Falling for Hamlet (33 page)

“Want me to straighten that out?”

I nodded, and he picked up my fingernail scissors and went to work.

“I look like some loser girl trying to be Goth.”

He lifted an eyebrow and kept snipping. “Some guys go for that.”

“I’m not interested in attracting guys right now. Just in not being locked up.” I bit my lip and tried not to think about what might happen if we were caught. I picked some black eyeliner out of my purse and started applying it thickly. “If I’m going for a new look, I might as well go all the way.” I hardly recognized myself.

Marcellus checked to make sure the station attendant was still watching a soccer game on TV and that no cars were gassing up. Then he escorted me to Horatio’s car. I ducked down, and the three of us drove to the most private banks of the river on the outskirts of the city. We found a place where no one else was nearby, not even at telephoto-lens distance. The two of them ate the picnic lunch we had told the king and queen we would be having. Too nervous to eat, I did a drawing of the banks as I imagined they would look in late spring, blanketed with flowers rather than just the smattering that were actually there. All the while the two of them planned out what they would say to Claudius and Gertrude, making sure the stories were alike but not suspiciously exact. I listened halfheartedly, the blood rushing in my ears.

Soon it was time. I walked to the river and put my feet in. If rescue dogs were sent into the water, they had to lose my scent at the river’s edge. It was difficult to stay steady, with the water moving so swiftly, but within moments, Horatio and Marcellus were lifting me out and carrying me back to the car. We passed the remains of our picnic, intentionally left behind, and all kept looking around to see if anyone was watching. We saw nothing. Even so, I couldn’t relax.

Once back in the car, I ducked down and we drove farther upriver. We traveled up and over the hills into a desolate little town with motels and fast food and not much else. Marcellus waited in a burger joint while Horatio found me a motel room with a kitchenette.

The Illyria Inn promised anonymity and few comforts, but the former seemed more pressing. I sat in the car while Horatio checked in, willing myself to be still and to not keep peering at the rearview mirror. He said the girl at the front desk barely looked up as she handed him the key.

When I opened the door to the room, I set down my bag, then checked the garish mattress cover for stains before flopping onto it. No matter how I was feeling, I wanted Horatio to believe I was all right. I knew he wouldn’t rest, and might refuse to leave, if he saw me anxious or upset. “Home sweet home,” I said, half smiling.

He sat down next to me and frowned. “Someone might find you.”

“True,” I said with a calm that surprised me, and that calm chased away my fear. “But I couldn’t stay there quietly anymore. It was time to at least try. And look, we made it this far.” I took in a deep breath, hoping to inhale freedom, but breathed in stale air instead. I cleared my throat to hide a cough.

Horatio stood to go, reminding me, “Leave that new phone on at all times. Don’t use it unless it’s an emergency. I’ll call you every few days. And stay inside as much as you can.”

“I know, I know.” We had gone over the plan many times. He turned to leave and, to both of our surprise, I added, “Go be his friend now. Much as it pains me to say, Hamlet needs you.”

He leaned against the dark wood paneling and nodded.

I asked, “Is all this being needed a good thing or a bad thing?”

“I suppose it depends how it ends,” he replied with a weary smile.

After he left, I peeked through a narrow opening in the stiff curtains. No one suspicious was out there… at least not of the photographer or security type. The town was a place devoid of beauty and culture, unless pool halls and strip clubs were your thing. I felt pity for the people who made that place their permanent home. Then I checked myself. They might never have been to museums or on overseas trips, but they also didn’t have boyfriends who killed their fathers… or, from the look of things, maybe they did.

I turned my mind to more practical matters and worried a little at the scale of the town. It was certain that everyone appeared to want to be left alone, which would work to my advantage. And yet, with few places to buy food and do laundry, it would be hard to stay invisible for long. If nothing changed at home, I would have to move on. Unfortunately, this never became an issue, since the situation in Elsinore changed faster than any of us expected.

Marcellus and Horatio had returned to Elsinore to tell Gertrude and Claudius that, without Marcellus realizing, I had taken some pills that Horatio had brought and insisted on swimming, but I had been swept away by the river’s strong current. Later Marcellus told me that they had sent Horatio out of the room and explained to Marcellus that it was just as well, that it would save them following through with the rest of their plan. “Even so,” Gertrude had said, more to Claudius than to Marcellus, “we’d best put on a show of trying to find her.”

I watched the television and waited for the news of my drowning to break. Late that afternoon, it did. Helicopters circled where I had supposedly fallen in the water and zoomed in on the picnic Marcellus, Horatio, and I had intentionally left behind. Dozens of police officers swarmed the banks of the river, some with dogs, some with nets. I felt terrible for the divers who were shown bobbing in the frigid water. Even the few moments I had my feet in were enough to numb them. Wet suits or not, it had to be uncomfortable.

Newscasters stood on the bank as the sun set and they remained into the night. I loved how they added more and more designer layers as the night wore on and the temperature dropped. Stormy Somerville’s hot pink fur-trimmed hooded parka was a bit over the top, given the actual weather, but since the premise of her story was that I might be alive and merely floating in the freezing water, it greatly added to the sense of peril.

Marcellus and Horatio, it was explained, had refused to be interviewed, too distressed by the accident. My father, they said, was also too grief-stricken to speak, and my brother was en route from Paris, so Reynaldo, my father’s second-in-command, held a press conference. Gertrude, with Claudius at her side, gave the details of what had apparently befallen me. She had a piece of paper from which she read, her voice strong and steady.

