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I didn’t know what to say, even though I’d read Mrs. Stowe’s book. Lorna was in the mood for talking, though. She seemed a much less crusty person than she’d been at the plantation. She said, "I reckon Massa Richard don’ talk about dat much, and maybe he nevah tol’ Missy Helen dat at all. You know, dey make ol’ missy out to be a saint in heaven, but when it come right down to it, she waren’t dat at all. She nevah barked, but she didn’ mine bitin’. An’ she could sell a niggah quick as you please. Missy Bella is a lot like ’er, but dey nevah says dat, ’cause Missy Bella, she jes’ cain’ control herself. She git mad and she hit out. But ol’ missy, she git jes’ as mad, but den she lay in wait for ya, when you thought she ware ovah it. Dat’s what happen wid Delia. She had a year-old boy wid her man, who daid now, boy name Mosie. Well, one day she done somethin’ dat missy didn’ like—I nevah hear what it was. Missy say, ’Delia, you have seriously displeased me today!’ an’ den Delia thought she forgot about it. ’Bout two months latah, missy had her a baby dat war Helen, an’ she say she ain’ got no milk for de new baby, cain’ get none, none would come. So she tol’ Massa Richard he got to sell Mosie so Delia would nuss baby Helen, and Massa Richard, he go ’bout wid a long face for a day or so, but in de end, ol’ missy got her way, like she always did, from smilin’ and makin’ up to ’im, and dey done sold dat chile, dey say he war weaned, it wouldn’ hurt him to go off, jes’ like he war a horse or suchlike, and right den I tol’ myself I ain’ havin’ no babies on dat place, no mattah what my man say. Well, Delia, she cry and moan about dat boy for yeahs, but when ol’ missy died, she wep’ for her, too, and she love Missy Helen and all, but I didn’ shed no tears for ol’ missy, and I always held it against Missy Helen, wheder it her fault or no. I do hold a grudge, dat’s for sure."

I don’t know why I found this story so shocking, as I had heard stories like this many times, but to hear it in Lorna’s own voice, and to know Helen and Papa and Delia and to imagine the scenes in the very rooms of Day’s End Plantation that I knew so well made it hard for me to take in. I exclaimed, "I believe you!" and Lorna looked at me and said, "Well, why shouldn’ you? I is tellin’ de truth. I war ten or eleven den, I guess, still a girl, but I knowed by dat time what it would be to be a woman on dat place, an’ when my man come ’round, I tol’ ’im dat we ain’ makin’ no babies for ol’ missy to sell away, and anyway, he done went off to buy hisself real quick after we done got married."

"I know such things happen."

"We don’ know all dat happen in slavery, an’ I always thought we don’ want to know. Ifn my days is good enough, an’ I hate ’em, den I cain’ think about de days of de others, dat is terrible bad, down Louisiana way an’ dem other places."

"You are quite a philosopher, Lorna."

"Is dat so?" She sounded both skeptical and resentful, and I saw that talking about these things had made her angry. I said, "I’m sorry to be so inquisitive."

She harrumphed, and we walked on in silence.

Twice more, horses came by, once a group of three, once a group of four, and both times we found places to hide while they passed. The men were all drunk, and not especially observant, or they might have seen our light-colored dresses or heard us rustle the leaves. It is impossible for a woman in a long skirt and a petticoat to be absolutely, or even relatively, silent. I knew we would be better off the road. But this was the only way I knew to Kansas City, and I was afraid of getting lost in the darkness. Nor did we want to appear furtive. Not escapees, but a woman and her girl, a little bit short of funds owing to high prices and romantic betrayal. That’s who we were, if only we could remember to be that. We made good progress, though I had pains up my legs from the lightness of my shoes, which seemed to give way to every little stone or pebble.

After a while, I said, "Tell me more. Tell me about the last time you ran away."

"Missy