Falling for Hamlet

9



Zara’s excitement returns. “It happened pretty fast. Don’t you agree?” She fans herself, asking the audience as much as Ophelia. The audience members look at one another, a mix of laughter and disapproval.

Ophelia is enjoying this moment. “Indeed it did.”

“What did you think of the whole… affair?” Zara winks.

Almost sincerely, Ophelia replies, “I’m not sure it’s my place or anyone else’s to judge.”

Zara turns to look at some photos of Gertrude in an elegant gown with Ophelia at her side. Both women are smiling and waving. “Despite our opinions of its speed, it must be said that the wedding was beautiful.”

“That it was,” Ophelia replies, eyeing the series of pictures that follow: the church, in front of the castle, inside the reception.

Zara flips her hair and furrows her brow. “Hamlet did not, as had been announced, act as Claudius’s best man.”

Ophelia squints and says, “Uh, nooo, he did not.”

“And yet you were a bridesmaid.”

“Well, Gertrude was like a mother to me. How could I refuse?”

Whenever I spoke with Horatio, I updated him on the latest development. They seemed to be coming so quickly that I found myself speaking to him a couple times a day. I should have known the castle phones were tapped. I sort of did. I mean, my father had always warned me to watch what I said on the apartment phone or in the public spaces of the castle, but it had never mattered in the past. I always figured that I had nothing to hide, which I usually didn’t.

Horatio asked, “Why is she making you a bridesmaid?”

“I’ve been thinking this over, and there are three possibilities. One, to keep me close. Two, because she thinks the pictures will look nicer with Hamlet and me in them together. Or three, she thinks he’s more likely to show if I’m part of the whole thing.”

“Probably all three.”

“That’s what I think.”

That afternoon when I went to meet with Gertrude and the dressmaker, she was perturbed. “Ophelia, would you like to know why I asked you to be my bridesmaid?”

I was taken aback, totally unsure if she had already been told what I said or if she was just in a snit because of my hesitant reaction when she asked the day before and felt she needed to explain. In either case, I vowed to myself that I would use my cell phone and watch what I e-mailed, too, from that point on. As far as I knew, my cell phone was still safe.

“I asked you because I thought you would be honored. I thought we had a good relationship. Sort of like a mother-daughter thing.” I felt a chill. She was nothing like my mother, and I did not need adopting.

I had found out about my mother’s death after going to the movies with Hamlet. We were in the middle of a very silly comedy, and despite the constant pratfalls and bodily fluids that kept spewing, I spent much of the movie thinking about what my mom said before we both went out for the night. I had asked what she thought of my dating Hamlet. It had only been in the last few months that we had gone from friends to boyfriend/girlfriend, and she had been very quiet on the subject.

“He’s a smart boy with quite a future ahead of him. But being with him won’t be easy,” she warned as she put on her lipstick.

“I know,” I said, hopping onto the marble counter next to her bathroom sink.

She looked at my reflection. “I don’t think you do. Sweetheart, think about what we go through with your father. Even that sort of a public position is hard enough. We are never alone. We rarely do precisely what we want.”

I picked up one of her discarded necklaces and jangled it. “But I really like Hamlet.”

She smiled a little sadly but added, “Then be with him. Your father is against it, but I say you cannot stop love.”

I hesitated, blushing. “I don’t know that I love—”

“I know. Maybe that will come. Maybe not. But let me assure you that you will sacrifice a lot to be with him. If it’s worth it, make the sacrifice. If it stops being worth it, let go. You’re young. Go have fun.” She smiled. She studied herself once more in the mirror, then turned and added, “And make sure he drives carefully. And don’t get pregnant!”

“Mom!” I gasped.

“Kidding. Sort of,” she said as she chucked my chin and kissed me. She looked like she had more to say, but my father hated when she was late, so she grabbed her shawl and beaded bag, then left for the opening of a gallery.

I’d been trying to put my mind back on the movie when the theater lights flicked on suddenly and guards came swarming at us. They surrounded our seats, and two grabbed each of us by the arm and pulled us out of the theater. Hamlet was shoved into one car and I was thrown into another. I could see guards pushing Hamlet’s head below the seat as they sped off.

“Assassination attempt on the king,” the guard driving me explained. “We’ll meet up at the castle.”

