‘The Several Sins of Heidi Spencer’

Clara Gillin is a rising artist, photographer and writer- as well as highschooler balancing her time with school work and many extra curriculars. She doesn't shy away from challenges, starting multiple of her own clubs and managing top grades while exploring her interests. After winning a district-wide writing contest, she's submitted to many different artists’ outlets in hopes of being discovered and sharing her art with the world.

The Several Sins of Heidi Spencer

Davenport, Iowa – River View Trail Rides, 2025

I hadn’t thought of her for years. 

Then, just like that, she returned to me. 

While my husband and kids saddled up, I stood staring, mesmerized by the young girl astride a glossy black horse, running barrels in an arena with hoof pocked red dirt. She was about seventeen, with a long, blonde ponytail swishing across a velvety pink tank top. She wore blue jeans and boots.  

Heidi Spencer, if I remembered correctly – I was sure I did – was also running barrels. Only Heidi was twelve, petite yet muscular, with two tightly woven braids the color of sunlit molasses bouncing against a ripped sleeve black tee. She, too, wore blue jeans and boots, her horse a silvery gray colt named – was it Gun Metal? 

Yes. I was sure it was.  

Dewitt, Iowa – Spencer Stables, 1995

After Sunday meeting, and a full afternoon door-to-door preaching, we met up with two other families from Elm Creek Kingdom Hall, the Parrots and the Ryans, for leisure and fun. 

The Parrots were our closest friends, Sister Terry Parrot being my mother’s best. They got together every week to drink coffee and share the news in our Kingdom Hall, and other congregations in the district. It was from listening in that I learned that Oak Valley Kingdom Hall, the wealthiest Kingdom Hall, also had the most disfellowshippings in the district. 

Sister Parrot: Immorality, you know. All those young people!

Mom: Too much youth, too much money, not enough Jehovah. 

I also learned, before it was officially announced, that Sister Raya, one of Mandy’s friends, would soon be disfellowshipped. 

Mom: Drinking at college. 

Sister Parrot: This is why the Brothers warn the young ones away from higher education. 

Mom: Had the nerve, after a weekend binge, to show up at Kingdom Hall and read scripture, upright as the Proverbs Woman! 

Sister Parrot: Hate to say it, Julie, but – wolves in sheep’s clothing. Do you know who it was, reported her to the Elders? Good on them! 

I grew to love coffee time, and hanging out with the grown-ups, even though to others, it might have seemed boring for a ten-year-old. 

We often met up with Sister Terry Parrot, her husband, Jack, an Elder in our congregation, and their two sons, Peter and Paul, for wholesome Christian activities such as tennis, bowling, croquet, and yard darts. This was our first time horseback riding together. 

Sister Parrot, in her expansive good-heartedness, had invited the Ryans, a new young couple in their early twenties who had moved to Iowa, all the way from Miami. Sister Parrot wanted them to feel welcome, embraced by their new Kingdom Hall family. I also knew that she and mom were curious about Sister Maggie Ryan. 

Mom: False eyelashes and ruby red lipstick? 

Sister Parrot: Not only that! Her skirts are so tight about the buttocks. Does she even wear underwear? 

Mom: I don’t think so. I squinted and could not see, for the life of me, an underwear line. 

Sister Parrot: How is that respecting the Brothers? Peter and Paul, when she sits in front of us, can hardly keep their eyeballs in their heads! 

Mom: We’ll need to teach her. Maybe it’s different in Miami. Here in Iowa, we don’t abide the Jezebel look.  

Following the signs for Spencer Stables along a series of maze like rural Iowa back roads, the cornfields gave way at last to a three story gray farmhouse, unruly gardens of hollyhocks and giant sunflowers, more signs for parking, and at last, a spacious gravel lot. 

We pulled up alongside the Parrots used model blue Ford Aerostar minivan in our thrifty red Astro minivan. A second later, the Ryans swung into the parking space on the other side of us in their sparkling white Honda Accord. 

Mom: The Ryan’s car is brand new, did you notice? 

