by Michelle Ray
“Don’t go,” Hamlet whispered. “I love you.”
I stared into his drooping eyes, looking for a sign that he realized what a ridiculous statement it was. I rubbed my forehead again, trying to understand.
A few hours ago, he’d treated me like garbage in front of hundreds of people. Two days ago, he’d caught me with another guy. Six days ago, he’d told me to stay away from him. Either he was crazy or he was faking. I wasn’t sure what to believe.
He was seeing ghosts, which seemed crazy, but Horatio backed him up. He was running around at al hours of the night, but if he went to his apartment, he’d be living with his mom and Claudius, making it the last place he’d find rest. And I had kicked him out. Everywhere he turned, someone he loved betrayed him. He was so sure his uncle had murdered his father and he seemed unable to do anything about it. It was enough to make anyone crazy, or seem crazy. But which? I wanted to ask him, but I couldn’t.
And then, over my shoulder, I heard an officer whisper my father’s name, and what Hamlet was suddenly didn’t matter.
“You murdered my dad. You. My dad was al I—” A horrifying thought stopped me. Could he have done it on purpose? My dad had wanted us apart, and my dad was winning. Was this Hamlet’s psychotic attempt to make sure no one stood between us? He wasn’t that cruel. And he wasn’t that desperate.
No. He was. My dad’s blood sinking into the carpet was proof of it.
Suddenly I understood Hamlet’s obsession with revenge. I realized that if the gun were within my reach, I would have shot Hamlet.
“Get away from me.”
His face twisted with agony. The guards stepped forward, caught his wrists, and pul ed them down to his sides.
I turned away but could hear him cal ing after me as Marcel us escorted me to the royal couple, who had walked ahead to the reception room.
Claudius was sitting while Gertrude paced. She stopped when I came toward them. “My dear, sweet Ophelia,” she said, her arms outstretched.
I stopped where I was, unwil ing to accept her embrace.
Self-consciously she put her arms by her side. Gertrude’s face had been wiped, though traces of the mascara lingered. She tried to force a smile on her face, but it looked more like a grimace. “We’re sending Polonius to the morgue, but it wil remain a secret. Only one of our men wil work on him.” Before I could ask why, she continued. “This must al remain a secret.”
“I’m sorry, did you say ‘secret’?” I asked.
She nodded, and I asked why.
Smoothing the stray hairs that had escaped her French knot, she explained, “We have had so many tragedies and scandals lately. I simply do not think the public is ready for another.”
“The public or you?” I attacked.
She let out a little outraged harrumph.
“After thirty years of service to you, are you saying that my father wil not have a state funeral?” My voice rose dangerously.
“I’m afraid not, dear. At least not right away,” she said, and before I could continue, she clacked toward Claudius. When she was safely at his side, she laced her fingers together and added, “Darling, I am so sorry that your father’s death cannot be made public.” The word cannot irked me as much as being cal ed “darling.” I asked, “What’s your plan, then? To say my father is on vacation?” Gertrude shot a shocked look at Claudius, as if I had guessed their careful y conceived plan. She nodded and sat down primly. “Something along those lines.”
Anger flashed through me again. “Are you crazy or just a—”
Marcel us cleared his throat. My head snapped to look at him over my shoulder, but he was staring at the chandelier. I thought he might have shaken his head slightly, but I couldn’t say for sure.
I felt dizzy again but certainly didn’t want to sit next to Gertrude or Claudius. There was a chair a fair distance from Claudius, so I headed for it slowly. I sat on the edge and looked out the window. The city was covered in a layer of smog, which seemed oddly fitting.
“Is someone at least going to get my brother?” I asked, stil studying the skyline.
“I don’t think so,” replied Claudius.
I whipped my head around. “What?”
Claudius puffed himself up. “When we said secret, we meant secret.”
“Where are you going to bury my father? Someone wil notice, even if it’s just me at the cemetery.”
“We’re not going to bury him,” Claudius explained in a low voice.
