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.