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I have never seen Grand Central Station so busy. It is the afternoon before Christmas Eve and there are people pushing in every direction, arriving in the city or leaving it for the holiday. Everywhere I go, I like to try to see people, the way James taught me, exercising my eye so that later I will have a wealth of detail to draw on when I am sketching, but it is hard to capture someone whose path intersects yours for only a moment or two, often with a jostle. I am taking note of a double-knotted scarf here and a pair of graffiti-covered canvas sneakers there as I make my own way under the painted stars to the train platform.
I am not arriving here, but I am not leaving, either. I am here to meet my brother, Link. He is a junior at Yale now, where he is double-majoring in classics and linguistics. He doesn’t need my help to find his way around the city that both of us were raised in, so I know he must have some other reason for wanting me to be here, but I am still waiting to find out what it is.
Link did not actually ask me to meet his train in so many words. He just gave me the arrival time of the train that he was taking from New Haven, after he asked me if I was keeping up with my running and before he said goodbye and hung up the phone. It’s only because I have spent my whole life trying to understand my brother, who communicates more with his silences than with his words, that I take this as an invitation. It is more specific information than he gave to our parents, who only know to expect him some time tonight.
I make it to the platform and check my watch. I am four minutes early, which gives me a chance to catch my breath and use my eyes while I wait for Link’s train. I am not the only person waiting to meet an arrival. I study the woman closest to me in profile. She has curly red hair pulled back into a French braid, and her freckled cheeks are flushed. A half-knitted scarf, I think, a bottle of flavored water and the tattered teddy bear she’s had since she was born.
This is the way that James showed me to see people, by picturing them in their homes and making lists of the things that I think that they own. We went to hospital cafeterias and airport lounges together and watched people for hours, like they were more fascinating than any foreign film. Airports aren’t as good anymore, since what happened with the World Trade Center. Security is everywhere, and everyone is scared or angry or both. And of course James is still at the Academy of Arts in Germany, so there is no one to listen to my lists and match them to the people they belong to. It is lonelier this way, although when I am really looking at other people and not just seeing them, I never feel like I am completely alone.
The train is running late, but not very late. It pulls up to the platform two minutes after it is scheduled to arrive, and now there is another crowd moving too quickly for me to take anything but the most general impressions of hats and gloves. At last I spot my brother, his head visible above the others around him, the way mine is, because both of us are so tall. Then I freeze.
Link is walking with another boy. They aren’t holding hands or touching or even looking at each other when I see them, but it is immediately obvious from the way that each of them is aware of the other as they pick their way through the crowd that they are a couple. My heart begins to thump like a film score.
“Ellen!” Link says when he sees me. He is smiling, so I suppose that I did the right thing and he is happy that I came. I wonder how long that will last, though. I can’t help remembering what happened the night that I asked if he and James were a couple, and months afterwards. “This is Alex Goldman.”
“Hi Ellen,” Alex says with a big smile. “It’s nice to meet you.” He puts out a hand for me to shake and I take it, glove in mitten.
“Hi Alex,” I say. Then I blurt it out, because I can’t wait a moment longer, even if it is not exactly polite. “Are you Link’s boyfriend?”
Alex laughs. It is a nice laugh. He doesn’t seem upset.”Yes, I am,” he says, and he puts an arm around Link’s waist and squeezes. I expect my brother to flinch and pull away, but of course he has been changing so much since he left for college. Still, this is a big change. In all that time, Link has never spoken directly about the possibility of him being gay. He hasn’t exactly spoken about it now, either, but he has brought Alex home for Christmas. He is letting Alex speak for him now.
“Wow,” I say. Alex laughs again. He and Link both have overnight bags with them. “Do Mom and Dad know yet?” I ask, even though I’m pretty sure I already know the answer, because there hasn’t been any yelling. Dad has not said anything in the last three years to indicate that he has lost his fears about what it will mean if Link breaks the unwritten social laws about gay people. He’s been able to maintain this state of denial because Link has only alluded to the subject indirectly, using coded language with hidden meanings that Dad chooses to ignore. Dad is not going to be able to ignore Alex.
“Not yet,” Link says. “Come on. Let’s go get dinner.”
“Aren’t we going home for dinner?” I ask stupidly. The sacred McConnell family dinner hour has been back in full force since I finished my exams, and that goes double whenever Link is home from college.
“I thought we could have a peaceful meal together before your parents make a scene,” Link says. Whenever he is upset with Mom or Dad, they always become “your mother” and “your father.”
“Oh,” I say.
“I’m sure it won’t be that bad,” Alex says.
“You haven’t met my father,” Link tells him.
“I know,” Alex says. “That’s why I came, remember?”
“Touché,” Link says. “Besides, it’s early. The three of us can go out together and still make it home in time for dinner.”
“Okay,” I say.
Alex suggests sushi, which I like, and Link says that whatever we want is fine with him. We take a cab to our usual Japanese restaurant, not far from our apartment building.
