Falling for Hamlet (36 page)

I listened for hours, paralyzed by shock. I shook with cold but could not get up to cover myself. My head pounded, and the sound of the news was both muffled and piercing at the same time.

At some point in the middle of the night, there was a knock at the door. I couldn’t get up. Whoever it was knocked again. A key jangled in the lock, and the door opened. I felt afraid and then my fear vanished as I realized I didn’t care if it was a murderer or the police or someone to help. My future was so meaningless. I wished only for sleep, no matter what dreams might come.

“Ophelia?” asked Horatio.

I lay still, but my resolve to absent myself from the world melted away at the sound of his voice.

“Ophelia?” he asked again, kneeling by my bed.

I looked at him and, as our eyes met, he dissolved into tears. He cried and cried as I held his frigid hands. He looked like a boy kneeling in prayer, and that very boyishness made me pity him all the more. Horatio, who had tried to stand by his friends no matter what, had been unable to stop the terrible events that had consumed them. Powerless he had been, powerless he remained. His best friend was gone. His heart was broken.

Eventually, he crawled his way onto the bed and lay a while in silence. “You wouldn’t believe what happened if I told you,” he eventually mumbled. A hitch in his voice prevented him from continuing for a while. I waited for him to be ready to go on, knowing there was no rush. Where were we going? Where did we ever have to go again?

“What…” I began, but had to stop and gather myself. “What happened to my… brother?”

Horatio sighed and reached for my hand. “Do you really want to know?”

“Yes,” I whispered and braced myself.

“You know he cut Hamlet?” he asked.

I nodded, my face contracting in agony.

“Well, he came after Hamlet again. But just before Laertes reached him, Hamlet scrambled to his feet and blocked Laertes with his own handle, knocking the stick out of Laertes’s hands. Both guys reached for it, but Hamlet bodychecked Laertes and got to the stick first. Laertes was turning to run when Hamlet grabbed the crosse by the head and slashed at your brother.”

I flinched. “That’s… I think that’s when the phone… when it stopped.”

Horatio looked guiltily at me and said, “I didn’t want you to hear.”

I couldn’t decide if I was furious or relieved.

He continued, “Everyone started screaming, because Hamlet walked up to Laertes, who was on the ground, and lifted the stick, ready to stab your brother again. I shouted at Hamlet to stop, and he looked at me and then your brother like he was deciding something. Then he squeezed his eyes tight and tossed the stick aside. I thought it was all over, but then Hamlet’s legs buckled and he fell right onto Laertes. Claudius shouted, ‘Part them!’ and the other players rolled Hamlet off Laertes. Both of them were covered in blood.”

I sucked in my breath.

Horatio touched my hand. “Are you sure you want to hear?”

Tucking my lips between my teeth to hold back the scream rising up within me, I nodded.

Reluctantly he went on. “Then there was a new sound, and when I turned around, I saw the queen was staggering and then she fell over. Hamlet sat up and asked, ‘What’s wrong with the queen?’

“Claudius was really anxious. Everyone could see it. He answered, ‘She fainted because of the blood.’

“So Gertrude called out, ‘No, no. The drink. I’ve been poisoned.’ And then…” Horatio rubbed at his face before finishing. “Then I watched froth pour out of her mouth. She turned blue, and her eyes rolled back. It was sick.”

“Ew,”
I whispered, trying not to picture it.

“Hamlet tried to stand up and pointed at Claudius. ‘You did this to her!’ ”

I found my sympathy for Gertrude growing, something I didn’t want. What I
did
want to know was where my brother was during all of this.

When I asked, Horatio said slowly, “After he was slashed by Hamlet, he was bleeding bad.”

I cringed at the image of my brother’s suffering, which made Horatio stop, so I said, “Go on. I need to know.”

“Well… people were shouting that ambulances were coming, but Laertes kept shaking his head. Hamlet was hovering over Laertes, saying how sorry he was. Laertes took him by the sleeve of his jersey and said, ‘I’m the villain, and you’re a dead man.’ ”

“Wait. My brother was good. Why would he say that about himself?” I asked, ignoring the fact that I’d seen my brother stab Hamlet after ruthlessly attacking him throughout the game.

“Because, Ophelia, your brother… The blade was poisoned.”

“I don’t believe you,” I said, sitting up quickly.

“Neither did Hamlet. He said to Laertes, ‘You just cut my side. I’ll be fine.’ But Laertes told him that he’d be dead in less than a half hour. They both would.”