“There are willows that grow along the banks of our glorious river, willows that reflect their silver-gray leaves when the water runs low and still,” she began.

I wondered who wrote the unexpectedly flowery speech. It would have been Dad, but… I shook away the thought.

“Ophelia liked to make fantastic garlands of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples,” she continued.

“Make garlands of flowers?” I asked aloud. “When I was six, maybe. Now I draw them. Christ, Gertrude, did you know me at all?”

“Sweet Ophelia…”

“Not what she has been calling me lately. More like ‘whore,’ but oh well. To
may
to, to
maht
o.”

“Dear sweet Ophelia was climbing for flowers when a branch broke, and down she fell into the rushing water. In recent days, Hamlet and Ophelia stopped seeing each other, and it seems that she was so distressed by this that she lost her senses… or her will to live. She seemed to make no attempt to swim for safety. Her clothes spread out, and mermaidlike they kept her afloat. She recited poetry as if unaware of the danger she was in.”

Poetry! That’s quite an image
, I thought, wondering if Horatio and Marcellus had told her that insanity, or if she was basing the colorful detail on my wild presentation from the incident a couple of days prior.

She finished by explaining, “But soon her clothes, heavy from the water, pulled the poor girl down under the surface. It is assumed that she drowned, though we are holding out hope that somehow she will be found.”

At that point, the chief of police stepped to the podium and told viewers that they were still considering it a search-and-rescue mission. Divers and boats, he assured everyone, would hunt the length of the river and out into the harbor.

Oh
… I thought with mild dread.
That’s a lot of people looking. How are they going to explain it when they don’t recover my body? And how long are those poor guys going to have to stay in the water?
I had to turn off the television at that point.

By the next morning, the chief of police announced that the search-and-rescue mission had turned into a recovery mission, as there was no hope that I could have stayed alive in cold water for so long. They were asking that if, by any chance, I had crawled out of the river and was found dead or alive, the authorities should be notified immediately.

I had enough food to last a day or two without going out, so I remained in the dingy wood-paneled room and watched as much of the spectacle as I could.
From one prison into another
, I thought morosely. I was drawn to the tribute montages of my life and wondered how they got the pictures. Did someone go into my apartment? Did Gertrude hand them over? Were there enough on public record to fill the minute or two? When a few of my childhood friends were interviewed, I realized some of them had provided the images willingly. I sat and stared with bemused shock as reporters dissected my life.

At last it was determined that my body was lost, and a funeral was set and arranged for quickly. An empty coffin would be buried, and the funeral would be, of course, televised. This announcement unleashed a different kind of coverage. Late-night talk-show hosts used my death as a springboard for jokes while child psychologists appeared on daytime talk shows to discuss the perils of fame and promiscuity.

I even caught a religious chat circle discussing what kind of burial I ought to have had if my body had been recovered. A tightly wound woman in a dour polyester suit insisted that it had been suicide, or else how could it be explained that I had not tried to get out of the water.

A bearded gentleman refuted her claim, saying that, while it had been reported that I was very depressed and was acting strangely, this didn’t automatically mean suicide.

“Hard to say,” declared the tweed-wearing and patched-elbows moderator. He gestured broadly as he said, “Here lies the water. Good. Here stands the girl. If the girl goes to the water and drowns herself, it is suicide. But if the water comes to her and drowns her, she has not drowned herself!”

The dour one insisted, “I can’t help but think that if she hadn’t been from a rich and powerful family, they would have said that she couldn’t be buried on hallowed grounds. Would you and I get the same treatment?”

“Well, Grace, then I suggest you don’t go swimming anytime soon,” the bearded one said, sneering.

I clicked off the television and went to bed.

I was determined not to watch anything for a few days, until I was sure they would have moved on to another person’s scandal or tragedy. I read and drew, ducked into a coin-operated Laundromat, and bought food. It was at the market checkout line that my own name on a magazine cover caught my eye, as did a picture of my brother and Hamlet in what appeared to be a fistfight. I pretended to be looking at all the tabloids and that I just so happened to pick the one I really wanted randomly. I paid for it, tucked it under my armpit as I grabbed the crinkly shopping bags, and headed for the privacy of my room. There, standing in the light of the partially open curtains, I read:

Grave Drama at Ophelia’s Funeral

Yesterday morning saw the burial of Ophelia, on-again, off-again, then on-again girlfriend of Prince Hamlet. The proceedings for the recently drowned young woman started off as expected but soon turned strange indeed.

Our beloved queen, wearing a perfectly cut suit and too much concealer under her eyes (one need not hide grief at a funeral, right?), stood by the grave and scattered flowers. King Claudius stood possessively by her side. Ophelia’s father was nowhere, much to this reporter’s surprise. (Has anyone else started to wonder where Polonius is? One could always count on following the hot air, and yet all has been suspiciously cool and proverb-free of late.) Her brother, Laertes, freshly returned from France (and what, our schools aren’t good enough for him?), stood by her grave looking positively sick with grief.

As the gravediggers began to lower the coffin, Laertes actually leaped into the grave. Standing with just his head sticking above the ground, he begged them to bury him along with his sister’s empty coffin! At this point, and I kid you not, our Lord Hamlet came over the ridge of the cemetery and, seeing the open grave of his supposed love (though why hadn’t they been seen together for many weeks?), leaped into the grave himself! The two men began beating each other roundly… though let it be said that Laertes seemed to be the aggressor. The king ordered his men to pull them out while Hamlet’s mother shrieked wildly.