Falling for Hamlet (13 page)

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.

10

Zara leans in to Ophelia. “We hear Hamlet started acting very strange after the wedding.”

“People like to talk.” When Zara lifts her eyebrows, Ophelia concedes, “Well, he was under a lot of pressure. Especially from Claudius.”

“Was he crazy?”

“That’s a loaded term.” Ophelia recrosses her legs. “Um… I will say he wasn’t quite himself.”

In the days following the wedding, Hamlet said he didn’t want to be anywhere near his mother or Claudius, but he also insisted that he didn’t want to go back to school. He refused to go outside into the world, because he didn’t want to be followed or questioned or photographed. And as discreet as people within the castle were supposed to be, they were more curious and watchful, too. So during the day, he hung out in my apartment even when I was in class, creating a kind of half-life for himself.

When I was with him, I spent most of the time worrying about how troubled he looked and how little he would speak and what “bad thing” he was planning on doing. I asked a couple of times, but he wouldn’t answer. I tried to go back to my routine, staying in the art studio after school and going to swim practice. But when I wasn’t with him, I worried even more and was totally distracted, so my coach kept yelling at me, and my art teacher, Ms. Hill, just stared with silent concern, which isn’t exactly good for the creative process. I couldn’t miss practice, since the end of the season was fast approaching, so I dealt with the shouting, but I decided to skip studio time and paint at home. But every time I got there and picked up the brush, all I could do was stare at Hamlet sprawled across my bed and think,
What are you going to do? What are you going to do?
Needless to say, I accomplished little.

My father did not notice Hamlet’s constant presence, or else he would have insisted on a change or at least offered his thoughts on the matter. Things had been so busy following the wedding, what with the shift of power and the flurry of requests for interviews and appearances by the royal couple, that he had not noticed what was happening.

Gertrude finally asked my father to ask Hamlet to leave our home. My father, taken by surprise, stormed into our apartment and began lecturing Hamlet, who was watching an infomercial about tall ladders. (I had wandered away out of boredom, as we neither needed a tall ladder nor did I understand how an entire hour could be filled by discussing a ladder.) As soon as I heard my father, I ran back in from the balcony where I had been sketching, only to hear Hamlet say, “Got it, Polonius. No need to go on.” He stood, zipped up his black hoodie (his uniform at that point), and reached out a hand to me.

I followed, and my father cleared his throat. “Dad, I’ll come back later. I’ll cook you a special Sunday dinner.”

“I believe Gertrude wanted to speak to Hamlet alone,” he advised.

Hamlet interrupted, “Then
Gertrude
can say so herself!”

“Hamlet!” I admonished.

He softened his tone and said, “If she wants me so much, she’ll have to deal with Ophelia being there. I really can’t be left alone with my mother right now. I don’t trust myself.”

My father looked apprehensive but nodded in agreement.

We found the newlyweds in the office of their social secretary. Gertrude fluttered over and kissed Hamlet in greeting. His arm tightened across my back, but he said nothing.

Claudius called out, “Son, how are you this bright afternoon?”

“Son?” Hamlet spat. “I don’t think we’re ready for that.” Hamlet turned to leave, pulling me behind him, but Claudius’s words stopped him.

“Fine. Then, Hamlet, how are you this bright afternoon?”

“Too much sun, if you ask me,” he answered sharply.

Claudius
tsk
ed and asked, “Why is a dark cloud still hanging over you?”

I wished I hadn’t followed Hamlet upstairs, but I squeezed his hand to try to bring him back from his deepening anger.

“Darling,” Gertrude said, stroking Hamlet’s cheek, “why are you still in this wretched sweatshirt? It is neither stylish nor becoming on you, and the color… it will seem to our subjects that you are still in mourning.”

He ducked away from her touch. “Seem?
Seem?
I’m not wearing black to make it
seem
like anything, Mother. If all of these things
seem
like grief, it’s because I
feel
grief. I—am—in—mourning. Aren’t we all?” He raised his eyebrows and glared at her.

Gertrude’s face became its typical mask, and her eyes flicked to me. She paused for a moment, then decided to speak in my unwelcome presence. Through thinly drawn lips, she counseled, “Be kinder to your uncle, dearest. You know you could spend the rest of your life looking for someone who will measure up to the
image
you have of your father, but you will find no one to match it.”