We pulled into the garage under the castle, where the king, Gertrude, and Hamlet, whose car had arrived ahead of mine, were waiting.

Gertrude stepped forward and said, “Your mother… There was a shooting.” She stopped and looked at Hamlet’s father, who nodded his encouragement. Wringing her hands, Gertrude continued, “She’s… she died.”

The power of the last word knocked me to my knees, and everyone rushed forward. The king put his hand on my shoulder, as did Hamlet. I looked around frantically, hoping to find a direction in which to run. But I couldn’t think clearly and the garage was dim and cement walls surrounded us. I sobbed uncontrollably, grabbing and squeezing Hamlet so hard, my arms hurt. I was sure if I let go, I would faint or die myself. My cries echoed off the walls and made me weep all the more for hearing my own anguish.

My parents had been riding in the limo that an assassin believed the king would be riding in. Misinformation from someone inside the castle. The informant didn’t know that my mom would be on time for once, and that she and my father, not the king and queen, would be the first to leave for the event. If my mother had stayed to chat with me for just a few minutes longer, all of our lives might have been different. But she hadn’t.

We never found out much about the assassin. As far as we ever knew, he worked alone and was a former soldier who had become convinced that the only way to save the kingdom was for Claudius to be king. “Long live King Claudius!” were his final words before his execution. Maybe that was why I always dreaded Claudius. Or maybe it was because he was a jerk who hated kids.

“Gertrude,” I said wearily, “I’m happy to be your bridesmaid, okay? What color is the dress?” And with that, the dressmaker brought out an assortment of fabrics, most the color of babies’ bedrooms.

I spent the morning of the wedding in Gertrude’s private rooms as a team dressed and made up both of us, all while Gertrude stressed. “Hamlet’s not here yet?” she asked, tapping her fingertips together.

A servant standing at the door answered, “No, ma’am, not yet.”

She turned to me, messing up the work her hairdresser had just begun. “Ophelia, is he coming?”

I answered, “I have no idea.”

“He didn’t say anything?”

I put down my coffee and thought of how to tell her again not to expect him. I didn’t want to say what he had actually said, that he would rather be thrust onto a thousand spikes than watch his mother betray his father’s memory with this display of incest. “When we first discussed it… he implied that he wouldn’t be here.”

“Oh. Lately?”

“He won’t talk to me, so I don’t know.” Once he found out that I intended to be in her wedding party, he had hung up on me and wouldn’t pick up when I called back. I had texted and e-mailed but got no reply. I’d considered driving to talk to him, but Gertrude had kept me too busy with wedding plans. And my keys had disappeared. I suspected my father, but I couldn’t be sure. During my frequent calls to Horatio, he had reassured me that Hamlet would calm down eventually. It had been three very long days.

“Heavens,” she said, checking that her pearl necklace was in place for, like, the hundredth time. Her face was lined with worry and showed more vulnerability than I could remember seeing. I didn’t like the idea of this wedding, but it had to suck to have your son be so pissed that he wouldn’t even show up or talk to you, and to know that much of the kingdom was judging the whole thing. I kind of felt sorry for her.

News stations from around the world covered the wedding. Funerals brought out reporters for the macabre spectacle, vultures hoping to catch a breakdown or at least a tear. On the other hand, weddings brought out the cheerful, envious public, thousands who were seemingly unconcerned about the scandal and were just hoping to see something pretty and to dream of what it would be like to ride to a wedding in a carriage.

A horse-drawn carriage might seem romantic, but it’s really slow, which did not suit my mood. I guess the slow pace is the point if you’re a queen who wants to be noticed in all of her matrimonial glory. At least Gertrude had the good taste not to wear a big white gown. I had honestly thought she would skip the whole thing, get it done privately, but neither she nor Claudius would hear of it.

“The public likes its shows. And after the sadness that has befallen us lately, it would seem we owe it to them,” he declared.

I was also amazed at how quickly such a large event could be put on. Every party planner and caterer had been mobilized, and the results were fairly spectacular, though I found the scale of this dubious second wedding vulgar nevertheless.

