Mum comes home twice a week by Toni Castillo Girona (books for 8th graders .txt) 📕

ages, he observed it largely. Then, he said: “It's odd, it is, indeed.”, to that he sighed: “I got out of there at sunrise, as I was told.”, his friend put his gaze away from the cigar for a bit and looked at him, puzzled: “So?” “So,”, he explained, “I came home pretty early in the morning.”. “Didn't you see her?”, asked his friend, frowning. “Nope.” “As I said, weird, so weird, indeed.” That smoke coming out from that splendid cigar seemed to cover them completely, as if trying to make them invisible. “You need to forget all about her, old chap.”, pointed out his friend, “It seems to me this is not going to do any good to you.” He nodded, almost absently. Some paces afar, a child was playing with a black ball. His mother was comfortably seated on a bench opposite him, reading The Picture of Dorian Gray

. She was beautiful, as beautiful as almost her beloved, he thought, and her delicate neck was protected from the cold by a woollen red scarf. From time to time, she looked up, put her book aside, upon the bench, marking carefully the last read page using a bookmark, and kept an eye on her son. “Be careful, sweetheart”, she said sometime, “Don't! Don't!”, she said later on, “Now, that's quite rude to do!”, she screamed once, and “Don't make me get up!”, said she crossed enough, looking daggers at her almost scared son. He smiled. “Why, it is only a child. Don't be so rough.”, he said in a whisper. “What?”, asked his friend, looking at him. “Never mind.”, he responded. “So,”, started his friend again,” what are you going to do?” “'bout what?”, he asked back. “Why, 'bout her, obviously.”, shouted that friend of his, quite astonished. “Oh, I don't know yet. Maybe I'm going to pay her a visit tomorrow evening, her mother is not going to be there, I guess.” So, his friend shocked his head violently, and said: “No, you are not.” The kid was crying. Something had happened to him whilst he was distracted talking to his friend. His mother got up hastily, and put herself beside her son trying to determine what was, in fact, wrong. “What have you done?”, she asked, dusting his pants. “Fool!”, she screamed, angrily. “How awful!”, she added, putting an exceptional effort in cleaning the poor kid's trousers from dust, mud and some glued snow. “I beg your pardon?”, asked his friend. “Don't make a fool of yourself, goddammit

!”, said he. “You cannot go back there, that would be pointless. Go look for another pretty face elsewhere!”, his cigar was almost done. “She's more than a pretty face, you know.” “It does not matter: she is a dark horse, you said so. I don't like dark horses among me and the friends of mine.” He laughed: “No, of course you don't.”

He looked back at that mother and her son. The child was done with the crying, but her mother was talking to him down. At least, he thought, she is not screaming, any more. The book she left upon the bench was opened by some undetermined page, and a cold wind coming all of a sudden paged the book to and fro, as if some supernatural entity was trying to read the book chaotically, in such an extravagant order. “Let's go home this instant,”, said the mother, “it's getting windy.” And then, they disappeared somewhere behind a pack of frozen white dead bushes. “You see,”, said he, “I would like to be that kid's father.” “How awful!”, shouted his friend, looking at him scared. “You surely don't want that

!”, and then continued as if explaining an obvious universal truth to such an slow student in some a-long-time-ago

forsaken classroom, “to be engaged is to be dead, my friend.”, he frowned. “Don't look at me like that, you know I am right.” “No, I don't.” That wind breezed again, and he decided it was the right time to come back home. “That woman was not mistaken at all: it is getting awfully windy.” “So, what?”, asked his friend. “So, I'm making a move home. You come?” His friend seemed to ponder for a bit, then responded: “Sure, my cigar's done. There's nothing here for me, any more.” They got up and started to walk out the gardens.

He looked back. He thought it was really odd to see that bench empty, not even five seconds right after getting up from there, and now it looked at him absent, simply wooden material, painted brown, put there in order to be useful, alone if it were not for the others, more or less looking the same, accompanying it, absolutely unconcerned. And what about that bench, some paces away, where that mother had been seated reading her book? Empty, as well. “Look,”, said he to his friend, pointing at some further distance. “What is it?” “There's nothing there. Just emptiness.” That friend of his, looking puzzled, said finally: “Why, old chap, I guess you are as odd as that fiancé

of yours.”

But I am right, he thought, because there was no one else in those gardens. The latest human being presence was finally over, and now the dead trees and the frozen white bushes, among the painted brown benches, were the only creatures dwelling there.

3

“She says beauty is a stationary state,”, her words were spoken calmly, clearly. The fireplace was still offering warmth and cosiness, as the logs were crackling and burning down, inside that ancient mammoth house, “so, I am

a stationary beauty, you see.” “Oh, we are all such stationary beings, that's for sure.”, said he. “She is fond of me,”, she added quite suddenly, “because of that.” He could not understand that. “Why?”, he asked her. “She is getting on a bit, she is tired and somehow exhausted and she thinks she is not worthy any more.”, she confessed, sadly, looking at the back of her hands: “Look,” she said, lifting them both, “can you see it?” “I don't know what you mean.”, he admitted, mystified. She smiled and put her hands down. “I guess you are like the others.” She came forth, where she could survey him deeply. “What do you want from me?”, asked he. “It's not what I want, but what mum

wants. She's got rules

.”

