’s on his way to find you. Cal him. Or me.” Beep. “Damn it, Phee. Where are you?”

  I stood staring at my phone and shaking. What a mess.

  I walked away from Sebastian and our friends like a coward, without explanation, without apology, without public tears. I felt guilty and confused, but I couldn’t share my pain. Not with anyone. I’m aware that technical y I didn’t do anything wrong since, real y, Hamlet and I had broken up. In my apartment.

  Again outside the theater. And, quite memorably, for a third time in the limo. Foolishly, I had thought that being with Sebastian would make things easier.

  Clearer. That it would help me make a break from the past. From Hamlet. From his family. Yet being with Sebastian had only made it worse, and when I realized that fact, sickening disappointment overwhelmed me, and al I could think was that I had to be alone.

  I would try to tel Sebastian about it someday, and maybe he would understand. Until then, I would sit separately in art history. I would avoid the courtyard. And I would risk losing my friends and pretend I didn’t care. And I prayed that they wouldn’t try to make a buck off of our time together.

  That evening, after listening to my father go on and on about how disappointed he was in me, I retreated to my room. I had messed things up with Sebastian. I had messed things up with Hamlet. Or he had messed things up with me. How do you go back to someone who says such disgusting things and scares the hel out of you? You don’t. Or you shouldn’t. Sitting alone in my room that night, I realized that neither Hamlet’s desire to talk to me nor his disappointment that I’d been with another guy changed my decision. I wanted out of Elsinore. Maybe even Denmark. At the very least, I needed to get away from Hamlet. Even though the old Hamlet, the sane Hamlet, had returned from Amsterdam, I wanted to be done.

  I flipped on the TV, catching the end of the news. “With apologies again to our prince and the viewing public, let us say once more that we should not have run a story so irresponsibly. The young lady was hurt, and our prince was a hero for rescuing her from what could have been a dangerous stampede at the club.”

  I wasn’t sure I believed them. It would have been as easy for Gertrude or Claudius to force a retraction for a true story as it would have been for the media to fabricate a false one. It didn’t matter. Mistakes and miscommunications. Violent love and violent hate. Betrayals and desire. Our beginning, our middle, and our end.

  Francisco: Your father sent out security to look for you the night before Hamlet returned from Amsterdam.

  Ophelia: Doesn’t surprise me.

  Barnardo: Where were you?

  Ophelia: None of your business.

  Francisco: Everything’s our business.

  Barnardo: We think your disappearance was meant to further upset Hamlet and trigger some sort of violent act.

  Ophelia: Think what you want. This is outrageous.

  Barnardo: Okay. Try this one. Would you say Hamlet was crazy?

  Ophelia: I don’t know. I’m not a psychiatrist.

  Francisco: What do you think?

  Ophelia: Like “go to a nuthouse” crazy? No. Disturbed, yes.

  Barnardo: Is there a difference?

  Ophelia: Yeah. He was depressed. He was angry. He was totally obsessed with finding out what happened to his dad.

  Francisco: Here’s a picture of Hamlet on the roof of a limo. Here’s a picture of Hamlet jumping on chairs in the theater. Was his behavior in either of these cases normal?

  Ophelia: There was nothing normal about what happened at the castle after the king died.

  Barnardo: Even so, there are no pictures of you being destructive.

  Ophelia: Well then, someone hasn’t done enough research.

  17

  “We hear there was a dustup at a comedy show. Some of Hamlet’s schoolmates were even arrested for what they did onstage. What was that about?” Ophelia runs her fingers through her hair and takes a deep breath. “Claudius had a hard time looking at the truth. And when you’re in power, you can make the truth disappear.”

  “Interesting,” Zara says, drawing out the word. “Care to elaborate?”

  “Making things disappear seemed to be Claudius’s specialty,” Ophelia replies.

  The audience laughs, and Zara looks amused. “There was, apparently, a recording of the show, but it has been destroyed.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  I had hoped to get to the theater early enough to enter unnoticed. No such luck. Horatio, whom I’d been avoiding for two days, was scowling as he leaned against the rail of the lobby’s balcony. When I redirected my walk away from him, he cleared his throat and beckoned me with his index finger.