Sister Parrot: That car is the reason Sister Ryan works full-time instead of going door-to-door full-time, like the other married sisters her age. 

Mom: Prioritizing car payments over serving Jehovah. We have our work cut out for us! 

In the parking lot, mom swung her gaze left to right and said, “Oh great. Look at that, would you? Red, white, and blue. That’s not how we want to show up!” She barked a laugh. 

Jehovah’s Witnesses followed Jesus’ command – be no part of the world – to precision. We did not vote, recite the Pledge of Allegiance, sing patriotic songs, explode our fingers off on the 4th of July, nor partake in the nationalistic food and football orgy called Thanksgiving. 

“I mean it, Marcus,” mom persisted, her voice high-pitched. “What if Witnesses from Oak Valley come here today and see our cars like this? They might think we did it on purpose.” 

I could just hear an Oak Valley coffee date. 

Sister #1: Did you see those Elm Creek Witnesses at Spencer Stables, parked side by side in red, white, and blue, looking just like the American flag?

Sister #2: An abomination. Why, we should phone their Elders immediately! 

Dad did not possess the same imaginative capabilities. He scrunched his face. “That’s irrational, Julie. Why would anyone think we’d intentionally parked in a patriotic configuration?” 

“Marcus, you never know what conclusions others might draw!” 

“Julie, please…” 

“…and we don’t want to be a stumbling block to our brothers, not even by accident…”

She continued on, words a frenzy, even as dad sighed, grumbled, and backed out from our space. We headed toward the remote end of the lot, where the gravel turned into dirt, deeply rutted by tire tracks. We bounced, rattled, and shook into a precarious parking space. The sacrifice was worth it. Mom’s face (despite her sunglasses falling off) immediately eased, her panic evaporating.  

Mom and dad went on ahead (mom hooking arms in a motherly way with Sister Ryan) to the stables where the Parrot family waited. 

Mandy, older than me by six years, halted, and I ran into her, stepping on her heels. Though usually she’d shriek and make a commotion ouch, ouch, you clumsy oaf, I’m dying because you stepped on my heels! That time, she was too transfixed to pay heed. 

The girl astride the horse was the source of enchantment. 

She sat up straight, gripping the reins, her body poised with an authority I was not used to seeing in the bodies of girls and women. No Jehovah’s Witness girl I knew would think to ride a horse like that, bouncing upright in the saddle, chin in the air. The horse, muscular and graceful, a dazzling dark silver, the color of thunder I thought (strangely) bending around one barrel, then another, with a gentleness, a dangerous quiet, that evoked the power of dancer and warrior, both. The girl’s hair, dark yet aglow, like molasses in the sun, two braids bouncing between her shoulder blades. A black tee, ripped sleeves. Blue jeans and boots. Freckled face, jaw set. She couldn’t have been more than twelve. 

Mandy and I watched, rapt, like the girl held us there, spellbound, on purpose. 

“Girls!” Mom called from the stables. 

Summoned, Mandy and I startled, then ran. 

Our horses, saddled and waiting, stomped their hooves, shook their manes. 

We would follow each other in a straight, plodding line for miles. 

I could hardly wait. 

A few years later, when I was fourteen, some things had turned out unexpectedly. 

Namely that, my sister Mandy was now twenty, and rather than an Elder’s wife, preaching full-time in the door-to-door ministry, with at least one child of her own, she still lived at home, and even more alarming, wasn’t yet baptized. 

This had provoked worrisome speculation. Some untoward rumors that mom and dad had struggled to quell. No, Mandy had not been led astray by Worldly friends at school. No, she’d not been forced to drop out and homeschool in her sophomore year because of illicit liaisons with a metalhead drug dealer – her precious chastity endangered. 

In fact, her sophomore year, after a series of unremitting headaches, a crop of debilitating allergies, along with brutal exhaustion, Mandy was diagnosed with Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, and this had occasioned her to leave school, limiting her life so much that she still did not even possess a driver’s license. 

