Rock House
Julia Lyon


“Would you put your feet down?”
Caroline increased the volume of her iPod to a deafening level and left her feet where they were on the dashboard of Mrs. Sanders’ silver Mazda. She smacked her gum and blew a large bubble. It wasn’t that she disliked Mrs. Sanders. Actually, the opposite was true. Mrs. Sanders had been her case worker for almost four years, since she was only five years old. It was just . . . They were almost there. She wore a pair of oversized sunglasses that dwarfed her face. Behind those dark lenses, Caroline strained to get a good first look at the house. It was difficult, because she was trying to appear as if she didn’t care. This would be her third foster home this year. All she could see from the passenger side window were empty fields. They had been driving down this highway for what seemed like hours and Caroline had yet to spot any sort of building.
Mrs. Sanders took a sudden sharp left onto a drive that Caroline hadn’t noticed. It was bordered by the only trees she had seen for miles. She pulled her feet down, sat up, and turned her music to silence, leaving the earphones in her ears. She pulled her shades down from her face, curiosity defeating her stoic front. The driveway wound on forever, twisting and turning in the midst of all these trees. The June sun struggled to find the ground, wandering first through all the leaves overhead.
The car came to an abrupt halt. Caroline looked over at Mrs. Sanders, who was getting out of the car. She glanced around. There was a mailbox nailed to a tree trunk, but no house in sight.
“Come on,” Mrs. Sanders encouraged, “it’s not far.”
Caroline slipped her sunglasses back onto her face. They made her seem much older than she really was. She reached for her duffel bag from the back seat, got out of the car, and stood, staring after Mrs. Sanders, who had already started walking, carrying Caroline’s other bag. She thought for a second about just waiting for Mrs. Sanders to give up and come back, and then she trudged after her.
Walking, she tried to remember everything that Mrs. Sanders had told her in the car. She had pretended not to listen, and Mrs. Sanders hadn’t told her much. Caroline knew there was a boy just a little younger than she was, Alex, or Allen, or something. There was an older boy, too. She couldn’t remember his name, but he was nearly sixteen.
When Mrs. Sanders stopped walking, Caroline looked up. And there it was – the oddest house she had ever seen. It was built of stone, and the bulk of it was at first hidden from view by a pair of towering oak trees. Deep ivy covered a portion of the front wall. The strangest thing that struck Caroline was that the house was no particular shape. It wasn’t made up of rectangles like regular houses, but rather seemed to curve between trees and over gullies. The front door was recessed under an alcove and made of a dark wood. It, too, had no particular shape.
“Sunglasses,” Mrs. Sanders held out her hand. Caroline knew there was no use in arguing. “iPod.” She handed them over. Stripped of her security blankets, Caroline seemed her actual age, much younger than she pretended to be.
Mrs. Sanders rang the doorbell, and they stood on the porch and waited. Mrs. Sanders rang again. Caroline shifted from one foot to the other. She could hear voices inside. Finally, the door opened and a boy about Caroline’s height stared out at them.
“Hi,” said Mrs. Sanders, “where’s your dad, sweetheart?”
The boy looked from Mrs. Sanders to Caroline and back again. And then the door closed. A few seconds later it opened again. Caroline braced herself. These introductions were always horrible.
But all Mr. McKine said was, “Mrs. Sanders, Caroline, come on in.” He didn’t tell Caroline how cute she was or ask about the car ride out here. He didn’t say anything weird like “welcome to the family,” either. He opened the door wide and led them into the kitchen. Caroline saw the little boy who had answered the door sitting on the stairs, watching them. He stuck out his tongue at her. She made a monkey face back, complete with crossed eyes. He smiled and followed them into the kitchen.
“Christopher,” Mr. McKine called in the direction of the staircase. “Caroline’s here.” He turned back to them, “Would you all like some lemonade? Blake made it.”
So that was the little boy’s name, Blake, thought Caroline. Mrs. Sanders glanced at Caroline as if cueing her line.
“No thank you, sir,” came the programmed response. Mr. McKine smiled, a real smile, and winked.
“Call me Don.”
 