  I stopped in my tracks. “What?” I asked, the word slicing the air.

  “Hamlet told me what you did,” he said, his jaw set.

  I crossed my arms and glared at him. “I’m sure.”

  “Why’d you do it?”

  “I didn’t have a choice.”

  “You just fel on that guy?”

  “Screw you. I was talking about the limo thing.” I turned to leave.

  “Wait.”

  “Why? You’ve already decided I was solely to blame.”

  Horatio walked toward me. “That’s not true. But Ophelia, I dragged Hamlet to Amsterdam. He never—” Backing up, I said, “Honestly, Horatio, I don’t care. I’m not explaining the guy from school, and I’m not sorry. I’ve had enough of Hamlet and this place.” As I spun away from Horatio, I slammed into a girl of about eleven or twelve. I tried to catch her arm, but she fel to the floor, and the contents of her pink canvas bag spil ed everywhere. Horatio and I both rushed to help her up, but when she saw my face, she screamed and we both let her go.

  She scrambled to her feet, smoothing out her plaid uniform skirt and squealing, “Ohmygod, ohmygod. You’re Ophelia, right? I’ve seen you at school. Oh my God!”

  I nodded, shrinking from her enthusiasm.

  Before I could say anything, she asked, “Can I have your autograph?”

  I tried to force a smile. “I’m kind of in the middle of—”

  “I, like, total y love you and even though my mom thinks you’re, like, a bad influence because of those pictures, I’m like, ‘Whatever.’ I just love you and I don’t care what she says, and I’ve wanted to meet you since, like, forever, but you’re always with your friends in the hal and it’s, like, too intimidating, which is why I asked to come to this show even though I’m supposed to be at tennis practice. She told me employees and their families could be in the audience so I said I total y had to come. She’s on the way down from her office now. Ohmygod, I shouldstoptalkingnow.” She was breathless and, I realized, stil hanging on to my arm.

  “Wel , it’s real y nice to meet you,” I said, trying to take my arm back.

  She held tightly, panting. “Ohmygod, your hair is so pretty. I wanted to dye my hair to match yours, but my mother said not to be ridiculous, that only dumb girls have hair like that, and I should concentrate on my studies instead.”

  I pursed my lips as she spoke, then said, “Your mom is right about needing to focus on your work. And your hair is natural y pretty, so—”

  “Ohmygod!” she squealed again, pinching my arm with her fingers. “You think it’s pretty?” I opened my mouth to speak, but movement over her shoulder caught my attention. A statuesque woman with thick black hair and bronze skin had her hands on her hips and was tapping her foot. “Tara,” the woman cal ed out. “Let’s go in.
” As Tara released her grip on me, she looked like someone had just spit on her birthday cake. “It was nice to meet you,” she whispered, before gal oping over to her mother.

  Horatio was fighting a laugh, so I kicked at him. I started to laugh, too, but my smile faded as Tara’s mother took a moment to glare at me before disappearing into the darkness.

  “This is the problem,” I said, gesturing at the theater door. “Why I have to get out of here.” He looked over his shoulder, but mother and daughter were already gone. “What’s the big deal? You and Hamlet are stopped al the time.”

  “Since the wedding and the party pictures, it’s different. And no matter what strangers say to me, I have to be nice because otherwise my rudeness wil end up being the new buzz.”

  “That girl was sweet.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t want to be anyone’s role model… or their cautionary tale, for that matter.” My stomach sank at the thought of daughters being warned not to be like me. “I just wanted to argue with you in peace.”

  He half smiled. “It’s peaceful now. Argue away.”

  I looked down and shook my head. “I’m going inside.”

  “If you hate it so much, why are you here?”