Skepticism regarding Mandy’s illness caused the Elders to “Mark” her as possible bad association, due to her irregular meeting attendance, dearth of hours in the door-to-door work, and consequential postponement of baptism. Although mom and dad endeavored to educate the Elders about Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, the baffling and crushing and unruly symptomology, hoping they would stem the tide of slander and redeem Mandy’s reputation – these actions had met with little success. 

Mandy’s friends had married and moved on, losing contact with her. Brother Beaman, who once was so engrossed, eyeing her for marriage, had grown cold, shifting his favor to Sister Dina Bowers, eighteen and large breasted, though doing her utmost to conceal the fact with oversized sailor dresses and roomy cardigans, a strident modesty that was perhaps a great deal  of her charm. 

Still living in her childhood bedroom, Mandy had thus retreated into a cocoon of isolation, wherein she had developed an unusual obsession – collecting old things. 

Whenever she was well enough to venture out, she sought the antique stores, scouring the place for vintage photographs. While alone at home, she then occupied herself for hours, pouring over the women’s dress, sketching out small details with a pencil and pad, buttons with shell design in gilt metal, fingerless lace gloves, and ornamental ruching. This, in turn, piqued her desire for old dresses, necklaces and brooches, as well as Victorian lady’s boots – of which she’d found sadly, only one of a pair, at an estate sale, the color of dark burgundy with buttons up the side, fractured with age and teeny tiny. We’d taken turns trying to jam our foot in and ended up as humiliated and abashed as Cinderella’s stepsisters, though we both wore an average size seven. 

Mandy had collected also, quite a sizable collection of Depression glass, mostly in pink, stowed in a pie safe with twelve punched tin panels, circa late 1800’s, perfect for a farmhouse, she said, her face wistful. It struck me that my sister feared she would never reclaim the life she had before her illness, her good standing in our Kingdom Hall, respected for being a model Jehovah’s Witness woman in every respect. At times, particularly on days when pain and fatigue drove her to bed, she referred to herself bleakly as old maid or spinster. Language she’d picked up from the Victorian novels she ferreted out in the dark corners of antique stores, their yellowed pages brittle, spines falling apart, smelling of attic bats and old ladies. Mandy would press the pages to her face and inhale, saying she could imbibe the perfume of years, and feel not so alone.

I had begun to worry about her in a consuming, gnawing way, focusing my prayers to Jehovah on healing my sister so she could attend meetings regularly again, get baptized, and secure a reputable mate. 

I hadn’t thought to pray for her to find a friend. 

Throughout my family’s troubles, Sister Terry Parrot had remained steadfast. She continued inviting us to dinner and gatherings, even as invitations from other sources fell away. Sister Parrot told us that her newest Bible study was a humble woman, living out in the country, trying to manage a farm all alone after her husband ran off with a harlot. Dana Spencer had a daughter, Heidi, who was sixteen and had recently begun to sit in on her mother’s Bible study. Heidi demonstrated both enthusiasm and keen potential.  

“And you won’t believe this, Sister Mandy,” Sister Parrot crowed, “Heidi collects antiques! Yes, she does! A room full of them. Like she’s living in a Jane Bronte novel. Isn’t that the writer you like?” 

Sister Parrot predicted that Heidi and Mandy would be inseparable. 

About that, she was more than right. 

We met her at the Bishop Hill State Historic Site, a preserved Swedish village hidden midst the cornfields of Henry County, Illinois. 

Our family, along with the Parrots and other Witness families, partook every September in the fall festival Jordbruksdagarna, translated from the Swedish as “Earth Work Days”. An apt name! Broom making, basket weaving, brick building, cider pressing, sorghum cooking. The festival perfectly combined recreation with education. After Armageddon, now looming so near, the earth would be restored into the original Paradise, rebuilt by faithful Jehovah’s Witnesses. For this purpose, we would need to be equipped with multitudinous skills. Therefore, Jordbruksdagarna was, in a sense, a Jehovah’s Witness field trip. We took notes while closely watching the quilter, the potter, the blacksmith. One day soon, we would carry our notes into the New Earth, referring to them as we refashioned lost Paradise.  

