Page 46 of In Harmony

own, a thought hung on the horizon like a growing storm: at the end of the play, Laertes and Hamlet kill each other over Ophelia’s grave, and no one gets a happy ending.

At Friday’s rehearsal, Marty moved us to the stage. While he blocked a scene, the rest of the cast paired up to run lines. Willow and Justin worked together. Naturally. I swore I didn’t give a shit, yet I studied her every move with my actor’s eye. Was she smiling more? Did her eyes soften when she looked at him? Did she move more easily into his space?

You’re turning into a goddamn lunatic, Pearce.

Marty was blocking Act 1, Scene 5, where Horatio and Marcellus show Hamlet his father’s ghost. They warn the prince not to follow the apparition but he does anyway, leaving his friends behind. Then it’s Hamlet alone onstage, speaking to an unseen spirit.

It’s a scene that requires full commitment to witnessing something otherworldly, or it falls flat. I tried, but my attention was split in half: my body onstage, my eyes sweeping the theater to find where Willow and Justin huddled together in the dark.

“Take five, everyone,” Marty said. He pulled me aside as the others hopped down from the stage. His fatherly smile was gone and his director’s mask was firmly in place—lips drawn down, his eyes full of thoughts and ideas.

“What’s going on?”

Out of professional courtesy, I never bullshitted him about acting. “I’m unfocused.”

“You’re angry.”

I frowned. “What? No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. So instead of trying to force the moment, let’s work a scene where we can use it. We’ll jump to Act Three, Scene One.”

“To be or not to be? Already?”

“Not yet. We’ll start just after the monologue.”

When the cast returned from the break, Martin put a hand over his eyes to shield the lights and scanned the theater.

“Willow? There she is. Willow, come down here please?”

The overheads blared down on Willow, bathing her in a cone of gold light. She wore jeans, boots, and a long gray sweater. My stupid heart clenched at how goddamn beautiful she looked.

“We’re going to give Act Three, Scene One a go,” Martin said.

“Okay…” she said, drawing the word out and flipping through her script. Her eyes widened and she looked up to glance between Martin and me. “The nunnery scene? Already?”

“I don’t work scenes in order,” Martin said. “I work the scenes I feel the energy in the room needs. So. Hamlet has just delivered his most famed of speeches ruminating on whether to take his own life or not. Polonius has convinced the King that Hamlet’s madness is his love for Ophelia. She’s given Polonius a love letter Hamlet wrote to her, and she’s ending the affair on her father’s orders.”

Willow bit her lip. “So…is Ophelia happy about this? Does she want to break up with him?”

Martin shook his head. “No direction right now. I just want your instinctual read.” He looked at us both expectantly. “Well? Let’s go.”

As usual, Martin was right and anger was serving the right purpose. Hamlet was a complete dick to Ophelia in this particular scene, and I had no shortage of motivation. I was no longer the poor bastard with a shitty truck who lived in a trailer and worked his ass off to be here, while she waltzed in on Justin’s arm with the scent of privilege flowing off her clothes like perfume. I was a fucking prince. She was nothing but a henchman’s daughter.

“Ha, ha, are you honest?”

Willow recoiled at my withering, merciless delivery. The uncertainty in her eyes was real, until something caught fire and a line of hers that was supposed to meek and quailing came out with bite.

Martin listened and watched, one arm across his midsection, the elbow of the other resting on it, his index finger curled over his lip. Not two minutes later, he shook his head and stepped between us.

“Stop, stop, stop.” He smiled faintly. “Okay, I take it back, I’m giving direction after all. This scene reveals everything about Ophelia and Hamlet. Some analysts contend the pair never consummated their relationship. Others say they were most definitely lovers.”

Willow’s lips parted in a tiny gasp, and a surge of heat swept through me.

“I hold to the latter idea,” he said. “If they were lovers, so much more is at stake. It’s a richer choice that holds more possibilities. Use that concept as actors: when confronted with yes or no, choose yes. Every time.”

Willow and I exchanged glances.

“Hamlet truly loved Ophelia,” Martin said. “It was all off the page, before the play starts, but that love needs to live behind every word that’s on the page. The betrayal and agony of this scene is more potent if their love is dying here.” He turned to me. “Your Hamlet is pissed off.”