“No,” I said, covering my face at the thought of both of them knowing the end was near.

“You’d be proud of him, though, Ophelia. Laertes was able to tell us what happened. He whispered to us, ‘The king—’ ” Horatio swallowed hard. “ ‘The king is to blame.’ ”

“Claudius was responsible for the poison on the blade, too?” I asked, lowering my hands.

Horatio nodded. “He put Laertes up to the whole thing. Gave him the poison. Got your brother mad enough to attack Hamlet. Neither of them thought Hamlet would be able to get to your brother, though. Or Claudius.”

“Claudius?” I asked.

“Yeah. Hamlet grabbed the poisoned stick, got around the crowd, and sliced Claudius across the forearm.”

“He did?” I gasped.

Horatio nodded. “Somebody shouted ‘Treason!’ and Claudius called for help. But even while he was writhing and holding his bleeding arm, he knew he wouldn’t live. Undone by his own trick.”

“Where were the guards in all of this?” I asked.

Horatio looked at the watermarked ceiling. “I only figured out at that moment that there had been no security guards at the game. Turns out Claudius had ordered them to stay away until they got a radio signal from the ref to have Hamlet or Laertes arrested. He had said anyone who ignored his command would be fired or jailed. He was too arrogant to think it would go any way but his way.”

“Jerk.”

Horatio half smiled and then winced. “Hamlet wouldn’t let it go at the stabbing. I guess he wanted to be sure his uncle really did die. You could see Hamlet was getting weak from the poison and had sunk to the ground, but he—he managed to pull himself to the poisoned cup his mother had drunk from, then he held Claudius down and poured the rest into Claudius’s mouth. Hamlet screamed, ‘Here, you incestuous, murderous, damned Dane. Drink this and die like my mother!’ ”

“No way.”

“Yeah. It was crazy. Everyone froze and watched Claudius squirm. I couldn’t look, and when I turned away, I saw your brother lying all alone. I took the chance to tell him that your dad’s death was an accident. And that you’re alive.”

“He—” My lip was quivering so I hard that I struggled to finish. “He knew?”

“Yeah.”

I threw my arms around Horatio. “Thank you.”

“I’m sorry he didn’t know sooner.”

I nodded and buried my face in his neck.

“So Hamlet crawled back and asked your brother to forgive him, which Laertes did.”

“Really?” I asked.

Horatio nodded. “And Hamlet asked—asked me to…” He breathed deeply. “Asked me to let everyone know what happened. To let them know the truth. I sat with him while he shuddered and twitched and—and then he—he—” Horatio couldn’t finish.

Eventually Horatio was breathing normally again and said, “I just want to die myself, Ophelia. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget what I saw.”

I pulled back and looked at him straight in the eyes. “Don’t say that. Don’t you say that! I can’t lose you, too. I can’t be alone.” I took his hands in mine again and squeezed. “Do what Hamlet asked. Make sure everyone knows the truth.”

“I already tried telling them. I was questioned by Fortinbras for hours.”

“The head of the DDI?”

Horatio nodded. “I told Fortinbras and every other damned detective what I knew. Over and over I told them the same story. When they finally let me go, I nearly drove over reporters as I peeled out of the parking lot to get to you.”

“Now what?” I asked.

Horatio shrugged. “Hell if I know.”

The next day we awoke still in our clothes and on top of the bedspread. Too weary to shower, we put on our shoes and found our way to a Daney’s. Hamlet and Horatio had loved these restaurants and used to order the biggest breakfasts they served. The game was to try to finish everything on the plate as fast as possible without puking. I always watched in dismayed mirth and swore it would be the last time we would come to a place that served more food than any human should consume in one sitting.

That morning we just ordered coffee and toast. We kept our heads down, and Horatio left his baseball hat on. No one cared who we were, though. They were fixated by the news coverage and their conversations about the terrible events of the night before.

After the check came, I spoke for the first time. “Why would my brother have agreed to something so stupid? He knew he would go to jail after he stabbed Hamlet.”

Horatio stared at his cold coffee and turned the cup in his hands. “Suicide mission. Without a doubt. I don’t think he cared anymore. God, if I’d been able to get to him before that game, it could have been different. But I didn’t expect it to be him.… I mean, it happened so fast. If he’d known you weren’t…”

“It’s my fault. I should have stayed,” I moaned, and turned my face to the window. He shushed me, but it was unnecessary. So many people were grieving that my despair didn’t stand out.