I am only realizing now how strange it is to see my brother as part of a couple with someone who isn’t James. Even though I am the one who actually dated James, he and my brother were inseparable for years before the fight that I accidentally started when I mentioned that Adena Cohen had asked me if the two of them were a couple. Alex doesn’t look anything like James. I might say that he is cute, but I would not call him super cute or be in any danger of falling totally, desperately in love with him, even if I were still in seventh grade. Alex has dark hair with bleached tips that he styles very carefully with plenty of hair gel. His face has a rubbery, expressive quality to it that will be difficult to capture when I draw him, but the expression that I have seen on it most often is a huge smile. It seems that being with my brother makes him very, very happy.
“So how did the two of you meet?” I ask when we are waiting for our food to arrive.
“Lincoln was in my morphology class,” Alex says. My brother has gone by “Link” for as long as I can remember, but Alex calls him “Lincoln.” He says it like it is a term of affection.
“Alex was my TA in morphology,” Link clarifies. He looks pleased when I am shocked by this.
“Is that allowed?” I ask.
“It’s strongly discouraged,” Alex says. “That’s why I said ‘no’ every time he asked me out until the semester was over.”
“He was very ethical,” Link says, and they share another meaningful couple look.
I am flabbergasted. My brother was the one who asked Alex out! More than once!
“So you’re studying linguistics?” I ask, trying to hide my surprise. “What languages do you speak?”
“Just English,” Alex says. He makes a face. “Not all linguists are polyglots like your brother, who learns new languages over the weekend for the fun of it.”
“Oh,” I say. I’ve seen some of Link’s books from his linguistics classes, and they look like another kind of math to me. Unlike the other kinds of math, which Link gave up in high school, he seems to enjoy linguistics, but even my father can only follow a little bit when Link describes what he’s been studying in those classes.
“He’s just jealous,” Link says with a satisfied smile.
“I don’t need another language for my research anyway,” Alex says.
Our food arrives. Alex and Link have ordered hot saké, which comes steaming in a little beaker with two matching cups. Alex’s ID must be real if he’s a grad student. I know that Link’s is fake, because he skipped the third grade and he won’t turn twenty-one until next year. I have my own fake ID that Adena and Laurel helped me get, but I almost never use it. I find it hard to believe that anyone will look at me and think that I am old enough to drink, even at places that I know aren’t very strict about carding. “You’re a senior this year, right, Ellen?” Alex says, and I nod because my mouth is full of sushi. “How are your college applications going?”
“Not bad,” I say, meaning that they are incredibly stressful but that I am surviving so far. “I finished my essay and got my letters of recommendation, and now I just need to finish putting together my portfolio.”
“Oh, so you’re an artist?” Alex asks.
“Sort of,” I say, at the same time that Link says, “Not really.” I glare at him. “I want to study fashion,” I tell Alex.
“Our father hasn’t been so disappointed since I gave up math,” Link says.
“That’s an exaggeration,” I object. It’s true that Dad isn’t exactly thrilled with my decision. He says that it’s the worst possible use for my artistic talent, not to mention a waste of all my other abilities. He doesn’t believe that anyone involved in fashion has a mind, much less one with its own heartbeat. Mom is more supportive, at least outwardly. She just says that fashion is an incredibly competitive industry where working hard and making the most of your talents isn’t necessarily sufficient to succeed, but that if I get into one of the fashion programs I am applying to, I will learn things that will be useful to me even if I change careers later.
“Yes, thanks to Ellen, our father has never been happier about my own choice of studies,” Link goes on. “I may even be his favorite, at least until tonight.”
I realize that Link isn’t actually criticizing me. He’s just using the subject as a way to talk about Dad. Still, I think it would be nice if he were more supportive. After all, Link was the one who made me realize that clothes are another way of expressing something without using words. The reason I started paying attention to fashion in the first place was mostly that I wanted to understand my brother.
“I’d like to look your portfolio,” Alex says. He is being nice to Link and me at the same time by sticking to a happier subject for a little while longer.
“Okay,” I say. I still like to show my work to everybody to see what they say about it, although now I have stronger ideas about what I’m trying to accomplish than I did when I had just started drawing.
We finish our sushi. Link offers Alex the last of the saké, then finishes it himself in one swallow.
“I suppose it’s time,” Link says. I check my watch. Dad is probably in the kitchen now, making something special for Link’s first night home. Link pays the check and we walk home together. I am in front, with Link and Alex following after me. It feels strange to be the leader instead of the follower, but Alex doesn’t know where he’s going and Link is sticking closely by him.
Something smells good when we open the door to the apartment and Dad is wiping his hands on his apron when he steps out of the kitchen. He stops when he sees Link and Alex standing together, each carrying their own luggage.
“Alex, this is my father,” Link says. He is being perfectly polite so far. He has perfectly good manners, even though he doesn’t always choose to use them. “Dad, this is Alex. I invited him to spend Christmas with us.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. McConnell,” Alex says. He puts out his hand for Dad to shake.