Christopher walked in with his younger brother in tow. The boys were both dark
complexioned like Mr. McKine and had straight dark hair. Chris’ fell into his face, sweeping across his forehead. Blake’s was cut short and stuck out at odd angles.
“Show Caroline her room, Chris, while I talk to Mrs. Sanders.”
Chris took one of Caroline’s bags, slung it over his shoulder and headed back towards the stairs. Caroline followed. The entire house was made of stone; even the floors were a mosaic of huge grey rocks. And there were paintings everywhere- paintings of flowers and sunsets full of orange and green, portraits of Chris and Blake.
“Dad’s a freelance,” muttered Chris, “and this is your room.” He set her bag on the bed, and then left. Caroline stared after him for a second and then turned her attention to the room. It was round. Well not round exactly, more like an octagon but with even more sides. Each side was painted a different color, and a row of paint cans sat on the floor.
“We didn’t know what color girls like, so we painted with all of them.” Blake sat on the floor with his back against the bed. “This way you can pick your favorite.”
Caroline turned from the window and ran her hand along the edge of the dresser. It was like she had fallen into the setting of a fairy tale.
“How do you know I’m going to stick around long enough to paint a whole room?”
“I don’t know.” He was quiet for a second as if seriously pondering this. “Are you done looking at your room, yet?” asked Blake, “’cause Dad said when you were done we could play outside.”
“What makes you think I’d want to play with you?” Caroline snapped.
“What else are you going to do?”
“I don’t know, something. How old are you, anyway?”
“Seven and a half,” Blake answered, standing up.
“Well I’m nine.” She backed into the hallway, took a running start and bellyflopped onto the bed.


In the kitchen, Mrs. Sanders and Mr. McKine were still talking. Their voices were low, but not low enough. From the top of the stairs Caroline heard every word.
“You know she’s been placed three times this year,” Mrs. Sanders was saying.
“I know.”
“Don’t be too hard on yourself if this doesn’t, you know, work out in the long run.” Caroline crept down one stair at a time until she had a clear view of the kitchen table. They were sitting there, drinking Blake’s lemonade. Mrs. Sanders back was turned towards her and Mr. McKine stared intently at his drink. She sneaked a little closer.
Mrs. Sanders was telling a story that Caroline had heard many times. She didn’t want to hear it again, so she slowly crept back upstairs.

Before she left, Mrs. Sanders went up to say good-bye to Caroline.
“Be good,” she whispered.
“Always am,” came the retort. “See you in two weeks.”
“Try, Caroline. Just think, maybe you’ll never have to see me again. These people could be your family. All you have to do is let them.”
“Week and a half, then.”
Caroline stood at the front door staring after Mrs. Sanders until long after she had disappeared in the distance. Mrs. Sanders was the closest thing she had ever had to family. She had been placed in fourteen homes since she was five years old, and she’d never managed to stay in one more than a month.
She wasn’t a bad kid; she just got tired of pretending to belong. Nothing ever felt as good as she thought a family should. Things would start off alright, and then after a little while it was inevitable; she’d run.


It rained the next few days, and everyone was trapped indoors. Mr. McKine spent most of his time in the basement. His studio, Chris explained. Christopher was in the middle of teaching himself to play guitar. He spent hours locked in his room either practicing a chord over and over again or blaring rock music. Blake floated between the two, alternatively begging Chris to let him in, and wandering through his dad’s studio. Caroline stuck close to Blake’s side.
In her mind, Caroline imagined herself at summer camp. This was just a few weeks out of the summer, spent doing crafts, sleeping in a strange bed, surrounded by strange people. She liked it here though, and decided to give up on her week and a half bet with Mrs. Sanders. Now she was thinking maybe she’d give the McKines three weeks before she left.
One night, a thunderstorm woke Caroline. Rain slammed itself against her window. She wasn’t scared, but she couldn’t sleep either. She slipped out of bed, and quietly wandered downstairs. In the basement, she flipped on the lights. The studio was huge and completely white. This wasn’t exactly against the rules, but she knew Mr. McKine wouldn’t want her down here when he wasn’t there.
When she’d come down here with Blake, Mr. McKine was always in the middle of some project. He let the two of them paint on scrap canvas, but Caroline had noticed that Blake was very careful not to disturb his dad’s work. She’d never seen any of Mr. McKine’s paintings in progress. She was more than curious. There were six or so easels set up in a corner of the room. Caroline walked straight towards them. She expected to see more paintings like the ones she had noticed upstairs. But these were different.
In essence, they were all the same painting - the portrait of a young woman with bright green eyes sitting in front of shelves and shelves of books. It looked like Mr. McKine had attempted to paint this woman, given up and then started again – five more times. The canvas immediately to Caroline’s left was marred by a splash of bright blue paint; the one closest to the wall was unfinished.
Caroline heard a door creak upstairs, and remembered suddenly that she didn’t want to be caught down here. She scrambled for the stairs and hurried back to bed. The storm had passed, but she still couldn’t sleep. She had too much to think about.