I shuddered, unable to imagine what they planned. My mind raced to horrible possibilities, so I was compel ed to ask, “What are you going to do?” Gertrude said to Claudius, “She doesn’t need the details.” Then she turned her strained sympathy my way. “My dear, it wil al happen eventual y.”
“He has a plot… next to my mother. He’s supposed to be buried there.”
“In due time,” said Claudius.
I wanted to walk over and grab him by his ridiculous, short beard, which I was sure he thought made him look younger, and whack him in the face.
“You’re sick. I want Laertes.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” Gertrude said.
“Just send a plane for him!”
Claudius stood and folded his arms. “No.”
“Damn it. Why?”
Claudius crossed to the window. “The fewer outside contacts the better. The pilots and stewardesses have confidentiality agreements, but you never know. He does not need to come right away.”
I had two choices: find something to throw at them or go home. My limbs felt too heavy to grab the vase on the table next to me, so I headed for the elevator. “I’m going to cal my brother,” I announced.
Marcel us blocked my way. “No, Ophelia,” he said gently.
Claudius shouted, “No outside contact!”
“Not until you have recovered from your shock,” Gertrude added.
I whipped back around. “You can’t keep me here like a prisoner!”
Claudius said, “Actual y, we can.”
“Sweetheart…” began Gertrude.
“Don’t you dare cal me that!”
She turned away and walked to the window, tapping the pane rapidly with her red nails.
“Phee,” Hamlet cal ed out desperately as the guards crossed him through the reception room toward his bedroom. “You saw Claudius in the garden that day. You know I’m right!”
“Wait!” Gertrude cal ed to the guards, lifting her hand. “What did you say?”
Hamlet looked at me, then his mother, and while staring directly at Claudius replied, “She saw Claudius leaving the conservatory. Right before Dad, your husband, was rushed to the hospital. Why would that be?”
I stood in petrified silence, wondering if I was going to be dragged out by security next. Why couldn’t he keep his mouth shut?
“What do you have to say about this?” Gertrude asked me.
“Nothing.” My eyes darted around the room at the various guards who stood nearby. They were al under orders to keep what they heard and saw in these hal s a secret or risk imprisonment or worse. Even so, Gertrude and Claudius knew it wouldn’t take more than a whisper or a hint from one of them to begin a cascade of bad publicity and questions. It also occurred to me that the guards were under orders to do exactly what Gertrude and Claudius demanded, even if that included imprisoning or harming me. I couldn’t feel my arms, and my tongue felt thick. “I didn’t see anything. He’s making this up.” Hamlet’s face fel , and I had to look away.
“Take him.” Claudius gestured to the guards as he and Gertrude exchanged impenetrable looks. Anger? Fear? Agreement? Impossible to know.
“Phee!” Hamlet cried.
“Talk to me again and I wil kil you!” I screamed.
“Do not threaten the prince,” Marcel us warned.
“Why not? Wil you put me in jail? Okay,” I shouted to the other guards, “I plan to kil Queen Gertrude and King Claudius, too! Take me away now. You have to. Get me out of this asylu
m!”
“Dear girl,” Gertrude said, coming toward me again.
“Don’t touch me!” I screamed. “You believe Hamlet that this was an accident? What kind of accident? Who was he actual y trying to kil ?” I looked at Claudius.
His face remained blank as he commanded to Marcel us, “Take her home.”
“You don’t get it, do you?” I shouted over my shoulder as Marcel us pul ed me by the arm toward the elevator. “How safe are any of you? You crazy—”
“Quiet,” Marcel us hissed, shoving me inside.
When we got to my apartment, Marcel us started yel ing at me. “What do you think you’re doing shouting at the king and queen like that?”
“I don’t care who I—He kil ed my father!” I couldn’t stand there and argue. I couldn’t control my feelings. I couldn’t care what I said anymore. I col apsed on the couch and wept. And wept. Marcel us neither walked over nor tried to console me. Even after I had stopped sobbing—and I have no idea how long that was—I couldn’t and wouldn’t talk. I sat with my fingers pressed into my face, trying to feel something and nothing at the same time.
Eventual y I took my sleeves, dried my face, and asked, “What now?”
