Falling for Hamlet

6



“What a shocking day for us all,” Zara says solemnly. A mother in the audience puts her arm around her young daughter. “That day you sent a message to Horatio but not Hamlet. Why is that?”

“My father told me not to communicate with Hamlet.”

“Did you always listen to your father?”

Ophelia looks down and blinks rapidly. “No. But I should have.”

Zara pats Ophelia’s leg.

Ophelia twists the bottom of her sweater between her fingers. “Each decision that day seemed really important, but I didn’t know what to do, how to make things right.”

Zara nods hard in agreement. “We were scheduled to tape a show that day on dog makeovers. It just didn’t seem right to carry on, but the puppies were ready, the stylists were all set with their specially designed outfits, and the runway had been built to scale. Hard to know what to do on a day like that. I think that day we were all feeling it.”

Ophelia blinks a few times, her lips pressed together. Then she says, “So you know then.”

* * *



“You look dashing, Dad,” I said, pulling at my father’s tie.

“I’m not supposed to look dashing. I’m supposed to look mournful. A man who does not know his place is a man who loses it.”

I cocked my head and answered, “Then you are a man who, despite himself, looks great, but in the most respectful, unpresumptuous way.”

He pinched my cheek. “Ready?” he asked, putting out his arm.

“Yeah. I told Hamlet I’d meet him upstairs.”

He clucked quietly.

“What?” I asked impatiently.

“He should be with his family.”

“Dad, he’s been trapped with his family for the past few days. He told me he can’t stand it anymore and just wants to be with me.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“I can’t not show up. He’s waiting.”

“Double negative.”

“Dad!” His grammar lessons always irritated me.

“Sweetheart, you put too much effort into that boy at the expense of what’s good for you. As the saying goes, ‘To thine own self be true.’ ”

I rolled my eyes. “Dad, when I’m with him, I am being true to mine own—my own—whatever. True to myself. He’s important to me, as is keeping my word. I’ll see you in a while.”

He shook his head and walked to his room.

As I rode up, my phone binged.

Sebastian: Going 2 the funeral?

Me: Course





Sebastian: If u need anything, im here 4 u





Me: K





I hadn’t seen my friends in a few days, but they kept checking in, which was sweet. I couldn’t really tell any of them what was happening—not the real stuff. Not how I hadn’t been able to sleep in a few days because I kept having nightmares about hospitals and funerals. Not how Gertrude had tried to keep Hamlet from everyone, including me, for days. Not how he had cried on the phone and how last night he had snuck down to talk after a sedative had pulled his mother into a deep sleep. I would never be able to share these things with them, and I felt a wall being built between my former life and my current one. A wall I didn’t realize would be so hard to break through.

When I left the elevator, the chambers were surprisingly quiet. One of the guards nodded at me and opened the door to Hamlet’s hall. I heard Gertrude talking as soon as he did. She was shouting about how she could not possibly go out and be seen in her current state. The pause must have been someone answering, but she did not give whoever it was much time before she continued shouting, “Your father. Your poor father!” I stopped, deciding whether to go on, and turned to face the guard, who gave an encouraging nod. I had made a promise, so I continued to Hamlet’s room. The door was open, so I waited in the doorway until someone looked up.

Hamlet saw me first and waved me forward, but I didn’t enter. I knew better than to walk in with Gertrude’s back to me. She saw him gesturing again and turned, ready for me to be an intrusive servant she had to dismiss. Full of rage, her eyes met mine. To say her fury dissipated would be an overstatement, but she pulled out of her full mistress-of-the-house posture and settled on annoyed. “What is it, Ophelia?”

“Uh, Hamlet asked me to come up.”

“Of course he did,” she said, then stood and straightened her skirt. “One time, Hamlet, one time it would nice if I was enough.” She turned back to me, her eyes narrow. “Your father will be waiting for you, though. We must all leave in a few minutes.”

“I want her to ride with us,” Hamlet explained.

Gertrude’s eyes flew open and her lips curled into a snarl. “Absolutely not. The plan has been set. The event scripted. It will be you, me, and Claudius.”

