"When will you be back, Honey?"

If Mick had been a violent man he would have slapped Cathy. As it was he paused, hand on the doorknob, and stared at her with emotionless eyes for several seconds. And then sensing that she was about to speak, he spoke first, abruptly forestalling her, as if determined not to have to hear again the sound of her voice.

"How many times do I have to tell you? I'll be back when I'm back!" he snarled. And slammed the door behind him to emphasize the point.

Cathy choked back a sob and settled into the sofa, instinctively avoiding the spot where the broken spring poked through the fabric. The sofa sagged, even under her slight weight. She wiped her eyes with her hand.

Ever since the back injury had made him unemployable, Mick had been going off like this more and more frequently, and for ever longer periods of time. Cathy didn't think he was seeing other women. At least she clung to that hope. Sometimes she feared that he was going on drinking binges. Drinking himself into a stupor in some rundown bar. Somewhere where they didn't know him. Until being thrown out to sleep it off in an alley. Or worse.

But she knew that wasn't very likely either. Mick simply didn't have the money. Or the capacity for heavy drinking. Not yet. More probably he just wandered around the city, bound for nowhere in particular, sleeping where he could, subsisting on charity soup bowls. Just another lost soul seeking temporary respite from a reality that had long since lost any joy, any hope, any purpose.

Cathy needed respite, too, but unlike Mick had nowhere to run. No alternative but to cling to the shambles of her dreary existence. She looked around. The tiny room would have been dimly lit even if the few light fixtures had all had working light bulbs in them. As it was there was enough light to see, but the room itself remained a realm of shadows.

Cathy looked at the bureau, pushed into a corner on the opposite side of the table. It was a handsome piece, highly polished oak, and gleamed even in the dim light. It had always been hers. It had been a fixture in her bedroom from her earliest youth, her personal space, her hiding place. It was one of the few things from her childhood that she still possessed.

A row of framed photographs lined the top of the bureau, all of them from years ago, and her eyes settled on the picture taken shortly after their marriage. Mick stood behind with his arms around her, his cheek against her hair, both their faces in profile. They were so young and unspoiled. Mick still had that impish smile she had fallen in love with the first time they met. And the glow in her face and sparkle of her eyes brought the memories flooding back of a time when the world was fresh and new, and their life together held promise of sunlit paths and sweetly scented flowers.

At the sight of the picture, at the memory of the unrealized promise, the unfulfilled dreams, at the thought of the love now fled, of the life that never was, Cathy broke down completely. Sob after sob wracked her body and the tears flowed unchecked down her cheeks.

But Cathy was a resilient person. After she had expended her emotions with a good cry and wiped away the remnants of her tears, she looked around for something to do. Something to occupy her mind as much as her hands. She pushed herself off the sofa and strode into the cramped kitchen, flinging open the refrigerator door. She stared at the meager contents. Enough to make a sandwich. But Cathy had no appetite, no intention of eating. She wanted something to do.

"I'll clean the house," she announced, slamming the refrigerator door shut.

She grabbed the old, threadbare hand towel from off the refrigerator handle and began wiping down its surfaces. Then she wiped the stove and the sink and then the little countertop. Without pausing she wiped the handles on the kitchen cabinets and even the hinges.

She cleaned the entire house and although it was a small house and much less cluttered now that the boys were grown and gone, this took several hours, because she cleaned it thoroughly. She dusted and scrubbed, mopped and dusted again. She washed out her dusting rags and cleaned her mop. Until only the bureau was left. She wiped all the picture frames, not looking at the pictures within, and set them aside. Finally she began buffing the bureau itself.

When she had finished and replaced the pictures, she once again contemplated the photograph of her and Mick, this time without tears.

"Oh Mick," she said sadly. "Why did it have to go so wrong?"

The impulse came quickly. She opened the bottom drawer and reached under the neat stack of clothes. The books were hidden there and she took the top one. She carefully closed the drawer and returned to the sofa. But she didn't sit down. She placed the book on the armrest and then hurried to collect all the cleaning materials and put them away. Only when everything was returned to its proper place did she take her usual position on the sofa and pick up the book.

Cathy softly stroked the padded plastic cover and traced the lettering with her finger. "The Talisman." And of course there was the year. Her year. Her graduation year. Her high school yearbook. Very much hers for she was the Editor-in-Chief. Well, hers for the most part. She smiled wistfully as she looked at the silver colored cover. She had wanted dark red, but was out voted by the rest of the yearbook staff.

She opened the book and taking a grip on the page edges quickly shuffled through them. Once, long ago, the motion would have sent that delicious new book scent wafting to her nostrils. But now there was only the faint odor of must.

She turned back to the beginning and started turning the pages, slowly this time, searching, seeking the memories of that happy time. The dedication to the school's band director. She had written that herself. The pages of faculty pictures, many of them signed with handwritten congratulations. She skipped over the class pictures.

But she paused to look at the clubs and organizations she had belonged to. How many of them there had been. Student Council. She was the vice president. The Honor Club. Feature Editor of the school newspaper. Editor-in-Chief of the yearbook. Future Homemakers of America. Future Teachers of America. Future Farmers of America. She was their sweetheart. The Band. The Band Council. The French Club. She was president. The Drama Club. Rotary Visitor. Homecoming Princess. Honor Graduate. Best All Around. Most Likely to Succeed. Cathy choked back a sob and quickly turned that page.