We of course made time for amusement. Mandy and I bought sacks of Swedish fish at the Colony Store, traipsed in and out of the village shops with our small purchases, such as corn husk dolls, and hopped upon the hay wagon to clip-clop round and round the settlement. 

That fall, per tradition, Peter and Paul tumbled out of Sister Parrot’s blue Ford Aerostar minivan, and, with barely a glance at Mandy and I, sprinted off to the amateur league baseball game in the park. Then, to our mutual startlement, a girl appeared, looking side to side with open faced curiosity and wonder. To climb out, she had to lift her skirt, as though emerging from a carriage in late-Victorian London, rather than a minivan owned by Jehovah’s Witnesses at a Swedish settlement in Illinois. Her skirt was indeed a Victorian twill walking skirt, in a shade of dark chocolate, flurry of petticoats beneath, and tantalizing glimpse of itty bitty walking boots, buttoned up the sides, fitting her feet with a near ache of sweet perfection. 

Mandy and I stared, wordless and spellbound.  

“Are you Mandy? I just know you are. I’m Heidi.” She took hold of Mandy’s hand, not shaking it, but lifting it, nearly to her lips. “Agate cameo ring! Three sisters? Circa 1920?” 

“I don’t know,” Mandy said. “I just loved it.”

“Indeed! I love it, too,” Heidi said, still holding Mandy’s hand. She smiled, and her braces were in stunning juxtaposition with her blouse – cream colored, a pretty frill across the chest, and elaborately puffed sleeves. Not to mention her dark hair, arrayed in a poufy and whimsical bouffant, wispy curls drawn down, framing her face. Her braces, as well as her face – hale, freckled, and round-cheeked – reminded us she was a bonafide Midwestern girl, like us, and not in fact a Gibson girl.  

Yet still, she had us in the palm of her hand. 

We would follow her anywhere, and did that day, letting her take the lead, though this was her first time visiting Bishop Hill and we, Jordbruksdagarna veterans, should have rightly acted as guides. Heidi, though, possessed a preternatural confidence for a girl of only sixteen, one who stood only four feet nine inches. She hitched up her skirts, and crossed each shop threshold ahead of us, picking her way in her boots across the creaking wood floors. She was dazzled by everything, full of tender curiosity for the hand crafted relics and artifacts, brooms made from the fibrous seed branches of sorghum, the antique Swedish weathervane quilts on display at the Village Smithy, wreaths crafted from the brilliantly colored cobs of gem corn – kernels bright blue, purple, and red. She brimmed with questions. How is the sorghum harvested? What is this style of embroidery called? Huck embroidery? How enchanting.  

While watching the candle-making demonstration, Mandy and I retrieved our Bishop Hill notebooks, flipping to a fresh page. Heidi watched us. “Will there be a test at the end?” 

“We take notes so we can reproduce these handicrafts,” Mandy explained. 

Heidi tilted her head, quizzical. 

“After Armageddon destroys false religion, world governments, and the unbelieving wicked – we will be commissioned to build a New Earth from scratch.” 

I smiled, proud of my sister, while continuing to take notes without pause. 

Pour the wax. Secure the wick. 

Heidi glanced between us. “Can I get a notebook, too?” 

Mandy reached into her purse and brandished an unused notebook, kept for occasions just such as these, along with a pen. 

Heidi leaned in to copy what Mandy had written, and somehow, in a few minutes more, much to my disconcert, I was squeezed to the outskirts, standing behind them, rather than beside. 

I watched them jot down each step of the candle-making process with the intensity of scholars, and the heads bent together camaraderie – nearly of sisters – until the wick was cut. 

On the hay wagon ride, Heidi sat right up front. She situated herself on the gleaming golden bale of straw just behind the driver, adjusting her skirt, sitting up straight, elegant and poised, her sack of Swedish fish on her lap. 

Mandy and I were accustomed to sit in the back, where we felt the ride was most fun, and easy to jump off, if you were taken with the whim. Likewise, in the back, you were safe when the two horses pulling the wagon arched their tails, unleashing a storm of farts and an avalanche of dung. We tried to warn Heidi about this phenomenon but she only giggled – clearly entertained by our descriptions, our gestures, our horror. 