“But Mother, I need her.”

She drew her lips into a thin line. “I need you. Alone.”

“But Uncle Clau—”

“Nothing more. I need you to do as you’re told. Don’t think I’ve forgotten the leaving-for-college debacle. Stormy was very disappointed by that, as was I. I will see you, and only you, in one minute. Ophelia.” She nodded as she left, wiping her smeared mascara.

He made to argue, but I put up my hand as I walked to him. “Forget it,” I said, trying not to be angry myself, knowing it would only make it worse for both of us. I laced my fingers through his and said, “I’ll be in the car behind yours. I’ll be sitting behind you at the service.”

“I prefer being behind you.”

I wrinkled my nose. “Even today with the sex jokes? That’s really…”

He blushed slightly. “Sorry. I’m just… I’m trying not to think about any of this. It’s too—” His forehead crinkled and he looked away.

Like Hamlet, I was also trying not to think about what was happening. I focused on him because the rest was too hard. Too strange. Too familiar. I kissed him and he walked me to the door.

When I got to the car, my father was standing next to my brother, who had returned from Paris for the funeral. Laertes was shaking his head. I pretended not to notice and climbed across the backseat to sit by the far window. Laertes slid in next to me, and my father sat across from us so he could continue glaring at me.

I refused to look at him but stared at all the people who were laying flowers and candles and pictures of the king out in the street. For the past three days, people had streamed to the castle and added more. There were layers and layers, and I wondered who would clean it all up in the end and if the stuff would be thrown away or saved. Probably thrown away.

I saw a large man who looked like he spent his days lifting very heavy things weeping openly, letting thick tears drip down his face and onto his nylon jacket. It was a face I wanted to sketch, but I wouldn’t. Instead, I would try to forget it, because I couldn’t watch his grief without thinking about the man we had all just lost. A lump formed in my throat, but I didn’t want to cry in front of anyone that day. I had promised myself that I wouldn’t. And I couldn’t be there for Hamlet if I was wrapped up in my own feelings. I pulled my sunglasses over my eyes and stared at my lap.

Moments later, I heard the crowd let out a cheer and I looked to see what it was. Gertrude and Claudius were leaving the lobby. He was supporting her, and she lifted a hand weakly to acknowledge her subjects. Hamlet trailed behind, hands in his pockets, head down. For once he did not play to the crowd. Reporters and average citizens alike took pictures as the family got into the lead car. His tie flapped over his shoulder, blown by the wind just before he dove into the backseat. I knew Hamlet would have preferred to have a hood to hide himself further, but it was not to be. The caravan moved as soon as their door was closed.

“Unbelievable. They can’t even mourn in peace,” said Laertes, scowling.

“This is the life they expect. Part of the job,” my father answered. “Everything about their lives is prescribed,” he said, staring at me. I sighed and looked back out the window at the people lining the streets. Another wave of sadness passed through me, so I returned to staring at my lap.

Hamlet’s father was a man I’d always loved. He was so important and so busy, but he tried to make life seem as normal as possible for all of us. He always made time for Hamlet and made me feel like family. He came to a couple of Hamlet’s lacrosse games and even attended my school art show the time my father couldn’t make it.

Sitting in the limo on the way to his funeral, I remembered a ride I’d taken with the king right after Hamlet broke up with me for the first time. Hamlet hadn’t even bothered to come home from Wittenberg but called to do it. Bastard. Somehow someone found out, which meant I was left in Elsinore to deal with the press myself. Not exactly myself. The guards and PR people camped out at the front of the lobby, blocking the reporters’ entrance and answering questions when they could. But still, it was intimidating. And I was pissed.

Marcellus escorted me to the underground garage and told me I should travel with an extra guard until the whole thing quieted down. While I waited, a stretch limo pulled up and the king exited the elevator.

“Ride with me,” he said, though it was a question rather than a command.

I looked at Marcellus, who nodded, and I slid onto the leather seat.

As we passed the crowd of cameras, he shook his head. “I wish I could outlaw all of that nonsense, but reporters are like my wife—they listen only when they want to.” He smiled broadly and patted my hand.