  I scanned the lobby. People were starting to trickle into the theater, so I lowered my voice. “My dad told me I had to come see this show. Gertrude and Claudius are coming. Gertrude wants to placate Hamlet by having a big crowd for this show he’s put together, and Claudius doesn’t want his wife to be anywhere near Hamlet unaccompanied. And Claudius told my dad it’s a command performance for everyone. So, according to my dad, even though Hamlet hates me, ‘everyone’ means I attend, too. And until I’m ready to make a clean break from this place, I’m going to play the dutiful daughter. My father’s barely talking to me as it is.”

  “Help me understand why you did what you did. I can’t imagine a reason big enough that you’d hurt Hamlet like that.”

  “I was embarrassed, Horatio. I’m eighteen, for Christ’s sake. What other eighteen-year-old has a sex tape floating out there?” I paused. “Maybe there are some, but I never thought it would happen to me. I didn’t want everyone—Everything that’s happened helped me see how much I don’t want this anymore. I don’t want him anymore.”

  He furrowed his brow and studied me. “I don’t believe you.”

  I sighed and felt a lump forming in my throat. “Okay.”

  I wouldn’t have believed me, either. It had been a tumultuous few years, and Horatio had been close enough to know that Hamlet and I always ended up together in the end. For some reason, we couldn’t help ourselves. Yet Horatio wasn’t in my head. He couldn’t know the shift I felt. He couldn’t know that I was convinced that this time I meant it. At least, I thought I did.

  Strangers and friends were mil ing around the lobby, some blatantly watching us, some pretending not to. He suggested quietly, “Let’s go in. It should be a laugh at least.”

  “Yeah. Maybe.”

  We started walking toward the ornately carved double doors that lead into the elegant theater, but Hamlet came up the stairs, so Horatio changed course. Hamlet said hi to Horatio while eyeing me hateful y. Unable to stand his gaze, I went inside and sat alone, hoping to slip away at some point.

  The audience buzzed around me, and I pretended to lose myself in studying my surroundings. Carved cherubs danced around the proscenium arch, and in the middle of the painted oval ceiling, flights of angels sang a sleeping baby to rest. Molded crowns jutted out between the boxes, and banners hung floor to ceiling on each side of the stage. So much care had been taken to decorate a room that remained dark for most of its existence.

  Horatio and Hamlet entered together and stood under the box seats talking for a few minutes while Gertrude and Claudius sat up front at Hamlet’s instruction.

  Claudius cal ed out, “Dear Hamlet—note I did not cal you ‘son’—how are you?”

  “Great, though things seem to change so quickly around here. Who knows how I’l be in a minute? But being with you makes everything better, doesn’t it? Just ask my mother. Or my father. Oh, right, you can’t because of what you did.” Claudius looked at Gertrude, then back at Hamlet. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Hamlet smiled with angry eyes. “Me neither.”

  “Dearest,” cal ed out Gertrude with her sweet manipulation, “come sit with me.”

  “No, Mother, here’s someone more attractive.” He acted as if I were a magnet and, against his wil , he was being pul ed to me. His comment would have stung Gertrude for a variety of reasons, and he knew it. First, he shunned her loudly enough for al to hear. Second, her insecurity about her appearance, though she had nothing to worry about, was legendary, at least to her inner circle. There was a reason it took her over an hour to get ready each morning and why she had a startlingly large staff of stylists, makeup artists, and hairdressers ready to jump into action at a moment’s notice. Third, she hated that he always came to me instead of her.

  “Ophelia,” he proclaimed, to my great apprehension, “can I lie in your lap?”

  I looked around with embarrassment, and as I did so, saw my father’s trepidation, Horatio’s concern, and the amused glances of nearly everyone else.

  “No,” I replied uncomfortably.

  In a stage whisper he said, “I mean, my head in your lap.”

  I whispered back, “Whatever body part you are suggesting, I don’t think so.” I didn’t trust him, and I wanted him to go away.

  “Do you think I’m suggesting something dirty? Moi? ” He leered, then laughed.

  “You’re in a good mood,” I said through a clenched jaw.

