Joel hasn’t seen his grandma since his wedding to Jill six months ago. As they drive onto the rattly bridge that spans the Spoon River, Jill says, “She seemed awfully sweet at the wedding.” With the recent spring rains, the river is up almost to the wooden planks of the old bridge.

“Grandma can be sweet,” Joel replies, “but she has her gruff side, too.” He slows the car. Stops. “Wow, the creek is really high,” he says.

Out the passenger side window Jill observes the swiftly flowing water. “Lucky it stopped raining, huh?”

“I guess,” Joel says, putting the car in gear. “But if it’s raining up north, that could be a problem. Or if something snags down south, things back up here. They get you coming and going.” The car thumps across the bridge and pulls up the long gravel driveway, following telephone poles like breadcrumbs to the single story, white clapboard farmhouse, which sits atop the gentle swell of a small hill, only an old tree for company.

“Did your grandma ever spank you?” Jill’s gray-green eyes gleam naughtily.

“She didn’t need to.”

“Oh, so you were never a bad little boy?”

“Why, were you a naughty little girl?”

Smiling impishly, Jill shakes her head, her scruffy mop of rust-blonde hair a nimbus of innocence and lust. Joel parks in the shade of the ancient cottonwood and they step out of the car. “Ah, smell that fresh country air,” Jill says, and stretches and sighs, her spring blouse lifting, showing the pale skin of her trim tummy, there, as everywhere, dusted with faint freckles.

Joel’s grandma is just stepping out of the house onto the wide wooden porch. “Why what a surprise,” she says, beaming.

“I know we should have called,” Joel says. “But we both had the day off, and we figured we’d just...”

“You caught me on the way to bridge,” Joel’s grandma says. “Every Thursday at high noon you know. You two make yourselves at home.” Though not tall, still she manages to give the lanky Joel a kiss on the forehead. Jill, who at five-five in her Bearpaw boots is a bit shorter than Joel’s grandma, gets a sturdy hug, and then Grandma is striding to her pale green Prius.

Joel and Jill watch the Prius glide down the gravel driveway, cross the little bridge, and swing onto the state road. “I’d forgotten about her bridge club,” Joel says. “She took it up after grandpa died. I was about eleven then. I don’t think she’s missed a week. They play at the community center two towns over. She won’t be back until six.” Grandma’s car is out of sight now. Joel takes Jill’s hand. “I wonder what happened to the old Ford pickup. I learned to drive on that. Stick.” He leads Jill into the house. “Can I get you something? A glass of water?”

“I gotta pee real bad,” Jill says. “Is there indoor plumbing?”

Joel laughs. He leads Jill through the small and spare living room. The bathroom is in the hall between the kitchen and Grandma’s bedroom, opposite the stairway up to the attic. Joel goes to the refrigerator and opens the door, but after a moment he closes it without having taken anything out.

“Now what?” Jill asks, her hands on Joel’s shoulders, around his waist, back to his shoulders.

Joel is looking out the window over the sink while Jill rubs his neck. “We could go for a walk,” he says, “but there’s not much to see. Cornfields from here to eternity in every direction.”

“I didn’t see any corn.”

“That’s because it hasn’t been planted yet, silly.”

“Okay, but how come there’s no barn?” Jill and Joel have reversed positions. Jill now stands in front of Joel. His hands caress her neck.

“A tornado took it down years ago. Even then there wasn’t a need for it. Grandma and Grandpa rented out their fields. Everything harvested was hauled away. But I used to walk through the corn sometimes. In the summer when it’s over your head you could lose yourself, but what with all the rain there’s nothing but mud now.”

“Good-looking mud, though,” Jill allows. “Dark and rich like the best hot chocolate.”

Joel laughs. “I never thought about it that way. Do you want to go out and roll around in it?”

Jill chuckles. She moves her bottom just enough to feel Joel’s firmness. She glances back over her shoulder at his face. “That’s okay. I’d rather see your boyhood bedroom.”

“Converted attic,” Joel says, leading the way back through the kitchen to the hall and up the steep, narrow staircase. “Maybe we could play Monopoly or Careers. I’ve got all these board games, some of them never opened.”

“How come?”

“No one to play with.”

“So why’d you get them?”

“Christmas and birthday presents from my Uncle Max. Still, the games were better than all the ‘practical’ gifts from my great aunts—all those woolen socks and scratchy sweaters. I preferred Monopoly even if there was no one to play it with.”