The day was drawing to a close and the horses, enlivened by the prospect of soon returning to their barn, broke into a jaunty trot down the main thoroughfare, past the park where Swedish dancers twirled in the gazebo, beneath the trees leafed out in dazzling sunset colors, past the Colony Store where scarecrows lounged atop pumpkins, past the little restaurant serving pork chops with lingonberry jam, and the museum – wherein the whole history of the Bishop Hill settlement was revealed. We did not go to the museum nor seek to inquire about Erik Jansson, leader of the Swedish Radical Pietist Sect who, with at least 1200 followers, fled Sweden and founded Bishop Hill. We did know that Jansson’s great-great grandson, Theodore, still lived in the colony, and was a fireman. 

Heidi, in her bold way, initiated a conversation with the farmer who drove the hay wagon, year after year, yet never seemed to change or age, frozen in time at fifty-something, stocky build, light hair, a thick, sunburnt neck, decked out forever in train engineer coveralls and a matching cap, perpetually chewing a piece of hay. 

Heidi said to him, “Bet you know everything about this place.” 

“Oh, a little.” 

“What’s the back story?”  

He grunted. “Settled by the Janssonists.”

“Who are they?” 

The taffy colored horse on the left lifted her tail in a prim way, and bellowed a long, ghastly fart. Mandy and I lifted our shirts over our noses, cringing backward in unison. 

“Utopian religious commune,” the farmer said. 

At the end of the day, the crafters in the park dismantling their tents and booths, packing up their wares, the three of us huddled together at a picnic table near the playground, awaiting our parents and the Parrots. In the tree-filtered, late gold sun, Heidi and Mandy spread out their purchases, looking them over with the squint-eyed satisfaction of pirates with their booty. 

You simply would never have guessed, the way my sister cooed and glowed, that just that morning she’d been brought to her knees, literally, by a spell of nausea and vertigo, fearing she’d have to forego the day’s festivities entirely. 

Now, she let swing from her fingers, an antique necklace Heidi had bought, one with a magnifying glass pendant. A rare find, Mandy pronounced, and a steal for only $5. Likewise, Heidi fell into ecstasies over a vintage photo Mandy had purchased for 10 cents – a little girl of maybe four or five bundled up in a big coat, a winter tam perched sideways on her head, sitting astride a small black horse. Heidi turned over the photo and gasped. “Oh! Did you see?” She showed Mandy. Mandy said, “My goodness!” 

Trying not to sound peevish, I asked to see as well. Mandy passed me the photo. The back read, in faded cursive: Noreen getting exercise on the pony, Dec 1889. I looked back and forth between them. Mandy with her hand pressed to her heart. Tears turning Heidi’s eyes an even richer shade of hazel. What was all the dither about? I couldn’t fathom. 

Changing topics, I asked Heidi, “How do you know so much about horses?” She had discussed breeds, temperaments, and shoeing techniques with the hay wagon driver, displaying a knowledge and equestrian fluency that clearly charmed him. 

Heidi smiled. “My family owns a stable in Dewitt.” 

Mandy said, “How did you get into vintage clothing and antiques?” 

Heidi’s smile faded. “My Dad left. You?” 

“I got sick.” 

“Yeah.” 

“Yeah.” 

They gazed at each other. Then, Heidi rested her head on Mandy’s shoulder. 

Later, Sister Terry Parrot pressed into Mandy’s hand the time card. 

“Here,” she said, “record your hours at Bishop Hill.” 