There were other kinds of pictures. Pictures of the school and the grounds. Of students going about their daily routines. Pictures that were posed and pictures that were spontaneous.

"Cathy works hard on the yearbook." That was the caption. Of course it was a black and white picture so one couldn't see that her sweater was a pretty, light shade of green that matched the emerald of the ribbon in her hair. She was sitting at a table, her best side to the camera, trying to pretend, unsuccessfully--that sly smile gave her away, that she didn't know she was being photographed. In front of her were the rows of class pictures that she was sorting through.

She turned to the Sports section. How handsome Mick was in his football uniform. How handsome they all were, but none so much as Mick. Of course she had fallen in love with Mick. How could she have possibly wanted anyone else?

And of course there were the autographs. Pages and pages of them. Best wishes and congratulations and fond memories, lovingly tendered, from all her friends. Penned in blue ink and black. And once even in red. A few words sometimes, but usually whole paragraphs. Good penmanship, poor penmanship, cramped writing, flowing, flowery writing. From all those people, most of whom she had gone to school with her whole life. But also from newcomers, from people she hardly even knew.

They had all wanted to sign her yearbook. To tell her how much they loved her, how much she meant to them. How they would never forget her. How they would always be friends.

Cathy read them all and forced herself to hold back the tears. Until she reached the end of the book. She paused for several moments and then reluctantly turned back to the class pictures.

There was the Senior Class. She looked at the once familiar faces, young and innocent. Faces she hadn't seen in far more than half her lifetime. And there was her face, radiant in the glory of youth. She was seventeen years old, master of her adolescent world, ready to embark on the greater world of adulthood. Under her name was printed the record of her achievements in high school. Eight full lines of small print to list all her clubs and organizations and honors.

And of course there was the Statement. For each Senior there was a special statement, a quotation, descriptive in nature, specially chosen for its applicability to the individual. One of the greatest anticipation's of the graduation yearbook was to see what was written about yourself. And your classmates.

Cathy's statement said, "The world belongs to the energetic."

Cathy turned to Mick's picture. How handsome Mick was in his coat and tie. A single line recorded that he had played football and baseball. Mick's statement was, "He's a good fellow and 'twill all be well."

"Oh Mick," Cathy sighed. "You were so handsome. They were all handsome. But none like you."

She had to admit that there were other boys in high school she had dated. She had liked them, loved them all in a way. And with a smile she flipped through the pages, searching for their pictures.

Here was Gary. He had that wonderful red hair. By the time he reached high school his youthful freckles had long since faded, leaving a very attractive face. And Frank with his mischievous, witty remarks. He was so much fun to be with. And across the page from Frank was Sammy. Sammy was a football player, too, with those broad shoulders and that little piggy face. What a man! And Dennis and Billy and Dexter. And of course Andy, the class cut-up. Andy, who would have given anything to join the Three Stooges. How could you not love someone whose greatest ambition in life was to be hit in the face with a pie?

Cathy looked up from the yearbook and smiled. For once all these memories made her feel good. Yes, she had been pretty and popular in high school, and for the moment nothing else mattered. She had Mick, and she had once had all these other boyfriends.

And suddenly the smile faded, to be replaced by a frown, and a strange, new thought came as if thrust into her mind by some outside force.

"And then there was Noel." She said the words out loud.

Strange that she should think of him. She had never gone out with Noel. He had asked her, to be sure, but she had always turned him down. Of course. She had never wanted his attentions.

Noel wasn't in her yearbook. He went to another school. And Cathy could hardly remember what he looked like. Plain? No, beyond that. Ordinary? Yes, so ordinary that you could only describe him as nondescript. There was nothing of the clown, of the wit, of the athlete in him.

"Noel must have been the un-funniest boy I ever knew." So why was she thinking about him? What was he? And then she remembered.

He was a scholar, a relentless seeker of knowledge and of the power and opportunities that knowledge would bring. And not just of knowledge and power per se, but also of the very environment in which they thrived.

"Noel was college and fraternity balls, the big game weekend and flirtation walks. He was banquets and research grants, soirées and PhD's. He was three-piece suits and executive jets, boardrooms and limousines.

"He wanted me."

He had invited her to come, too. To accompany him on the path he had chosen, the road he was bound to travel whether she came or not. And then he had disappeared down that road. Alone. Unlamented.

It was no wonder she never thought about Noel. It was no wonder she had never wanted him, although Cathy couldn't have explained why. She only knew that no one could ever take the place of Mick.

She was tired. It was now the middle of the night and she had to be up early in the morning. Not for work, not for any other reason. Just because she had to.

Cathy rose from the sofa. She returned the yearbook to its hiding place in the bureau. Hiding it not from Mick but from herself. And then she went to bed. But she didn't sleep. Not for a long time. The tears came again, gently trickling down her cheeks, wetting the pillow.

"Oh, Mick. Please don't ever leave me."