Page 58 of We Fell Apart
—
Prince of Denmarkshows a scene that Shakespeare never wrote.
It is set in the present day.
A young man with
long black hair and a round face
kneels on a bed covered in indigo linen.
He is shirtless, and his arms are covered in what look like tattoos.
Lying in the bed is a bearded man, presumably Claudius, the king.
He looks like Kingsley.
Hamlet’s knife is raised—
but his victim is
already dead.
Blood soaks the sheets.
Stab wounds cover the king’s chest.
Hamlet is Meer.
And he has killed our father.
—
The painting isrecent. Meer looks just like he looks now.
And Kingsley painted himself as a victim.
Is there something wrong here at Hidden Beach, something far beyond sloth, decay, and neglect—something that would lead Kingsley to paint his son as a murderer?
I make notes in my sketchbook, searching for a connection between the violence attributed to Meer in the painting and the eight million dollars Kingsley doesn’t seem to want. I try to draw connections between the sedative June gave me and Holland’s great-aunt Tipper knowing Kingsley, Meer and Tatum’s reluctance to leave Hidden Beach after high school, Kingsley’s impulse to see me and then his sudden departure.
But I come up empty.
I begin opening the cabinets in the office. I’ve been in this room many times, and I’ve stared at the books and the objects on the shelves, looking for clues to my father’s character, but I’ve never searched behind the closed doors. June has always been downstairs when I’ve had access to the room, or the boys have been sitting here with me, staring at their devices.
I don’t know what I’m looking for. Anything that will help me understand the situation. Maybe a letter from Gabe’s law firm about a pending separation between Kingsley and June, or a receipt for some enormous expense that would explain why there doesn’t seem to be any money. Something.
I’ve been through the cupboards and now I’m shining my flashlight into drawers filled with paper clips and sticky notes.
Nothing important.
I am down on my knees to look in the lowest drawer, which holds mailing labels and spare manila envelopes, when I see the edge of a fat spiral notebook that’s gotten shoved under the desk. I pull it out.
This isn’t Meer’s sketchbook, which is hardbound and basic black, covered with stickers of sharks. And it’s not one of mine, which have graph paper because I like drawing maps. This book has a clothlike brown cover. In block print, at the bottom, it saysCello, Summer 2012.
It is Kingsley’s sketchbook. But why is it shoved under the desk? Did someone hide it here, or did he just drop it before he left town?
I have never seen any of my father’s drawings. He always presents as a skilled, meticulous technician, working in oil paint. He has never offered the media any access to his preparatory materials or to any work that’s not fully finished.