“I don’t guess Monopoly is a good game for solitaire.”

Joel laughs. They’ve reached the landing at the top of the stairs. “Uncle Max did give me one useful thing. My first real baseball mitt. It was a Ryne Sandburg. I loved that mitt. I oiled it every night. Sometimes Grandpa even played catch with me. He didn’t have a mitt, but he could catch barehanded. I guess I didn’t throw all that hard.” Joel frowns.

“What?”

“I was just thinking about that mitt,” Joel says. “I guess it wasn’t so useful after all. I didn’t make the freshman team in high school.” A blush colors his face and neck.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Come on, tell me.”

“I’m too embarrassed.”

“Please.”

“Okay. When I didn’t make the team, I masturbated into the glove. Right onto the sweet spot.”

“Oh, sweetie.” Jill takes Joel’s hand. “I would have liked to see that.”

“See, I’d been saving myself for the tryouts. Somehow I managed to go a week without ... doing it. All for nothing.”

“I bet there was a lot of stuff.”

Joel shrugs.

“Oh, sweetie, don’t be glum.” She squeezes his fingers. “You could make my team any day. And I’d never make you go a week without. I’d want you to oil my sweet spot every day. And twice on Sunday. Do you still have that glove?”

“Sure,” Joel says, opening the door to the attic stairs. “I’ve got everything. Grandma never throws anything out.”

But when they step into the attic, it is bare. No boyhood bed or bureau or bookshelf. No woven woolen rug. Nothing but a plank floor, four walls, and a pair of dormer windows.

“I don’t understand,” Joel says, his hands helplessly at his sides. “Grandma must have given everything away.” He strides across the small room to the closet and opens the door. “Even the clothes,” he says, gesturing to the empty dowel rod. “And all the games.” He points up to the empty shelf above the rod.

“That’s okay, I didn’t really want to play Monopoly,” Jill says.

“My ball glove was in the back,” Joel says. “Along with...” He blushes again. “My Playboy. I used to need a chair.” He stands on tiptoe. “Hey.”

“What is it? Your Playboy?”

“No,” Joel says, “but there’s something.” He reaches way to the back.

“Your ball glove?”

It is a slim scarf, cloud gray, neatly folded.

“I remember this,” Joel says, unfolding it. “One of those useless practical gifts from one of those useless great aunts. I hated it. Scratchy.”

“It’s nice,” Jill says. “And it’s not scratchy at all. It’s cashmere. Soft as kitten. I’m amazed the moths didn’t get it.”

“Ha!” Joel exclaims. “My grandma doesn’t allow moths.”

“But it is soft,” Jill says. “Certainly softer than silk. Feel.”

“You didn’t have to wear it.”

“True, but anyway it’s from your boyhood, so I love it. Try it on.”

“Now?” Joel says.

“I want to see how it looks on you.”

“You’re silly.” Joel wraps the scarf around his neck. “Scratchy as ever,” he says.

“Yeah, but you’re wearing it wrong.”

“How can you wear a scarf wrong?”

“Ha!” Jill says. “You mean your grandma never taught you how to wear a scarf?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I’ll show you.” Jill’s hands go to the buttons of her blouse.

She takes her time undressing. It is several minutes before she is completely naked. Joel stands before her, watching intently, the scarf dangling from his hands.

Jill turns around, slowly, and around and around in the empty room, her body and being more beautiful than anything Joel has ever imagined. “Now you,” she says.

“Now me what?”

“Strip.”

“I don’t see...”

“Strip!”

Joel takes off his clothes. Shirt, shoes, socks, trousers. Then his underwear. His penis is already bobbing upright.

“Playboy pink,” Jill says. She folds the scarf lengthwise and drapes it over Joel’s erection. She wraps it lightly around. “So cute,” she says, “all bundled up, peeking out like a sweet little baby booboo.” She tugs lightly at the ends of the scarf, drawing it back and forth. “Isn’t this nice? Aren’t you all snug and warm and comfy now?”

“Mmmm,” Joel murmurs.

Jill works the scarf left and right, lifting, looping, shuffling, squeezing.

“Mmmm,” Joel hums again. “You’re getting me...”

“I know,” Jill says, quickening the pace of the scarf. “I’m getting you.”

She slows down. Stops. Bites her lip. “Do you think your grandma knows how to get cum out of wool?”