His kindness actually made it worse, and I had to look out the window so he wouldn’t see my tears.

“You don’t have to talk about it, but what happened?”

When I had composed myself, I turned to him. “Your son,” I began, attempting to keep some accusation out of the word son, “decided that he didn’t think it made sense for us to stay together now that he’s away. Said it wasn’t me and asked if we could be friends. He couldn’t have come up with anything more original?” My voice quaked with fury.

“Ah,” was all he said for a while. Then, in the voice he used to soothe his subjects, he continued, “You are right in saying that those phrases are too often used. But as his father, I must confess I think he might mean both.”

I clenched my teeth but listened to him despite my intense desire to open the door of the moving car and let the reporters have me.

“It can’t be you because he loves you. He always seems a little… lost or sadder when you’re not around. Being a young man, especially one in his position and with his looks, there are many… temptations.”

My stomach turned as I imagined the temptations and what they were doing with him at that moment.

“And as for being friends, well, I’m sure he’s sincere about that, too.”

“Right.” My bitterness threatened to swallow me whole. When Hamlet and I began dating, we said it wouldn’t ruin our friendship. Ah, the lies we tell ourselves. “Because it’s always been Hamlet and Ophelia. Ophelia and Hamlet.”

“Not always. When you were three, he asked to have you removed from the castle because you kept stealing his toys.” His glass-rattling laugh exploded from his throat, and I couldn’t help but smile a little. “Hamlet even wrote a proclamation. Misspelled half the damn thing, but it was very impassioned.”

We pulled into the driveway of my school, and my smile faded. The driver had called ahead, so their security guards were waiting out front to escort me past the reporters.

I smoothed my plaid uniform skirt, worrying more about having to face my classmates and their stares than the cameras. No one ever thought I might need protection inside the classroom.

The king sighed. “This will pass, and if my son has half the brain I think he has, he will come back to you. And then you can decide if you still want him when he does.”

I wiped my face and asked, “How do I look?” My lashes were still wet, and I knew my eyes were red and puffy.

The king’s lips twisted just like Hamlet’s did whenever he was about to tell a lie. “Well… do you have any makeup?”

“I’m not allowed to wear it at school.”

“Then you’re gorgeous.” He handed me my backpack. “Deep breath and good luck.”

At the cemetery, the scale of the event overwhelmed me. Enormous flower arrangements flanked the walkway and encircled the graveside. Flags flew; soldiers stood at attention in their dress whites; a brass band played melancholy versions of patriotic tunes. Leaders and dignitaries from other lands had come to pay their respects and waited as our group passed. After the ceremony, most would try to speak to Gertrude, and probably to Hamlet and Claudius, too, but until the king was laid to rest, they would keep a deferential distance. As we walked, Hamlet turned a couple of times to look back at me, and I smiled as small as I could.

I noticed my father looking through the crowd on our right, and I knew it was for my mother’s grave. It had been a long time since we had visited. Involuntarily, we all looked in its direction as we turned the last bend in the path to take our seats. Laertes put an arm around my shoulder. After we walked a few paces, I whispered, “Maybe we should come back tomorrow.”

“Not a chance. This place creeps me out,” Laertes whispered back.

“Mom would like it,” I suggested.

He grimaced and walked a few steps ahead of me to catch up with our father. I craned my neck one more time, then walked to my seat next to my father.

We were, as expected, directly behind the royal family. I touched Hamlet lightly on the back before sitting and folding my hands demurely in my lap. I thought of the reporters taking this in and knew that, were the occasion not so solemn, they might take a swipe at us, asking why we weren’t sitting together or maybe even why we were back together at all.

My mind drifted again to our first reconciliation. Everyone advised against it—my friends, my brother, my father, and, of course, Gertrude. But when he came back from Wittenberg for Christmas vacation, our families had to travel together to Switzerland. On the plane he told me he couldn’t stand being without me, that there were no other girls he liked as much, and my anger dissolved almost instantly. Our being together wasn’t just convenience. It was an inexplicable attraction that had grabbed hold of us when I was fifteen and hadn’t let go of us since. Oh, how I wish it hadn’t been that way, but it was.