  “Yeah, because I’m ready to give as good as I get. Speaking of bitches, look at my mother. She’s in a pretty good mood, too, and my father’s been dead for only two hours.”

  I had had enough and said sharply, “Months. Nearly four months, Hamlet. Enough of this.” As he rose to tower over me, he asked loud enough for al to hear, “Enough of what? Enough of me or enough of my father’s death? Wow, four months have passed and he hasn’t been forgotten yet? Then there’s hope that a great man’s memory might last longer than a year.” Thankful y, at that moment a recorded trumpet sounded, indicating the show was starting. To my surprise, Hamlet sat back down next to me. It would seem that my punishment was not yet at its end. The recording came from a little speaker set in the corner of the stage, and the sound was intentional y puny, making the fanfare practical y ridiculous.

  The troupe marched out, yel ing, “Al hail King Claudius!”

  Claudius nodded but did not smile. Al five guys were wearing sailor outfits, and the tal est, thinnest one with a twinkle in his eye stepped forward.

  “Welcome! Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Mike, and we are the King’s Sea Men.”

  A couple of people guffawed but quieted down once they realized they were the only ones to find the double entendre amusing… or at least the only ones bold enough to laugh at it.

  “What’s this?” I whispered to Hamlet, remembering that these guys, known as the Wit Burgers, usual y wore T-shirts with the troupe’s logo plus jeans.

  He lifted his eyebrows, not taking his eyes off Claudius. “Mischief,” he whispered back.

  Mike continued, “If we shadows do offend / Think but this, and al wil mend / That you have but slumbered here / While these visions did appear.”

  “What the hel does that mean?” cal ed out one of his fel ow comedians.

  Tal Mike grinned and added, “Al that fol ows is meant in good fun. We hope you wil take it as such.” He winked, and they al ran into new places on the stage, tearing off their sailor costumes as they moved.

  Hamlet muttered, “I hope it wil be good and fun… but only for some. I’m waiting for the outcome.”

  “You’re not making sense,” I whispered.

  “Just like a woman,” he said, glowering.

  I cleared my throat and stared at the stage.

  Mike explained that they would begin
with an improvised scene, which would need a purpose. “Do I have a suggestion from the audience?” he asked.

  Hamlet cleared his throat, and Rosencrantz turned around. When his eyes met Hamlet’s, Hamlet nodded and Rosencrantz yel ed out, “Murder. Murder most foul.”

  Gertrude froze, and Claudius glared at Hamlet. Rosencrantz, suddenly realizing he had done something to displease the king, slid down in his seat.

  At this point, a guy, clearly meant to be Gertrude ( judging by the blond wig done in a French knot), came onto the stage. He swirled, his skirt flowing delicately, then kissed an actor wearing a crown. I cringed.

  “No, no,” minced the “queen.” “Do not kiss me!”

  Hamlet stood at this point and asked Gertrude loudly, “Mother, how do you like the act?”

  “I think the lady is protesting too much,” she said, her voice light but her smile stiff.

  “Son,” Claudius said, “I do not find this particularly funny. In fact, it seems rather offensive.”

  “No, no, no, they’re kidding. Poisonously funny, though, huh?” Hamlet spoke quickly, his brimming emotions impossible to read.

  My worry was deepening. I didn’t know what game he was playing or how far he would take it. As usual, my desire to protect him overtook my good senses. Quietly enough for him alone to hear, I said, “Seems a little pointed to me.” Hamlet roughly ran his fingers through his hair and took in the actors onstage, who made to carry on with the scene after the unintended interruption.

  “Stop, stop. Do the next one,” Hamlet cal ed out, ful of excited rage.

  The troupe froze and looked at one another, then bowed and regrouped. After a moment, Mike announced, his voice faltering, “W-we cal this game the mousetrap.”

  The game went like this: Al of the men were supposedly at a cocktail party. One guy was selected to go beyond earshot while the audience suggested maladies the other comedians would have. The actor who had left would come back in knowing only that he was supposed to play a doctor and that he would have to figure out the sicknesses of the players, then suggest cures.