Over the Plain Houses. Julia Franks

Irenie Lambey felt alive, unfurled.

      The deacon Haver Brooks must have seen that the lady agent meant to park the motorcar and that there was no room for her to do so, because he waved her on just the way he would a man, and Irenie knew he meant to show her the place where the road bent and widened enough for a pull out. Moments later the two of them came slow-picking their way over the frozen ruts, Haver with his hat in his hands and circles darkening his armpits despite the cold, the USDA agent craning up at the trees, pressing the top of her small-brimmed hat with one hand while shielding her eyes with the flat of the other. Haver followed her gaze as if her curiosity had already infected him some too.

      Irenie’s sister Elizabeth leaned in to her ear. “Four churches in Eakin and she comes up here?”

      It was true. Other women wouldn’t have done that way, especially not without their husbands.

      Elizabeth jogged her infant up and down on her hip. “I wonder what it is she wants.”

      Irenie didn’t say a thing. If she had, it would have been something like this: how in the world did it feel to drive your own automobile to a place you’d never set eyes on and arrive there full of wonder and questions and not caring one whit what the people there said about you?

      Her sister shifted George Junior from one side of her pregnant belly to the other. Without thinking, Irenie raised her arms and took him, the infant miffling against her collarbone until the wet soaked through the cotton to her skin. She was glad he wasn’t hers. She had raised one and buried one, and now, at thirty-two, it seemed enough.

      Her son had told her something of the lady agent, how she’d visited the school at Christmas time, handing out a donated toy and a bristled toothbrush to each child in the class, how she’d taught a reading program after school. She was the new wife of Roger Furman, who also worked for the Department of Agriculture. But today she looked for all the world like she’d stepped from the pages of a catalog, her suit cut to the shape of her plumpish body, her hat tilted over her forehead, a wave of pretty dark hair curled against her collar.

      George Junior pushed his arms against Irenie’s sternum to examine her face.

      Across the yard, Haver was introducing the newcomer around, sweat shining across his forehead and chin.

      But George Junior had noticed that his mother was out of sight and began to lean away, twisting his head and torso in an effort to locate her. To distract him, Irenie opened her eyes wide and mouthed, “Wah, wah, wah,” until the baby’s attention swiveled back to her. She extended him a finger, and he wrapped it in his own, his eyes searching her features.

      She looked to check the newcomer again and caught up her breath. Mrs. Virginia Furman from the USDA extension office was already studying her.

      She panicked. Dropped her eyes to George Junior’ red red face. The stranger knew. Of all the women in the churchyard, she’d picked her right off.

      But what? What could she know? There was nothing to know, save that Irenie Lambey wondered what it was like to be her.

      The proper thing would be to nod or wave or make her way through the clusters of churchgoers to introduce herself. But Brodis was somewhere behind her now, perhaps watching, perhaps not. Her husband didn’t think much of the government extension office. And the fact that they’d sent a woman up the mountain on her own. . .Well.

      Now the lady agent stood by herself among the clusters of worshippers that broke and shifted and recombined. The youngest Hogsed boy stopped to talk to her, and the woman stooped down so that her face was the same level as his. And when he wandered off, she stood up, alone again, examining the outside of the clapboard church or brushing her hands against the naked branches of the ninemark bushes. Or looking at Irenie Lambey.

      Irenie put on like she didn’t notice.

      Now the woman bent at the knee and sat right back on her heels to make herself as short as the Hackett twins, who were both turned out in red scarves. The two little girls seemed to have plenty to tell the government worker, and she let them, nodding at something one of them said, or knitting her brow and holding an index finger against her chin, as if sorting out the best points of the conversation. The twins’ presentation gathered force, and soon they were interrupting one another and throwing their stick arms and shrieking with wild laughter, little girls still young enough to blurt the truth without questioning the way the world would receive it. (When, Irenie wondered, had she and her sister and the rest of them lost that freedom? Was it something their parents had taken away, or a thing they had given over of their own accord?)

      The lady agent was laughing too, throwing her head back to show white rabbity teeth, and then slapping her hand on her thigh, really and truly slapping it, the way only old men ever did. And then one of the Bledsoe boys ma’amed her and touched his hat, but none of the adults shook her hand nor waved in recognition. No one made room for her in their conversation, and soon she was by herself again.

      Irenie made up her mind that one day she’d introduce herself to the new agent from Eakin, whenever the earth had warmed and people went to socials and singings, whenever Brodis had left off standing behind her, and things were easier between them. When the time was right, she’d introduce herself as Preacher Lambey’s wife, and Brodis would be glad to see her neighbor the newcomer.

      The sound of the bell lolled through the yard. Irenie’s sister Elizabeth lifted George Junior from her arms. The clusters of churchgoers loosened and drifted toward the entrance. Once inside, Irenie’s eyes and ears adjusted to the dark and the din. The coal stove at the front glowed hot, and the new electric bulb illuminated a circle above the sinner’s bench, the wire serpenting along the beam of the ceiling. Behind the pulpit box, Jesus at the Last Supper spread his arms, portraits of the church’s elders at either side of Him. Below the bench sat the twenty or so saved members of the church, facing the congregation.

      Then the woman from the Department of Agriculture was at her side, quiet and brimming with intention. Irenie gave a little nod and moved toward the platform behind the pulpit, where she always sat. The woman kept pace with her. Irenie willed herself not to turn her head. She was halfway there. Then, unbelievably, a touch on her arm, insistent. The woman spoke, but not to introduce herself. Instead she pronounced the name of Irenie’s thirteen-year-old son.

      “Matthew. He’s yours?”

      Irenie stopped. So that was it. A problem with Matthew.

      “Yes.” Her voice came out more brittle than she’d intended. Something had happened in the school. He’d disappeared during recess or daydreamt in class. Or the other boys had stolen his lunch bucket or peed on his composition book. Or the woman had noticed that her son wasn’t included in marbles or climbing trees after school. That he walked on his own. She braced for the pity-heavy comment or the too-polite question, marshaling the regular defenses. Or maybe the woman was wanting to talk about his bodily frailty. Years ago there’d been ladies from another brought-on organization who’d staged lectures in the county courthouse about nutrition. But Matthew was never short of food. Even in the worst winters, Brodis put meat on the table. There was no one could say her husband didn’t provide.

      “I’m sorry to intrude. I’m Virginia Furman.” The woman was even younger than Irenie had figured her for, her face unlined and flushed, her lips and nose full, her eyes as big and brown as a spaniel’s. Except she wasn’t a spaniel. Anyone could see that. She was a woman who kept her own privilege.

      “I know who you are,” Irenie said. “I’ve got to—my husband is the—excuse me.” Dee Dawson brushed past her. Elizabeth watched from across the aisle.

      The other woman touched her arm again. Her voice was urgent. “I’m sorry to be so forward. It’s just that. . . he’s so intelligent, so much keener than anyone else in his class. . .”

      Irenie felt an unbidden rush of affection. People didn’t describe her son that way. What they mostly did was describe his peculiarities. Then, if the speaker were feeling charitable, she might say, “But he does seem clever.”

      Mrs.