The minister began the service, and everyone sang a hymn, the sound enveloping us as it rose and echoed eerily at the end.

My father stood to deliver the first speech. “Our king,” he began, overenunciating as he did only at press conferences and when lecturing me, “was not only a great leader but a man whose moral character was beyond reproach. He taught his subjects through his actions. He was never false to any man. He was never one to speak without thinking. He was careful never to begin a fight, but if pulled into one, his opposition quickly realized he was a force to be reckoned with. He was not flashy or gaudy. He was neither a borrower nor a lender.…”

I slid down slightly in my chair and hoped my father would not speak for so long that he would embarrass himself. A few years back he had delivered a speech at Gertrude’s birthday party that was so long, the candles on her cake had nearly melted away. Finally, the king had tapped my father on the shoulder and raised his glass to toast his own wife. Gertrude had sighed and blown out the few candles that were still ablaze.

“… And so we bid him a solemn farewell.” My father tucked his speech into his pocket.

Too many others spoke, but I couldn’t focus on their words. Most of the speeches were about the position, not the man. Even the portrait on display looked little like the king I knew from sitting around the dinner table, the one who liked card tricks and to play racquetball in his rare free moments. All I wanted was to sit with Hamlet on the green hill above us and remember the man we’d loved.

After an extraordinarily long time, the ceremony came to a close. The final song, sung by the kingdom’s most treasured soprano, was one of the king’s favorites. As the coffin was lowered, I got goose bumps and could think only of my mother and the king lying under deep piles of dirt for all eternity. Unable to consider it for another second, I distracted myself by checking on Hamlet. He had dropped his head, apparently unable to watch anymore, and I wished I were sitting at his side so I could comfort him.

As soon as the minister nodded the end, Hamlet stood and turned around. His face was flushed, and I could see he was fighting back tears. A folding chair separated us, so he put one knee on it to get closer to me and I quickly embraced him. He buried his face in my shoulder and whispered, “This sucks,” before he lost it and wept into my neck. When his shoulders had stopped shaking, he lifted his head and wiped his face, which was streaked with red and white. He pushed his hair back and I reached up and touched his cheek. Hamlet looked so pitiful and alone, despite the hundreds who surrounded the grave.

“This will be over soon,” I whispered. He pushed his hair back again and looked around. When he saw the grave behind him, he shuddered. “What can I do?” I asked.

“Ride back with me,” he said, his eyes scanning the crowd.

“I can’t. My dad—”

“I need you, Phee,” he pleaded.

I turned to ask my father, but he was talking to a visiting dignitary. “Ask your mother,” I said quietly.

“It’s not her decision.”

“Hamlet, she doesn’t like surprises. You have to tell her.”

Gertrude was shaking hands with a duke when Hamlet tapped her on the shoulder. “I’m going with Ophelia to the car. She’s riding with us.”

Gertrude’s face grew stony and, barely opening her lips, she replied, “I said it before. There is a plan in place. No.” Turning back to the duke, she continued her conversation.

“Then I’m going with her.”

“No.”

Frustrated by my inability to help Hamlet hurt less, and too full of emotion to control myself better, I stepped forward. “Let him do what he wants for once,” I said quietly. “This day is hard enough.”

She glared at me but said nothing. I took him by the hand and he pulled me toward the cars. Gertrude did not shout after us, but I knew she must have been furious.

The crowd was pulsing around us, milling and sharing greetings, gloomy faces fixed in place. They looked properly attired for mourning, but I got the feeling that much of their grief was just for show. Hamlet did not acknowledge them, keeping his eyes down as he walked.

“Hamlet. Ophelia,” called out a familiar voice. Horatio was chasing us. We stopped and waited for him to catch up. Soldiers were keeping the photographers out of the graveyard, but all around the perimeter their cameras poked through the gates. As we walked down the hill to the long line of black cars, the cameras turned to follow us. Hamlet put his head down as we approached, then got into the second car in line. I followed him in with Horatio right behind me.