Mandy stared at the time card like she’d never seen it before. Of course, she had. All Jehovah’s Witnesses diligently recorded their hours in the ministry. Even five minutes spent chatting with a store clerk about the imminence of Armageddon, or writing a letter to a neighbor, inviting them to the annual memorial of Christ’s death at the local Kingdom Hall, or phoning an old friend to tell them about Jehovah’s promise of a New Earth. This all counted as preaching and could be recorded on the time card. At the end of the month, we turned our time cards in to the Elders, as students turn their homework in to their teachers. The Elders tallied the congregation’s total hours and sent the numbers to the Governing Body in Brooklyn. The Elders as well as Governing Body kept a close tab on preaching hours, becoming alarmed for the spiritual welfare of the congregation if hours dropped off. Individuals with low hours in the ministry were counseled, or reprimanded, as in the case of Mandy, who had been quietly “Marked” as bad association. 

“You were with Heidi Spencer from 9 to 5. By my count, that is a full eight hours preaching time.” Sister Parrot beamed. Through Heidi, she was offering Mandy a way back to her former good standing in the congregation. “If anyone can win Heidi to Jehovah, it’s you, Mandy. She’s already devoted to you! Just imagine,” squeezing Mandy’s arm, “the wondrous blessing, if you girls were baptized together!” 

A few weeks later, mom dropped Mandy and I off in downtown Davenport, perched on the banks of the Mississippi. No matter the season, the air in Davenport was faithfully saturated by river aromas – muddy catfish in the summer, algae and duckweed in autumn. The engine of a barge plowing past hummed in the sidewalk beneath our feet, vibrating up through my legs into my spine as we swung open the door of Trash Can Annie, Mandy’s most beloved vintage clothing store. 

Heidi was already there, having driven herself, and squealed when she saw us. Decked out in western duds – jeans, boots, and a denim jacket layered with brown suede fringe – she looked more like Annie Oakley than the Gibson girl we’d first met. 

She and Mandy quickly paired off, scouring the racks, heads bent close, discussing every blouse, every skirt, every dress, at rapturous, nonsensical length. 

I was less than captivated by the musty, mothball smelling clothes. I strayed off by myself, pretending not to notice my status as superfluous tag along, nor the hard bead forming at the base of my throat, where my voice, while my sister chattered freely, remained sequestered. How was it fair? Heidi, after all, was closer to my age than Mandy’s. And, I, too, had suffered loss of friendship due to the rumors buzzing about my sister. Had Sister Parrot not considered this? 

From the back of the store, Heidi exclaimed, a sudden peal of delight. She held aloft, like a trophy, a dress. A 1920’s era flapper dress in a riveting shade of coral, I discovered, upon scurrying over to investigate. “Art deco” Mandy described it, lovingly touching the matching coral glass beads, seed pearls, and pink iridescent sequins sewn into layers of the dress. Heidi produced, from beneath her shirt, the magnifying glass necklace she’d purchased at Bishop Hill, and together, she and my sister examined the dress from end to end, stitch by stitch. Mandy lost her mind over the “boat” neckline and “scalloped” skirt, which she pronounced divine. Wasn’t that sin? Comparing some tacky old dress to God? Wasn’t that idolatry? 

Not to mention the price. Almost $200! Wasn’t that greed? Materialism? Shouldn’t Heidi be reproached, or gently persuaded to choose more staid, less pricey attire, like the Sisters at Kingdom Hall? I felt that Mandy was falling down on the job. 

However, when Heidi emerged from the dressing room, dancing in bare feet, shimmying and twirling, I lost my conviction. She’d taken out her braids and pinned up her long hair in loose buns at the sides, above her ears, a few wavy strands falling free. She was every bit flapper as she had been Gibson girl. Mandy cried, “Daisy!” which I didn’t understand, nor why, at the invocation of this name, they grabbed hands and jumped up and down, squealing. 

But, while they were so caught up in this perplexing revelry, I was the one who scoured the jewelry counter, chancing upon the three long strings of beaded necklaces – lustrous pink pearls that smelled of face powder. Heidi, freckled face alight, took them from me, saying, “Bethany! You’ve made an exquisite match.” Her fingers met mine, and she looked at me then, right in the eye, and smiled. 

That smile was reward enough. 

We lunched in Mandy’s favorite Victorian tea room, Parlor.  

