Cabin at the Lake - Sex Stories

Cabin at the Lake

... nigger' and I know it and it takes so much energy not to hate them." Donna's hand is over her mouth once more. The boys stare straight ahead, eyes hard, jaws clenched. The shimmer in Julie's eyes threatens to choke my voice. "I never knew what was going on inside those ignorant old fools' heads," I tell my love, feeling utterly incapable of making up for the stupidity of the humankind but feeling I must try. "I'm not sure how or if I'll be able to handle this," I confess with a shake of my head. "How will I be able to take care of people if I'm able to see how ugly and rotten some of them are at their core?" Julie pats my hand. "You won't be able to help yourself. Sugar, you must have learned by now you can take care of people even though you don't like them all that much, some of 'em you may even hate. It's not much fun but you can do it." I shrug, not as reassured by her words as I'd like to. The others are staring at their feet. Donna has tears on her cheeks. Julie starts to laugh. "All ya'll just knock it off, ya bunch of pussies. You want to feel less guilty? I'll take you to hang around more black folks. Get a whiff or two of what's floating around in their heads and you'll understand that people are people, some are sweet, some are turds and most are a bit of both. So, suck it up, fools." ----- I feel a half a dozen kinds of shitty about what Mark is telling us about Julie. As soon as he spoke, every detail unfolded in my mind, gymnastics, baseball, hockey, all of it. ...

... And he's right, it's more than a dream. The impossible details are there. How could we have been in the stands watching Mark play hockey? Not as kids, as he was, but adults as we are today? Impossible. Yet, I have no doubt what we saw actually happened. Every flash of his blades, every thrown arc of shaved ice sparkling under the lights, had happened, exactly as we had seen. Gary and my sister turn to look at me before I begin to speak. They all do. "We had dinner with Julie's grandmother, Granny Thibideau. Julie called her Granny T because she could make her three year-old mouth say 'Thibideau'. She had snow white hair, wrapped up in a bun at the back of her neck." "And an ash walking stick, worn to a honey gold by her hands," Gary adds. The others nod. "Your mother was there," Julie adds. I had not recalled that until the moment she opened her mouth. Before I can speak, Mark begins again. "Your mother and Granny traced it all back, my parents and grandparents and great-great-great-how many every greats back, grandparents, and yours," he nods at us. "And yours," he tells Julie, squeezing her hand. "We're all related, distantly, but closer than a supposedly random gathering of people ought to be." I nod. "We all spring from a mulatto couple, from the part of Africa that becomes Liberia. Mark's ancestors encountered them in the Caribbean before immigrating to Massachusetts, a century before the Revolution." "They, our common ancestors, were slaves," Julie picks up the thread. ...