The carriage door opened, and a footman with gold fringe jangling from his shoulder pads and cuffs held his hand out for me. I stepped carefully down the petite stairs, holding the full silk skirt with my free hand to keep from tripping. The crowd squealed in anticipation, and a thousand flashbulbs went off. I hadn’t had a choice in the style of shoes, nor had I had a chance to break them in, so my peach-colored heels pinched with each step. I hoped my grimace appeared to be more of a smile.

I stepped forward, and Stormy Somerville, wearing a tight pink suit, thrust a microphone in front of my face. “Isn’t this thrilling?” she gushed.

Hoping Hamlet wasn’t watching, I gave the answer I’d been ordered to give. “What a wonderful day for us all.” I moved forward and winced as the skin of one heel peeled away.

Gertrude stepped down next, holding the train of her demure cream gown. She raised her head and one hand in a practiced gesture of welcome to her subjects. I had seen it so many times, as had the crowd, but they shouted as if it were the first time. I’m fairly certain I rolled my eyes.

We trudged up the steps and, upon reaching the top, I gaped at the aisle that ran the length of the cathedral. We had practiced walking it the night before, but it suddenly looked much, much longer.

To distract myself, I fantasized about the wedding I might have with Hamlet. I tried to picture walking down this very aisle in a flowing white gown, my father holding my arm. Hamlet would be waiting for me, his blond hair sparkling in the glow from the stained-glass windows. Horatio would be standing next to him, smiling broadly, and maybe Lauren, if she didn’t get sick of my disappearing acts, would be a bridesmaid. I would never make her wear peach. Or pinchy shoes. But the crowd would be there and that bummed me out. If only we could do it quietly, do it somewhere else.

I don’t want a public life. The thought came suddenly and filled me with horror. My legs went weak and I wasn’t sure I could make it to the end of the aisle. I don’t want this. I just want Hamlet. I tried to breathe while keeping my face neutral. The skin on my other heel ripped.

Horatio smiled at me as I passed. I couldn’t return the smile, and his faded.

I walked up the few steps of the altar and turned to the crowd. I started to calculate. There must have been fifty rows of pews with about ten people per pew, but that was just one side, so…

My mind was so preoccupied that I missed the opening words of the minister, the Dearly Beloved part. I caught up at “Marriage is not to be entered into unadvisedly or lightly—but reverently, discreetly, advisedly, and solemnly.” I could give Claudius the solemn part, and he and Gertrude could apparently be discreet (which wasn’t the same as “using discretion”). As for the “advisedly” part? Not so much. This wedding seemed ill-advised at best.

The drone continued, and my attention waxed and waned. I perked up for “If any person can show just cause why they may not be joined together—let them speak now or forever hold their peace.” In movies someone always steps forward right around this part. In real life, they never do. Even when they should. It would have been awesome if Hamlet had come bursting into the sanctuary just then, or if some random earl had stood and pointed out how wrong it all was. I knew I didn’t have the courage to do it, but I momentarily hoped someone, anyone would. Sadly, no. The wedding carried on.

By the time Claudius and Gertrude were told to kiss, I was nearly crying from the pain in my feet and from my keen desire to be anywhere else. I decided not to think about the whole marrying Hamlet thing. We had a long way to go before that happened. And maybe I would change my mind about crowds and public scrutiny.

We recessed, and I winked at Horatio on the way out. I knew he wouldn’t be reassured until I actually spoke to him, but it would help. I decided to keep the actual reason for my distress to myself. It sounded bizarre, and I didn’t want to admit how far my imagination regarding my future had run.

Gertrude and Claudius took their damned time getting into their carriage, which meant we all had to stand on the steps of the church smiling and pretending it was all so fantastic. I stood next to my father and stared at the crowd like it was a growling dog, telling myself I wasn’t afraid of it.

We were driven to the formal, original part of the castle, where the reception was being held. A servant brought me bandages and sneakers, which I put on immediately after I was excused from the receiving line. Guests filled the room, and once a critical mass was reached, I was able to fade away.

Horatio and I stood on the side of the ballroom waiting for Hamlet, who Horatio assured me planned to show up at some point. We watched Claudius and Gertrude greet hundreds of people as hors d’oeuvres were passed.

Marcellus came up behind us. His gun holster peeked out from beneath his tuxedo jacket as he gestured with his long arms, and his badge glinted in the lights from the dance floor. “Lord Hamlet is here,” he announced.

