Edward liked to say he was going home for Thanksgiving. He liked the reassuring way it came flowing out of his mouth, the ease with which people heard and understood that he had a family to go back to--a stable, established, normalized background. These perceptions were very important to him. He liked to reinforce them by saying he was going home for Thanksgiving.

"When are you leaving?" he would ask his acquaintances at college, begging the reciprocated question. And when it was asked, he relished his own answer. "I'm going home Wednesday morning. I can't wait."

The Amtrak from New Haven took a particularly unattractive route through Connecticut to the city. Edward carried his two monogrammed duffle bags overarm across the terminal platform to the overcrowded taxi stands outside. He waited in the cold, watching his own breath diffuse the orange glow of sodium street lamps. God they're ugly, he thought. New York City makes me sick.

Edward's home on long Island had two-stories and five bedrooms. The overpainted dark brown gable needed repair, and the front garden--which Edward had spent summers cultivating during high school--was barren. Crisp, paper-thin leaves held tentatively to sickly vines, flaking off into small puffs of dust in the wind. Edward heaved a heavy sign and rang the doorbell.

His mother answered, smiling quietly and motioning him in from the cold. He entered, proceeding obediently across the hallway in a line of noncommittal greetings and hugs, remembering the smell of home and the dim incandescent lights, the pattern of the wallpaper and the globs of varnish on the wooden bannister. His four older siblings had all arrived home earlier, all with their uncomfortable spouses. He trudged up the stairs and into his room, collapsing onto his high school bed. It smelled stale and abandoned. That night he dreamt of driving a small black convertible on a summer night downtown.

In the dining room on Thanksgiving day the entire family said grace in unison and began dinner. "So, what'cha going to do next year, Edward?" asked his older brother, a high school teacher. Although he and his brother had shared a room for four years, they never once stayed up all night talking. The only words that crossed between their bunks were "Good night."

"I'm not sure yet. I think I'm going to work a few years. Maybe in Boston. Maybe out in California for a while." Edward looked down at his plate. It was much better than the food in his dining hall. Edward's sister Margaret, who was a paralegal, asked someone to pass the stuffing.

"Why don't you come home and work in New York?" asked his mother. "You always always said you loved the city."

"It'd just be nice to get some experience somewhere else. I need a change."

"A change from what, Edward?" she retorted, almost panicked. "Sometimes I just don't understand a thing you say."

"Just a change, mom." He looked across the table at his father, whose sublime face always seemed hesitatingly impartial. It disturbed him. "Sometimes people just need a change."

"But you haven't changed!" cried Edward's mother. She looked at him with regret.

"I can't explain it to any of you," said Edward softly. And then they changed the subject; they spoke of the neighbors and the Pope's visit to America.