We were seated on the patio, overlooking the Mississippi, where a riverboat rolled by, churning up the placid gray water into great seething froths. Our server was an older women in rustling taffeta skirt with bustle and pompadour hairstyle, grandly delivering three-tiered tea trays to our table, arrayed with bite-sized pastries and dainty little sandwiches, soups and salads.  

Heidi was beside herself. “Mandy Wilkinson, you’ve changed my life! You’ve simply found all the most magical places in the Midwest, all the Narnia’s hiding in plain sight. I’d never heard of Bishop Hill, or Trash Can Annie, or Parlor. Then again, I’ve never met a soul like you.” She bit into an immaculate crustless square of cucumber and cream cheese sandwich. “And now I’m totally dressing as Daisy Buchanan for Halloween.” 

I gasped. Mandy and I locked eyes. My sister wore a strained expression. 

“Do you have your costume picked out yet? Ooh, what about Catherine Earnshaw? You have her wide-eyed, windswept look. Muss your hair a little and put on some rouge, as though the moors have had their way with you.” She laughed, glanced between us, snapped her fingers. “Better yet, Bethany could dress as Catherine Earnshaw, and you as Catherine Linton! The young and wild Catherine paired with the worn and brittle Catherine. How poetic! How surreal!” She stopped, tilted her head. “Mandy?” 

Mandy did indeed look worn and brittle. Her increasing pallor, the knot tightening between her brows, suggested she was up against a sinister headache, one that could level her, send her straight to bed. She rubbed a knuckle between her brows. “I have the seed of a migraine.” She said nothing more, though I kicked her shin under the table. 

Intervening, I myself turned to inform Heidi, “Jehovah’s Witnesses do not celebrate Halloween. You must know that it is an evil pagan Devil-inspired revelry.” 

Heidi’s eyes widened, a dab of cream cheese on her upper lip. “Oh. I should have known! Mom said she won’t be celebrating birthdays anymore, nor Christmas.” She shifted in her seat, licked the cream cheese away. “I’m glad you told me. I was about to invite you out trick or treating with my friends.” 

Mandy perked up slightly. “Who are your friends?” 

“Jodi and Elvis, my best friends since 5th grade.” 

“Elvis?” I squawked. 

Heidi giggled. “Yes, after the rock n roll icon.”

I was, again, stricken. “You have a boy best friend?” 

“Sure. Why not?” 

I stared at Mandy, so hard, my face shook a little. 

Mandy said, cautious, “What do Jodi and Elvis think about you studying the Bible with Jehovah’s Witnesses?”  

Heidi frowned. “To be honest, the Bible study, that’s really my mom’s thing.” She was quiet, before saying, “I suppose we all find our different ways of getting through. Dad leaving was a terrible shock. It’s not like I blame my mom or I’m mad at her. I just wish she wouldn’t put so much pressure on me to join her in – her new hobby. I’ve got the horses, the stables. I’m giving riding lessons, leading guided trails– “ 

“Wait.” Mandy’s gaze was fastened on Heidi, earnest and intense. I wondered, with a bit of a toe-curling thrill, if she were on the verge of informing Heidi we could no longer associate with her, unless she expressed sincere desire to learn more about Jehovah’s Kingdom and dedicate her life to Him in whole-hearted devotion, symbolized by full baptismal immersion. 

But when Mandy spoke, it was only to whisper, “It’s you, isn’t it?” 

 “Me?” 

“Spencer Stables.” 

“That’s right.” 

Mandy turned to me. “Remember?” 

My mind drew a blank. 

“Bethany and I, we saw you once, I think. A few years ago. We went horseback riding with the Parrots and Ryans. Remember?” she asked me again, with urgency. 

This time, an image surfaced through the haze of time, gaining clarity and sharpness. A young girl, molasses braids, chin in the air, muscular and keen as her horse, bending around each barrel with ferocious grace. 

“Barrels,” I said. 

“That was me! Barrel racing.” Heidi laughed, rolled her eyes. “Such a show off.”

