There were at least half a dozen serving trays of fried chicken, beef, and pork ribs, dozens of casseroles, deviled eggs, green beans, and buttered mashed potatoes. We found our way to a table covered with a pale-blue paper cloth. I ate while Sunny continued to receive compliments on her singing and thanks for the attentions she’d shown Louella over the years. I thought of afternoons in Montague Village, spread out on the couch under a blanket, watching soap operas with Sunny while my mother was at work. Here was my second mother, the woman who had rescued my mother and taken her in and made us a little family, only to be left alone again while my mother and I had taken up with the kind of people who snickered at Sunny in the airport.

“Aunt Sunny,” I said, “can I ask you something?”

“What, hon?”

“When’s the last time you saw my grandparents?”

“Years and years,” she said. “How come?”

“What did you think of them?”

Sunny put her plastic fork down.

“I didn’t know them too well,” she said. “Your granddaddy went to college in Charleston, which is where he met your grandmother. My daddy said when he went off to college he was Chuck and when he came back he was Charles. Know what I mean?”

I nodded.

“After that, they weren’t too close. My daddy was bass fishing and squirrel hunting. Your granddaddy was golf and cards. Plus our side of the family was Baptists. Your granddaddy’s was Presbyterian. Daddy said Presbyterians were just Baptists with airs, you know.”

She sipped her tea.

“We didn’t see much of your mama’s family outside of the holidays and at the big reunion in the spring. Your great-aunt Norma was the one who kept it going. They’d rent some place out and get the whole clan together for a big fish fry every year. That’s how I got to know your mama. She was cute as pie. You know the way you get attached to people.

“Those reunions were a hoot. Most of our family was teetotalers, so nobody drank anything stronger than lemonade. But there was a mountain of fried catfish and hush puppies and coleslaw. A bunch of the cousins would bring their guitars and banjos, and after supper we’d all gather ’round together and sing old-time music. Believe it or not, your granddaddy was a heckuva singer. That song I did back in the church was one of his favorites. He used to get up and sing ‘Wayfaring Stranger’ like to put Glen Campbell to shame.”

“You were amazing,” I said.

“Well, thank you. It’s a sad song, isn’t it?” Sunny said. “You can sing it country or gospel. I like it both ways, myself. Chuck done it real different from how I done it today. Why are you asking, hon?”

She picked at her chicken.

“I wish I knew them.”