I alphabetize. I clean. I make this my project, this sorting of books. But I do it my way. After months of unemployment, I have immersed myself in books. Bastille's Story of the Eye is sandwiched between pro-life pamphlets. Dorian Gray leans against The Scarlet Letter. The great suicides: Plath, Woolf, Sexton and Hemingway have their own shelf. Byron stands alone. I could be a librarian. I could live amongst the quiet.

Sitting on the floor, Joel calls the airlines to book a ticket home. I remind him that we have a rental car. He hangs up the phone. His eyes close. Minutes later, he snores. I put down the books and look at him.

Until today, I've never heard Joel raise his voice. It has always appeared that he has led a passive life and I have been his one broken shard, his taste of disorder. Joel never gets impatient with customer service representatives. Striking up conversations with strangers, he could stand in a supermarket line for hours. During sex, he always asks if this certain position is right, whether we are at the optimal angle. And I've grown tired being the troubled one, the obtuse angle in the relationship - the one to be handled like delicate china. After a year together, I felt our life would be one continuous routine: the neatly packed sandwiches, the planned wardrobe, and the evening oral. Then this. Coping with a family stained with imperfections, I wonder - how different is he from me?

Looking down at him now, I lift my hand to ruffle his hair. But then I stop. I lay it back on my lap. His face looks so calm on that pillow.

Joel stirs and wakes up. "You're free to go," he says.

"No, I'll stay."

* * *

Slices of white meat circulate the table. Sarah ladles each piece with a heavy coat of gravy. Festive floral arrangements decorate the room. The dining table is new and according to Sara, recently assembled so BE GENTLE! Our bowl of mashed potatoes (sans valium), thickened with cream and butter, passes from hand to hand. Silver serving spoons nestle in vegetable platters, sweet potatoes and cranberry sauce. A separate dessert table boasts cran-apple crisps, pumpkin pies, assorted mousse cakes and steaming miniature cherry pies like ladies in waiting. Containers of pumpkin and vanilla bean ice cream are on ice.

As if the events of this morning never occurred, Evelyn and Jonathan sit next to one another, holding hands. However, when I look at his face, his eyes seem sullen.

"Dig in!" Sarah urges. Her cardiologist husband Bill makes a guest appearance for five minutes before both his pager and cell phone vibrate and ring. Air-kissing the crowd, Bill rushes off to the hospital, a plate of crisp in hand. Sarah leans into Joel and giggles, "I'm off the pill. Bill doesn't know!" Thirty-five years old, she acts like an excited child, fixing the creases of napkins, and uncorking bottles of Cabernet. The dining room swells with cousins, aunts, wives, children from other marriages and a few friends. Amidst the expensive silver, I feel out of place. My kitchen drawers are stacked with plastic flatware and take-out condiments.

A chemical engineer, Jonathan talks about his pending trip to Russia in order to ensure that Persian and Iraqi terrorist groups do not lure engineers. "I'm working with the officials in Kiev so we can diversify their knowledge base. Introduce them to more industrial environmental problems."

Evelyn and Sarah discuss their pending book on communicating with children.

I fight not to choke on my turkey.

After an hour, everyone is toast. I smash forkfuls of pale green peas into the potatoes. Mixing in the bright syrup from the cranberry sauce, my food resembles abstract art. A clutter of empty wine bottles stand on the table. Sarah uncorks more, and more.

"Are you still at that little company, toying with computers?" Sarah asks.

"Not very many jobs going around these days," Jonathan says. "We're all lucky to be working."

"A hundred thousand dollar Ivy League education...down the drain." Evelyn makes gurgling sounds.

"To think, he studied biology. He could have been a doctor," Sarah says.

Joel slides down lower in his chair. Tense, his body converges inward.

"Joel is so talented," I say.

"How would you know? Have you ever asked to see my work?" he snaps.

"What the...?" Why has he decided to use me for target practice when there are other people he could shoot down? Feigning the bride-to-be, I've played along this entire trip. This how he repays me?

"Talent doesn't always pay the bills," Sarah says. "I mean, how much does a graphic designer pay? Forty, fifty thousand?"

"You can hardly afford a down payment on that," Evelyn agrees.

"Oh, would you give it a rest, Evelyn," Jonathan says.

Ignoring his family, Joel says, "Everyday, you talk about the damn plants. And the constant whining. A year later and nothing has changed."

"You ask me about my day." I mimic him waving his hand, "Work - boring, always boring."

"It's always you," Joel says. "The plays you can't write, the jobs you can't get. Never me. You."

"Where is this coming from?" I ask, exasperated.

"Can't we have dinner like a normal family without attacking one another?"

Sarah says, voice wavering.

"Joel, dear, you need to start thinking about a real career," Evelyn says, pouring Jonathan another glass of wine.

My hands shake.

Napkin folded on his plate, Joel rises and walks out. The backdoor slams behind him. Then the engine revs. Tires slice against the ice and I hear him pull out of the driveway. Run, I tell my legs. But they won't.

"So touchy," Evelyn says, sighing. "He's always been this way. I've done so much for Joel. Honestly, I think I've done all I can do."

"Shut up, Evie. Just shut up," Jonathan says.

"So it's my fault that he doesn't have a job now?"

"I can't believe I've been married to you this long," Jonathan says. Like his son, he rises. Tapping my arm, he says, "Let's go."

And I follow.

On the porch, Jonathan fumbles with his keys. "I was reading the dictionary today," he says. He hands me the keys and says, "Forget it. Gillian, go find him."

"What about you?" I ask.

"I'm the last person he wants to see."

And I run.