Dad takes it and echoes, “A pleasure,” because he also has good manners, but then he turns to Link and says, “Christmas time is for family.” This is not a particularly polite thing to say when Alex is standing right there, pretending not to hear him, but it is how we have always celebrated Christmas in the past, unlike our Thanksgivings, which we share with a lot of guests who work with Dad.
“Significant others are family,” Link says. He enunciates the words “significant others” very clearly, then adds, as if Dad may have missed his point, “Alex is my boyfriend.”
I hold my breath. I am certain that Dad will say something insensitive and Link will storm off, not just to his room but all the way back to New Haven, and Christmas will be completely ruined. For a moment, it seems as inevitable as a Greek tragedy. I never find out what Dad’s first reaction would be, because this is the very moment that Mom interrupts us. She actually comes and stands by Dad’s side with one hand on his arm, as if she is restraining him.
“You should have told us that you were bringing a guest,” she says brightly. Of course, she can guess perfectly well why Link didn’t do that. “I’ll have to make up the sofa bed in the study.”
“I have papers and things on the sofa,” Dad objects. He is messy like I am, and strews things all over the place while he is working. Mom and Link are just the opposite, neat and contained.
“I’ll move them to one of your desks,” Mom says.
“But then I won’t be able to find them,” Dad says. “I put everything where it is for a reason.” This is true, but he doesn’t offer to find new places for them himself, because what he is really saying is that he is upset that Link is disturbing his comfortable state of denial.
“We have to make room for our guest, Colin,” Mom says with an edge in her voice.
“Alex can take my room,” I say.
“Ellen, you don’t have to do that,” Mom says.
“It’s fine,” I insist. I remember when I used to give up my room when James needed somewhere to sleep. I was always completely happy to do it for him, because I was totally, desperately in love with him. This time, it’s a little bit for Alex, whom I just met, but mostly it’s for my brother. I am just hoping that we can all have something like a merry Christmas after all. “Let me show you where it is,” I add to Alex. He looks to Link to see if this is all right with him, and Link hesitates and then nods.
I point out the bathroom and the door to Link’s bedroom and then show Alex to my bedroom. Like my father’s study, it is a mess. I got rid of my desk, which was always covered in books and clothes so that I did all my homework at the kitchen table, to make room for the sewing machine that I got last year, but the table it sits on is almost as messy as the desk was. I am lucky that I just made the bed with clean sheets. Alex sets his overnight bag on top of it.
“These are great,” he says, pointing to the careful grids of three-by-five postcards, each with a different sketch, that cover most of one wall. “Did you do them?”
I shake my head. “Those are from James,” I say. This is how the two of us keep in touch while he is at school in Germany. On the opposite side of each postcard is a note from James. We write postcards instead of letters so that we have an excuse for keeping our private lives to ourselves and only mentioning things that we are willing to expose without an envelope.
“Oh?” Alex says. “Who’s that?”
I am taken aback. It seems incredible to me that Link can be so obviously close with Alex but not have told him anything about James. I’m not sure what it is my place to tell him.
“He was Link’s best friend in high school,” I say.
“He was Ellen’s boyfriend,” Link says. I start, because I didn’t realize that he followed us to my room. Alex raises one eyebrow.
“Sounds complicated,” he says.
“Very complicated,” Link says.
“Then I suppose that it can wait until later,” Alex says. I appreciate that he isn’t going to let the subject drop altogether, and that my brother seems to accept this. I don’t need to hear the version of the story that Link will give to Alex, even though I am curious.
Dinner goes much better than I have any reason to expect. I think that Mom may have said something to Dad while the rest of us were out of the room. It helps that Alex is still ravenously hungry after the sushi we ate, and all of his compliments on Dad’s cooking sound completely sincere, and that he can talk about linguistics, which is a safe subject for Dad and Link. We manage to get through the whole meal without venturing out into any unsafe subjects. I know that this is not ideal, but for tonight, I think that it is pretty good. If we can get through Christmas together, maybe Dad will finally be able to admit that his fears about what it would mean for Link to be gay were overblown.
The lights on the Christmas tree cast a soft glow over the living room after I have turned off the television and all the other lights. I cover the scratchy couch with layers of blankets and a pillow and curl up, compressing my long legs into the short space.
“Are you still awake?” Link asks. He has changed into his pajamas.
“Yeah,” I say, sitting up again.
“Want to sleep in my room tonight?” he says. “After all, it’s the night before the night before Christmas.”
This was how we used to mark every special occasion when we were little, and then again, on the night before my fourteenth birthday, although the night before Christmas Eve did not qualify as a special occasion. Tonight is a special occasion for other reasons, though, and we both know it.
“Sure,” I say. I take the blankets off the couch again and carry them to Link’s room, where he makes up a bed for himself on the floor while I settle into his bed, the way we did when we were kids. I'm still far from knowing my brother the way I have imagined, where it is just the two of us sitting in the restaurant and talking about ourselves, but I feel very close to him as I burrow down into the worn softness of his sheets.