The first sunny morning, Caroline woke with a jolt. Blake was standing at the edge of her bed, asking her something.
“Want to go exploring?”
“I’m asleep.”
“Not anymore, come on.”
“Fine,” Caroline growled.
Blake was already heading out the door. Caroline slipped into the clothes she had been wearing the day before and ran after him. She was curious.
The McKine house seemed to be situated in the middle of a forest. But really it was just a grove of trees that ended abruptly and gave way to desolate fields. There were huge rocks everywhere. It looked like the house had been built out of the smaller ones.
“Dad says that’s why no one will farm out here,” explained Blake, “there’s too many rocks.”
Blake knew his way around out here, but Caroline was slower, unsure of her footing on the rocky earth.
“Come on, I’ll show you my treehouse,” Blake called over his shoulder. He was carrying a knapsack, wearing the most ridiculous bright purple hat Caroline had ever seen, and no shoes. “My mom helped me build it.”
“Your mom?” asked Caroline.
“Yeah, Dad didn’t know how. He’s good at painting though; after we finished, he and Chris painted all the walls camouflage so no one can ever find it.”
He was right. All Caroline could see when Blake stopped was a rope ladder hanging down from a tree. Blake dropped all of his stuff into a crate beside the ladder and started to climb up. Now, standing directly under the ladder, Caroline got her first glimpse of the structure. It was huge. Not your typical square plywood tree house with a hole cut into the floor; no, this was incredible.
“Wow,” breathed Caroline when she finally reached the top of the ladder and pulled herself inside. The tree house wrapped itself around the trunk of the tree. It was big enough to stand up in, and there were windows all the way around. Limbs cut through the open space. One supported a pulley system that Blake was now using to raise the wooden crate with his knapsack into the tree. There were books, and paint. Maps of places Caroline had never heard of covered the walls. Caroline picked up a book and noticed it was covered with a layer of dust. She blew it away and then looking around, realized that everything in the tree house was covered with dust. Most of the walls had been broken in places.
“Why--?” she began, but Blake cut her off.
“I quit coming, after.” He stood pointing out a particularly large window. It overlooked a hillside dotted with purple wildflowers.
“What?” she said.
Blake just kept staring. And then she saw it, mixed among the wildflowers was the subtle outline of a grave.
“Oh,” she said slowly, “I get it. You know both of mine are dead, right?”
“Yeah,” came the response, “Let’s patch up some of these holes.” Blake pulled a hammer and a bag of nails from his knapsack. Caroline surveyed the situation.
“I think we’ll have to fix some of these from the outside.” She took the hammer from Blake and moved toward the largest hole.
“It’s too dangerous,” said Blake, “Let me do it,”
Caroline thought about arguing for a second, after all she was older, but then she decided against it. It was his tree house. She relinquished the hammer. Blake crawled through the opening and onto a branch outside.
“Be careful,” said Caroline, but before she could even get the words out she heard him fall.


When Blake didn’t respond, Caroline ran for the house. Mr. McKine met her in the yard. All she had to say was “treehouse.” The look on her face told the rest of the story. She sat with Christopher on the back steps, as instructed, until Mr. McKine returned carrying a semi-conscious Blake. As he headed for the car, Caroline noticed the tears that filled the corners of his eyes. The thought hit her deep in her gut, this is my fault.
“He’ll be fine,” Chris reassured her, “kids do dumb stuff like that all the time.”
As soon as the car was out of sight, Caroline ran into the house and to her room. She stuffed her clothes into her duffel bag, glanced at the row of paint cans lining the floor one last time, and then she ran.
Usually when she decided to leave a place, she had a plan. But now she just ran as hard as she possibly could, in no particular direction, with no particular destination in mind. She just ran. When she started breathing so hard that she thought her lungs might burst she stopped, dropped her bag, and sank to the ground beside it. She was on the hillside, the one that the tree house overlooked. She picked at the wildflowers and let them blow away. She watched a ladybug crawl all the way to the top of a flower stem, only to be knocked down by the wind. She thought hard about her next move and finally decided she really didn’t have one.
She sat there for what seemed like hours. And then suddenly she felt Mr. McKine sitting down in the grass beside her. She couldn’t bear to look at him.
“Caroline,” he whispered. “You scared me.” Caroline pulled away slightly.
“Blake’s fine,” he answered, reading the question on her face. “He broke his arm, but it’ll heal.” They sat in silence for a few minutes and then he added, “I thought you had left us for good.”
Caroline looked into his face now and saw that his eyes were filled with tears just like they had been a few hours earlier.
“Mr. McKine,” Caroline said and then corrected herself, “Don.”
“Yeah?”
Caroline took a deep breath and then did something she had not found the courage to do in her entire life. She looked Mr. McKine in the eye. “Do you think I could stay?” she asked.


When the two of them got back to the house, Caroline ran up to Blake’s room, but he wasn’t there. She looked in the studio, checked Chris’ room and downstairs, and then finally her own room.
And there he was, sitting on the edge of the window sill, arm wrapped in a new cast and hung in a sling. He was there, waiting for her.
“Want to help me with something?” she asked Blake. He stared at her a little tentatively and then nodded.
“My favorite color’s green,” she said and picked up a paint brush.

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Tag der Veröffentlichung: 10.01.2010

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