Quintessence of Dust

Prologue

The rain arrived as the guests did.

It was the predictable Southern afternoon rain. The storm would be gone in an hour, taking the tears of the assembled crowd with it.

Center stage was his mother and his uncle. He had never seen his mother look so old. The black velvet dress she wore flattered her figure and reminded everyone that she was barely past forty, but her clenched jaw and red eyes couldn't be hidden by makeup or a lacy veil. His uncle wore a new, hand-tailored black pinstripe suit that would create an illusion of competence for the board in the slew of upcoming business meetings. For an sudden death, their outfits looked remarkably well-put together.

The crowd had filled in around them, packed under umbrellas, hoping to get one last glimpse of the eternal resting place of the great Charles Hamlet Sr. Most were strangers to the immediate Hamlet family-- factory workers or former secretaries. Their whispers told of brief interactions with the deceased and memories that would endure for the lifetime of the living.

Charles Hamlet Jr. stood off to the side, watching the stoic entrance of the reverend who had supervised the last fifty years of the Hamlets' religious experiences. Reverend Polonius opened his Bible to a well-worn page. A young girl rushed forward to cover with Reverend with an umbrella, as he began to preach on Hamlet Sr.'s numerous accomplishments and legacy in their small town. The girl's eyes watched Hamlet Jr. He didn't notice her gaze, but she could read and interpret his brokenness like her father could read Gospel-- with eloquence and ease.

The rain had never bothered Hamlet. Growing up, he waited by the window for the first sign of rain. As soon as the first drops began to fall, he'd bolt out the door to experience even the briefest moment of it's coolness. Everyday, his nanny would snatch him back up threatening pneumonia and his father's belt, but not without giving him a minute of fun.

Today, he appreciated it because it hid his lack of tears. He was empty.

His best friend-- his father, gone in a few moments.

He had been a thousand miles away, living a life that should have killed him. The night of his father's death had been a blur of ecstasy and hard liquor, ending with a phone call he had barely been able to hear over the thud of the bass and his own heartbeat. He'd spent the three hour flight home in the airplane's bathroom, popping aspirin, recovering from the night before. He was tossed back to the realities of small town life as soon as the wheels hit the tarmac. One of their three nameless servants had been waiting with a black car outside baggage claim, ready to take him back to the estate. No one had greeted him at the door, though the house was swarming with lawyers, accountants, and indifferent family members.

Hamlet was home, but not the one they wanted to see.

Everyone else's tears picked up as a man that Hamlet had never met before began an improvised speech about his father's camaraderie in the war.

Hamlet's eyes were drawn to his mother, mascara somehow still immaculate. Maybe she didn't have anymore tears either. They had barely spoken in the five days he had been home. There were too many details to attend to.

His uncle was too close to her. One arm had snaked around her waist, pulling her close. She leaned her head into his arm.

Claudius was three years younger than his brother, more gifted in every way, with the exception of geniality. Hamlet's uncle smile exuded dark intentions and malice. But he had the intelligence and looks to make up for what his older brother got away with on charm.

The entire town knew what Hamlet Sr. did not. No one had the heart to tell him, not even Hamlet. Not that it would have changed anything or stopped his heart from giving out. At least he had died under the illusion of a faithful wife and loyal son. Part of Hamlet hoped what he had seen had been just a misinterpretation of innocent affection between a brother and sister-in-law. Something could have changed in his three year absence.

But it was confirmed in a single gesture, seemingly harmless to those who hadn't heard the rumors.

Grief gave way to rage as Claudius slipped his hand into Gertrude's. Her hand seized for a moment, frozen with outstretched fingers. But her eyes fell upon the coffin which would soon be placed in the family crypt. Relief, of all things, fell across her face.

She was free, for the first time in twenty five years. Freedom for Gertrude was the possibility of love.

Her fingers relaxed, squeezing a gentle affirmation to her lover.

Hamlet turned, needing no more reasons to stay, weaving his way through gravestones and monuments to get back to his car.

Thunder cracked as the car door slammed shut.

No one knew he was gone.