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“Let’s go to the Waterfront Restaurant,” Sunday says, pointing at a building that looks like a white shack on the water. It has several boats pulled up and docked right at the entrance to the restaurant. “We can get crab cake sandwiches.”
They walk in and are immediately hit by the scent of fried fish and onion rings. People are sitting at picnic style tables—some of the men are sitting sideways on the benches, facing one another as they drink glasses of sweet tea or soda—and the music that’s playing sounds like 1970s AM radio.
“Do you think they serve Chardonnay by the glass here?” Olive asks, frowning slightly as she scans the room for an empty table. There’s one by the window and they wait for a busy looking waitress to point them over to it.
Sunday glances at her daughter as she pulls out a metal chair with vinyl padding that looks like it belongs around a meeting table in an office. “No, babe. I’m sorry, but I might have forgot to mention that Tangier is a dry island.”
“Huh?” Olive looks up from the laminated menu that the waitress has placed in her hands. She looks like a little girl who’s just been told that there’s no dessert.
“You can bring alcohol onto the island and no one is going to search you or anything, but the locals prefer it if you don’t. We don’t sell it here, there are no bars, and most people don’t drink at all.”
Cameron is watching and listening to this exchange wordlessly. “So it’s like Utah?” she asks.
“Utah isn’t totally dry, contrary to popular belief,” Sunday says, skimming her own menu as she rests her elbows on the oilcloth table covering; it reminds her of the coveralls that the fishermen were wearing on the dock. “There are about nine cities where you can’t purchase liquor in Utah.”
“And you know this because?” Cameron stares at her over the top of her menu, which she’s holding daintily with just her fingertips as if it might be covered in germs.
“I’ve been to Utah a number of times. You know I traveled with your father basically everywhere.”
“Hmm.” Cameron looks back at her menu and says nothing else.
“Oh my sweet heavens!” An older woman with a completely gray bun is approaching their table slowly, her face full of wonder and joy. “Sunday Bellows?”
Sunday stands up slowly, and as she does, recognition dawns. “Miss Williams?”
“Honey, yes!” the woman says, holding out both of her arthritic hands for Sunday to grasp. “I haven’t seen you in nearly forty years, but I’d know you anywhere! And I’m not just saying that because you’re a famous woman married to a Vice President—you just haven’t changed a bit.”
“Miss Williams, I would love to introduce you to my daughters. This is Olive, and this is Cameron. Girls, this is Miss Williams, my very favorite teacher ever.”
“Oh, Sunday,” Miss Williams says, waving a hand and looking flattered. “You’re just saying that because none of your other teachers are standing here!”
“No, it’s true. You were someone who always believed in me, and I felt that. I loved your class.”
“I had your mother in my junior English class,” Miss Williams says to Olive and Cameron, her eyes dancing with delight. “She wrote one of the most flawless essays I’ve ever read from a student, and I taught here on the island for almost fifty years. Your mom is a smart cookie.”
“Yikes,” Cameron says. “I can’t imagine being a teacher for fifty years.”
Miss Williams looks at her with amusement. “You would be amazed at how quickly fifty years goes, dear.”
“Which essay are you talking about?” Sunday asks, shooting Cameron a warning look.
“The one you wrote about Edgar Allan Poe marrying his first cousin, and how her death drove him to despair and madness, which was reflected so succinctly in stories likeThe Tell-Tale Heart.”
Sunday shakes her head as she stands next to their table, looking at Miss Williams, who has to be close to eighty now. “I can’t believe you remember that.”
“Miss Bellows—or rather, Mrs. Bond—I can’t say that you ever forget your star pupils, no matter how far away life takes them. You just hope that the path they’re on somehow leads them to the educational opportunities they deserve.” She smiles beatifically at Sunday. “And did life lead you to college somewhere?”
Sunday feels her heart sink, because life had not, in fact, deposited her at Georgetown or Princeton or Yale, as Miss Williams so clearly hoped that it had. “Actually, it didn’t,” she says, trying to hold her head high. “I left Tangier and found my way to D.C., where I worked and lived until I met my husband. Then I became a mother, and now here I am.”
Miss Williams’ smile doesn’t falter in the slightest. “One of life’s greatest gifts,” she says, looking at Cameron and Olive, “is motherhood. I was never blessed with the chance to raise children, but I would have loved to.” She clasps her hands together. “We don’t always get what we want though, do we? Instead, we get what we need. For me, that was being a ‘school mom’ to thousands over children over the course of fifty years. And that was enough.”
“You were a wonderful school mom,” Sunday assures her, reaching out to take Miss Williams by the hand. “And I’m so happy you came by to say hello. It means the world to me.”
The two women embrace in a tight hug, and when Miss Williams finally steps back, there are tears in her blue eyes. “You are a wonder, Sunday Bellows,” she says, pulling a Kleenex from the pocket of her cardigan. “It was lovely to meet you young ladies,” she says to Olive and Cameron. “You’re lucky girls to have the mother you do.”
Sunday stands as Miss Williams walks to the door. A woman about half her age is waiting there, holding a coat for the older lady to slip her arms into.
“That’s so weird,” Olive says, shaking her head. “I never think of you as being in school, Mom. Like, having teachers and going to prom and stuff. Hey, did you go to prom?”