“You stay here until we hear otherwise.”
I watched him walk to the phone in the kitchen and unplug it, then tuck it under his arm. “What are you doing?” I asked, trepidation breaking through the numbness.
He just looked at me, waiting for my mind to catch up. My lip started to quiver. “Al of them?” I asked.
He did not answer but walked to my father’s room and returned with a phone cord and my father’s laptop. “Why are you doing this?” I asked, though I knew exactly why.
“I have to take your cel phone and your computer, too,” he said as he walked to my room.
When he disappeared from view, I ran for my purse and grabbed my cel . Maybe I could get a message off before he returned. Marcel us hurried back into the room as if he knew what I would try. He saw me before I could hide my phone and reached out his hand.
“One message. Please,” I begged.
He looked skeptical.
“To Horatio. You can read along.”
He looked wary but nodded his assent.
i need u. cm hom
He nodded again, and I pressed Send. We waited, looking at each other. It was my one chance to get someone I trusted into the castle.
Bing. I looked at the reply:
Horatio: Cnt miss mor skl. 2 bhnd.
“Shoot,” I muttered. “I can’t tel him?” I asked, knowing the answer.
Marcel us shook his head sternly and said, “I shouldn’t have let you even do this much.” He reached for the phone. I gripped it hard, but he pul ed it out of my hand. Surprisingly, he remained next to me, holding it in his palm. I was hoping Horatio would say more. Maybe Marcel us was, too.
We waited through an unbearably long pause during which the only sounds we heard were the ticking of the clock that rested on my father’s bookshelf and the murmur of traffic passing below. I hoped Horatio was trying to figure out what I needed and hadn’t considered the discussion finished.
The bing startled Marcel us and me.
Horatio: wil cm fri. ok?
It wasn’t okay. That was five days away. Five days! My breath got real y jagged, and my hands started shaking. Marcel us typed “ok” and put my phone in his pocket. “Don’t try to leave. You know you can’t,” he said sympathetical y. He squeezed my shoulder.
The elevator opened, and another guard walked into my apartment. He nodded at Marcel us, and Marcel us headed for the elevator with the phones and computers in his arms.
The new guard, a baby-faced guy with a crew cut, stood blocking the elevator as the doors slid shut behind him. He clasped his hands in front of him and stared out the window across the room, ignoring my presence.
Leaning against the kitchen island, I tried to process the last hour. I stared furiously at the shiny black uniform blocking my way out. They can’t make me stay in here, I thought. Looking ahead as if he didn’t exist, I marched toward the elevator and pushed the button.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
My heart raced, but I didn’t answer.
“You’re not getting in that elevator,” he said, more of a chal enge than an explanation.
Without replying, I studied my vague reflection in the brushed nickel doors. They slid open and I stepped forward. The guard grabbed me by the arm, swung me around, and threw me to the ground. I smacked my cheek as I landed. He pinned my arms behind me and held me down with one knee, not hard enough to hurt but enough to keep me stil . “Send Marcel us,” he cal ed into his shoulder walkie-talkie. “And you’re going to have to reprogram the elevator. I told you, it can’t stop on this floor.” He leaned on me until Marcel us returned.
As I lay there, my chest pressed to the floor, I thought of how sorry I was that I’d ever started dating Hamlet, wished that we’d never kissed on a whim back when we were just friends, wished that I’d listened to my father and truly ended things once they had begun. And if I could turn back time, I would have given up the years of kisses and caring and feeling special and feeling loved to have my father back. To have my freedom back.
Marcel us’s boots were highly polished, which I only noticed because they were so close to my nose. Calmly he said, “I’m going to have Officer Cornelius get off you now, but if you try to run, we’re both coming for you, and this time it’l hurt.” I felt Cornelius lift himself off my back, and I rol ed over. Both men extended a hand, but I got up on my own. My cheek was throbbing, but I refused to touch it and give them the satisfaction of seeing the pain they had inflicted.
“How can you be a part of this?” I asked Marcel us, furiously trying not to cry again.
He didn’t answer but nodded at Cornelius and pushed the button. It didn’t light up.