As I watched beat-up cars and oversize trucks rush by, I thought about Hamlet. I wanted to hate him. I did. He had killed my brother and my father. And yet I knew that both murders had pained him because neither had been intentional, certainly not as intentional as what had been done to him. Hamlet had been tangled up in the madness as much as I had been. As much as my father and brother, and even my mother, had been. We were like insects caught on a web of deceit. Had there been an alternative? I wasn’t sure. And yet it hadn’t been Gertrude or Claudius who had done the killing. It had been Hamlet. He had ruined my life. He had taken all that I had. My chest ached.

Unable to think of it anymore, I wondered what to do next. I could keep running, or I could go back. Going back seemed pointless, except that if I didn’t, I couldn’t see that my father and brother were buried properly. Longer term, I might never see Horatio or any of my friends again. I would have to keep my identity a secret indefinitely and, given how well-known my face had become, I might have to live somewhere far more obscure than I would have wanted. I could never get my stuff back, which wasn’t such a big deal, but without money I’d be hard-pressed to replace it. And I needed money to run.

“I have to go back,” I murmured, loathing the thought more for having said it. I knew Horatio was looking at me, but I couldn’t face him, so I kept staring out the window. I watched a hitchhiker give up and start to stroll. “I don’t see any other way. Maybe I can just live a quiet life now that I’m not with… him.”

Horatio snickered, which was not what I had expected. I glared at him. “Sorry,” he said. “Inappropriate. Like laughing at a funeral.” The word jolted us both, and he went back to playing with his mug. I turned toward the TV behind the counter, where a waitress stood, washrag in hand, unable to pry herself away from yet another retelling of the sordid events on the field. Horatio lowered his voice and said, “I think there’s very little chance that anyone’s gonna let you fade away.”

I wished I could be as anonymous as the hitchhiker and choose my path on a whim. But he was right. I had to be realistic. I would be found. I started shredding my napkin. “It’s not just that they’re going to follow me and invade my world. People are gonna blame me. They’ll find a way to twist this and make it my fault.”

Horatio gritted his teeth and nodded. “You could put out your version of the story. Do some interviews.”

I tore harder at the napkin. “I’m so sick of spin. I don’t want to pretend or lie anymore. And I don’t want to explain myself.” I shuddered and tried to push away memories of Claudius at the conservatory, of Hamlet offering the gun, of Gertrude taking me shopping, of my brother begging me to leave Hamlet. “But if I can’t control the way this plays out, I’ll spend the rest of my life running.”

Horatio clenched and unclenched his fists. “You can control it to a certain extent.”

I balled up the remains of the napkin and rolled the bits between my palms.

He cupped his hands over mine. “Look, the press has used you to manipulate public opinion for years. Use them for once.”

I nodded and let my gaze drift back to the television. A gorgeous picture of Hamlet from the trip we took to Italy flashed up, and I pinched my eyes shut.

“Or we could drive the other way,” Horatio offered. “I’ll take you wherever you want to go.”

I frowned as I pulled out of his grasp. “What about your life here?”

“I’ll come back as soon as you’re settled. I mean, there’s my folks, and Kim, and graduating. I can’t give that all up. But if you need me for a while—”

I interrupted. “Stop helping. I love you, but take care of yourself.”

He lowered his drooping eyes and nodded. “So we go back.”

Neither of us was ready to face the scene we knew would be awaiting us in Elsinore, so we paid and went back to my motel room. We lay silently staring up at the pitiful acoustic tiles, drifting in and out of sleep throughout that day and for part of the next, hardly speaking. Hunger eventually motivated us. We packed my things, left my key in the door, and hit the road.

As we drove, we talked about how I was going to announce that I was alive. We called Marcellus and he met us across town from the castle at a salon. His sister was the owner, and she dyed my hair back to blond, matching the color using a photo from the cover of a magazine that had done a memorial tribute to me.

As I waited under the dryer, I flipped through the magazine. I spotted a picture of Hamlet and me at the beach. He was kissing my neck, and I had my head thrown back as I giggled. My jaw dropped when I spotted the birthmark on my hip, which I didn’t realize my bikini didn’t cover. This might have been how Claudius knew what to say when he convinced me that I had been caught with Hamlet on tape. I threw the magazine and closed my eyes, letting the deafening hum of the hairdryer drown out my thoughts.