As he closed the door, Horatio said, “I can’t stay long. My folks are waiting for me.” After a moment’s silence, he asked, “So, Hamlet, they figure out what happened to your father?”

Hamlet loosened his tie. “No. Doctors are thinking it was a heart attack, but he was healthy at last month’s exam, so it doesn’t make any sense.”

“I’m surprised they buried him without an answer,” Horatio said.

Hamlet rubbed his eyes. “My mom insisted. Said the nation needed closure.”

Horatio and I both looked at Hamlet, who had dropped his head into his hands. I ran my fingers through the back of his hair and kissed his shoulder. Horatio looked at my face, then at Hamlet, then back to me.

We sat silently until Hamlet said, “I can feel you watching me. Just talk, you two. Please.”

“Uh… okay. Horatio, how long are you staying in town?” I asked, feeling a little stupid about engaging in small talk.

“A couple days. Class has been suspended until Monday.”

“Hamlet, are you going back with him?” I asked.

He shrugged and reached for a crystal carafe of Scotch.

“Hamlet,” admonished Horatio.

“What? Of all days, this is a day for drinking.” He held up the bottle and both of us refused. All I needed was for my father to smell alcohol on my breath.

Horatio grimaced. “Not too much, though, man. Okay? You have to stand and face people in a few.” Hamlet took one more swig, then put the stopper back in with a flourish.

The car door opened. My brother, seeing us all inside, stopped short. Hesitantly, he said, “Oh. Hey.”

“Hey, Laertes. I was just getting out,” Horatio answered, winking at me.

Laertes paused, expecting Hamlet to follow. When he didn’t, Laertes got in the seat across from me. “Dad’ll be here in a minute,” he hinted.

“It’s just a car ride,” I said.

“You know it’s not,” he replied. I kicked off my heels and thought about how stupid it was that where Hamlet rode was such a big deal. Hamlet took my hand in his and squeezed. Laertes watched us levelly and asked me, “So, did you see that bouquet of violets out there? Pretty delicate for this weather, don’t you think?”

I realized Laertes was referring to our last conversation before he had left for school. If my love for Hamlet was like a violet, then my father was likely to yank off its petals when we got home. I had broken from my scripted existence. It was one thing to do what Hamlet and I wanted within castle walls, but another thing entirely to mess with orchestrated events. I rubbed my forehead and wished I were somewhere else. Or someone else.

The car ride was nothing if not uncomfortable. Once my father assessed the situation, he decided to stay silent and deal with me later. Just before we left, Gertrude’s driver knocked on our window, wanting to be sure Hamlet was, indeed, in our car. She didn’t try to get him to come out. The damage was done.

Anyone who wanted it had fodder for speculation in opinion columns, tabloids, and talk shows, but it would take a few days before they used it. Once the appropriate amount of grief had been displayed and seemingly enough restraint had been exercised, reporters would have photographic evidence of Hamlet choosing not to be with his mother. “What could it all mean?” they would ask.

When we arrived at the castle, my father made sure Hamlet exited first and was at his mother’s side before he would even consider letting me out.

“It wasn’t my idea,” I offered.

“Do not come to the reception,” he instructed, jabbing his finger at me before he hopped out of the car and raced inside.

Barnardo: This picture shows you looking at your mother’s grave.



Ophelia: Yeah. Very perceptive, Detective.



Barnardo: Don’t use that tone with me, little girl.



Francisco: Did you blame the king for your mother’s death?



Ophelia: I didn’t blame—The assassin was trying to kill him, not my mother.



Barnardo: And that’s why you wanted the king dead.



Ophelia: I didn’t want him dead!



Barnardo: Payback. We get it. Get revenge on the king while at the same time you make Hamlet feel what you felt.



Ophelia: My mother’s death has nothing to do with this.



Francisco: But something does. What is it? It’s late. We all want to be done with this. Just tell us why you wanted to hurt the royal family.



Ophelia: So I could end up in here with the two of you. Oh good, my evil plan worked.



Francisco: We’re getting nowhere with her.