A knock came to the front door quite suddenly. She turned back, startled. “Who could that be?”, she asked herself, and left the drawing room smoothly. He stood his ground, almost paralysed. He did not dare to make a move, but he could hear her talking. “To whom?”, he thought. “Look, it is not even dark.” “It can't be her mum, she said...” The front door was shut. She came back, showing a sad expression of extreme disgust. “Well, is anything wrong?”, he asked. “Not sure.”, she responded, looking down at the floor, as if seeking for something. “Well, who was it?”, he tried again, hopeless. “Oh,”, she lift her head a bit, “ it was a police officer.” He shuddered. “What? Why?”, he demanded to know. “Oh, that's something I cannot tell.” “For God's sake!”, he exclaimed, staring at her a bit suspicious. “Does it have anything to do with your mother?” “You dare!”, she blasted, “Don't talk about my mum like that!” She went by the wooden stool, in front of the sole drawing room window, and sat down. “She's got rules, as I said. That is all.” He came closer, and knelt on the tiled floor, right in front of her. He put his hands upon her knees. “I'm so sorry, darling. I didn't mean....” “Oh, it is okay, you could not know.” She smiled at him. “Tell me all about those rules of hers, I want to know.” She put her own hands upon his, so the effect was quite dramatic. “I love you.”, she said, strangely. “Oh, but I do

know that.” “But still,”, she whispered, “ I had to say it.” He got up and taking her hands drove her closer to the hearth. A frugal kiss was intended, but she unfolded her arms and pushed him away. “Don't.”, she said. He tried again, this time she revealed to be stronger. “What's wrong?”, he asked. “Mum is not going to tolerate such a behaviour in her own house.” “What the...!”, he shouted, loudly. “She's got rules. She said so when she arrived 'ere and she smelled

you.” He was totally astonished. He let his arms fell down, suspended, supported only by his own shoulders, with his fingers touching the void, his skin feeling the warmth sprat out by the hearth, right behind him. “She said I should take care of myself as long as you were 'ere.”

Rules

. How odd! Rules and cosy fireplaces where one could feel that stationary beauty talking nonsense. “Tell me, then, what those rules are all about.”, he implored. “I beg you, I want to know. I need to know. I have to.” She grinned: “I guess you are going to hate them.” He took a deep breath and said: “I'll avoid speaking mind, I promise.” She put a straight face and kissed him in the forehead. “You're so sweet, my dear.” Then, she walked some paces away, turning her back on him and looked outside through that sole window, unaware of the darkness. “So be it.”, she added.

4

There was an empty cup all by itself upon the round marbled table of the café

. Seated at it, he was peering inside that cup quite intently. Apart from the yellow-coloured ceramic bottom, he could see no more. Inside, the snugness, the almost childish sensation he was perfectly safe among all those who, like him, were having coffees and chats, and laughs and cries, and hopes and desires. A waiter came, carrying another cup of coffee. He put it upon the table using his left hand, whilst taking the other with his right. “Anything else?”, the waiter asked. “No, I'm fine, thanks.” No; he was not: he brushed away an imaginary strand of hair over his forehead, and sipped some more coffee from that new this time green-coloured ceramic cup. “Hey

, old chap!” he heard out of the blue, and turning his head around he could see his friend, smiling, taking a seat in front of him. “So, how are you doing?” He left a book upon the table, before him. It was in a bad condition, meaning it was read thousands of times. Its cover had such a lack of colour, depicting an ancient ghastly manor, surrounded by high hills almost fainted because of a pale-yellowish dense mist. Some dark tree branches were embracing the house. “Oh, old chap, you look so pale!”, said his friend. “What happened last night?”, he wanted to know. “She told me things

.” “Well, what things could these possibly be?” He left the cup upon the table, empty. “You are not going to believe me.”, he added, dryly. “Try me.” Another waiter came, not carrying anything, and asked his friend what it would be. “Oh, I'll have a black coffee, please.” The waiter bowed, and vanished almost instantly, only to reappear after a few seconds with a hot pink-coloured ceramic cup, this time bigger than the ones containing just coffee, and put it upon the table, right in front of him, beside that second hand book. “There you are, Sir.” “Thank you”, said he, and then, having a sip from it he turned his face directly towards him, and added: “now, it is time for you to tell me all about those creepy things she filled you in. I'm all ears.”

Winter, cold, and loneliness. That could perfectly be such a fair description of that mysterious girl he was in love with. He spent some minutes trying to find the words in order to explain, plainly,