“Thanks, Marcellus,” Horatio said.

Horatio and I went running out of the ballroom and found Hamlet coming up the spiral staircase.

“Hamlet!” we shouted.

He kept trudging up but did not answer.

Horatio met him at the end of the landing, and they shook hands. Then Hamlet walked past me without any acknowledgment.

“Hamlet?” I called after him, my stomach sinking. I knew he’d be pissed, but there was a part of me hoping that once he saw me, he’d be happy enough to let it go. Wishful thinking.

He heaved his book bag and it skidded across the lobby, then he reached for the door.

“Don’t go in there angry,” I begged.

He spun around and yelled, “But I am angry. I’m angry at my mother. I’m angry at those people for pretending this is all perfectly normal. Most of all, I’m angry at you.”

“Hamlet, what else could I have done?”

When Gertrude had asked, I hadn’t felt like I’d had a choice. I really hadn’t. And yet seeing Hamlet’s fury completely melted away all my rationalizations. His anger was justified, and I was an idiot.

“You could have said no. How could you walk down the aisle with her, stand next to her as she married my uncle?” He rushed back toward me and grabbed my shoulders, almost shaking me as he added, “You say you’re on my side, but your actions just told the world that what my mother is doing is right!”

Horatio came between us and moved Hamlet away. Hamlet shook him off and went toward the windows overlooking the city. “How could you?” he asked as he slammed his hands on the oversize pane.

I was on the verge of tears, but I forced out, “Right and wrong don’t matter in my position. I had to put on this stupid dress and walk her down the stupid aisle because she asked me to. You can get away with saying no to her, with not even showing up!” I caught my breath and went toward the railing, then leaned over it, wondering how far a fall it would be. Three grand flights of red-carpeted stairs swirling downward. It would work if one were inclined to do such a thing. I shook my head at Hamlet, sick of dramatic scenes like this, sickened by my own bad decision and by the knowledge that, if pressed, I would probably do it again. Gertrude was the queen of drama as well as Denmark, and I suddenly couldn’t wait until I was able to leave the castle and not be drawn into these moments so often.

Still pressed against the railing, I called out, “Your mom’s mad, but she’ll forgive you. She always does. She wanted you here, and you hurt her by not showing. Fine. You made your statement. Go in to her party or don’t. Horatio and I have to go back in because we’re expected to. You… I can’t imagine the next time she’ll ask anything of you.”

I started walking toward the ballroom when I heard Hamlet say, “She asked me to wear one of those dresses, too, but I was afraid it would make me look fat.”

I turned back, and Hamlet was smirking. All three of us began to laugh and came together in the middle of the lobby once again.

“I’m sorry I grabbed you,” he said, stroking my arm.

“Don’t do it again.” On the outside, I shrugged off his apology. Inside I was still a little shaken and hoped he really did feel bad.

We walked in as Claudius and Gertrude began their first dance. I knew the song from the first notes. It was one of my parents’ favorite songs, and my father used to sing it to my mother with some regularity. “What a difference a day makes,” crooned the lead singer, the white flower pinned behind her ear shimmering in the spotlight. “Twenty-four little hours.” Claudius dipped Gertrude to applause from the guests. Hamlet made a gagging motion, which cracked me up. “Would that have been twenty-four hours after her husband’s funeral?” Hamlet asked in a stage whisper. “That’s a picture, isn’t it?” he asked those around him.

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 pulled 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 still a fresh memory…”

I turned and saw Hamlet wince at his own name.

“… and I am aware that the kingdom is still 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 hell,” 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 all 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 all 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 pulled me closer, so I wouldn’t see his eyes fill, I was sure. I stepped on his foot and we laughed.

“She was a better dancer,” he teased. We kept listening to the accidentally 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, Marcellus was whispering to Hamlet. Marcellus 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 thrill I saw on his face. “I’ll come down later. You think your dad’ll 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 ballroom with Marcellus.

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, pulled 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 still love me?”

I started to pull 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 chilling finality and walked out again.

I thought of telling my father, but he tended to overreact under the best of circumstances. I thought of telling Gertrude, but that would have been the greatest betrayal of all. I picked up the phone to call 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.