“You’l have to take the stairs. I had them reprogram it,” Cornelius told him.
“They’re going to need to switch that back,” Marcel us said, and then, speaking into his walkie-talkie, gave the order to change it. When he was done, he said to Cornelius, “Can’t have the rotation taking the stairs al the time.”
“Rotation?” I asked.
Cornelius said, “There’l be three guards assigned to you, in eight-hour shifts.”
“Wait. Someone’s going to be in here al the time?”
“For now.” Marcel us frowned. He put his hands in his pockets and his voice grew gentle. “Listen, Ophelia, just stop fighting this. You know you hold no cards here. No one can protect you, and no one can release you except the king and queen. The only thing to do is wait it out, and your happiness is not their priority. So get comfortable.”
“What are they going to do with Hamlet?” I asked, my voice catching on his name.
“Not your concern. You take care now. We’l make sure you’ve got food, and someone’l be in to clean each week.”
“Week?” I gasped.
Marcel us nodded, his brow furrowed. “Could be a while.” He turned to push the button, and it lit up. Then he disappeared, leaving me with Officer Cornelius, questions, and bottomless grief. I sat, completely desolate.
Francisco: I quote, “I plan to kill Queen Gertrude and King Claudius, too! Take me away now.” Sounds pretty clear.
Ophelia: I was upset.
Francisco: Obviously.
Barnardo: So if you weren’t plotting all along, then was this when you began planning revenge against the royal family?
Francisco: Answer him.
Barnardo: Ophelia. (pause) Ophelia!
Francisco: You will answer his questions and you will answer for this.
19
“You disappeared for a while after your father’s death. Were you being held prisoner?”
“Yes, I was.”
“Under whose orders?”
“Claudius’s.”
“You see, ladies? I knew that man was no good.” Members of the
audience nod angrily. Then Zara raises her eyebrows and asks, “What about Queen Gertrude?”
Ophelia looks backstage. “I don’t think she knew anything about it.” As the audience twitters, Ophelia takes a sip of water.
Wandering around in a daze, I found that everything I looked at dredged up a painful memory. Of my father. Of Laertes. Of Hamlet. Their presence haunted every corner of the apartment. To escape, I went out on the balcony, but the moment I did, I began to recal the many happy, lazy hours I spent out there alone with Hamlet. My mind fil ed and pulsed as I lowered myself onto the hammock. There I remained, ful of breathless anxiety, until the sun came up and turned the high-rises and the river pink.
I rose, suddenly needing to face the truth. I headed into my father’s bathroom, noticing that his toothbrush was discarded on the counter rather than resting in its holder—a toothbrush that would never be used again, one of his socks lying on the tile next to the hamper, a few stray bits of stubble left on the side of the sink after he shaved. He was typical y fastidious but had been rushing around so much lately that things had been left undone, unfixed, uncared for. I touched his hand towel, and started to bring it to my face to smel it, knowing the scent of his aftershave would be lingering in the fabric, but I realized if I did, I might crack apart.
I let go of the towel, walked back into his bedroom, and found myself opening his sock drawer. The dress socks were rol ed into perfect bal s and arranged by hue. His white athletic socks were pushed to the back, for he hadn’t taken the time to do anything fun like run or play tennis—once his passions—since Hamlet’s father had died. I guess he had too much work to do.
With mounting dread, I kept searching through his stuff. By the time I got to the box of cuff links he kept in that drawer and found my mother’s wedding ring tucked inside, I was so undone, so distressed, that I barely made it out of the room on my feet. But I would have crawled to get out of there if I had to.
No way could I have stayed in that place of painful memory for another second.
“You okay?” asked the guard.
I didn’t even stop to answer his stupid question. I staggered down the hal but stopped. My room was ful of Hamlet. I couldn’t go in there. My father’s room was ful of loss. I couldn’t go back. Only Laertes’s was neutral, so I flung open the door and stumbled in. Curling up on the floor, I closed my eyes and wished I could turn back time and have him be there tel ing me I was annoying and cal ing for our father to kick me out.