“Your horse was dark gray…” 

“Gun Metal,” Heidi said. “That’s his name. That was his name.”  Her mouth wobbled. “Why did he leave me?” Her voice cracked, and she covered her face. “Excuse me, please.” She pushed out her chair but, before she could stand, gave in right there, weeping into her hands.

Mandy rose, then knelt by Heidi.

She set her hand on Heidi’s knee. “There, there,” she said, patting with grave tenderness, like a mother. 

Heidi raised her head. They held eyes.

A breath, and Mandy seized her advantage. “Would you like to attend Kingdom Hall with us tonight?” 

To her first meeting at Elm Creek Kingdom Hall, Heidi Spencer wore a pioneer dress. 

A calico full-sleeved blouse and skirt that swept the floor. Along with a proper bonnet and pinafore apron, like Laura Ingalls Wilder wore, or should I say, like Melissa Gilbert, in her acclaimed role as Laura Ingalls Wilder. 

Heidi’s sartorial whimsy, as at Bishop Hill, won great admiration at Kingdom Hall, where the sisters wore dresses very like pioneer dresses, only without the bonnets and pinafore aprons, which they fawned over, and discovering Heidi had made the entire outfit at her antique Singer sewing machine, they begged her to share the pattern. They petted her hair, pinned in an elaborate bundle of braids at the back of her neck. “So pretty! Did you style it yourself? Can you make us bonnets, too? Oh, what a marvelous addition you’ll be to Jehovah’s New Earth.” 

A year later, August of 1995, Sister Terry Parrot’s prophecy was realized.

Mandy and Heidi were baptized together at the District Convention of Jehovah’s Witnesses in Des Moines. 

They wore vintage swimsuits purchased for the occasion at Trash Can Annie. Mandy’s, quaint and cute, a 1940’s one piece, pink striped, with a flowy skirt she called a “swing skirt”. Heidi’s, however, was an eyebrow raiser, a vintage Jantzen suit, in showy purple, that kissed her every curve. Delicately, Mandy had encouraged something more modest, at which Heidi had exclaimed, “You think my 1920’s swim wear will make the Elders lust?” 

I had then offered my view of the matter, narrating the story of Bathsheba. One woman’s body provoking the downfall of a great man, terrible consequences reverberating down their lineage, throughout history. 

Heidi had laughed. “Bathsheba! Hahaha! Her name became her legend!” 

At one time, perhaps, I might have found such a joke amusing. I could imagine myself, age ten, giggling at that wicked irony. However, I was fifteen, and baptized myself the year previous, had, in the words of Apostle Paul, put away childish things and grown up in the faith. 

Heidi, I trusted, would in time do the same.  

After all, Jehovah’s Witnesses were not Catholics, who sinned one night, confessed the next – rinse, repeat. 

The true faith did not suffer fools. 

I had learned this the hard way, the previous year, when Sister Maggie Ryan, whom I had grown (ill-advisedly) attached to, was shockingly disfellowshipped from our congregation. 

Sister Parrot: Let me guess. Sexual Immorality. 

Mom: With a co-worker! I was the one who spied them together, and she confessed to me. 

Sister Parrot: No matter how we tried to persuade her, she never would give up that Worldly job, would she? 

Mom: From day one, overly fond of money and looks, and that was her destruction. 

Sister Parrot: Though it was difficult, you did the right thing, Julie, going to the Elders with the information. 

Mom: Oh, I don’t regret it. I rejoice! The congregation is now safe from her wrongdoing. Though, I do worry about Bethany, who had begun to grow fond of her, like an aunt. 

Not long after Maggie Ryan’s disfellowshipping, we had run into her at the grocery store. She had dared approach, with a rather piercing look of affection directed toward me. As Jehovah commanded, my mother and I turned our backs and together, walked away. 

Truth be told, I looked over my shoulder. Only once. 

 One quick glance! Enough to spy her shattered face. 

In bed that night, I’d cried, deep and mournful. 

Because I had sinned. Turning to look at Sodom and Gomorrah, one last time. 

Tears of remorse covered me in salt. 

At the same time, Mandy, though newly diagnosed with yet another illness (Irritable Bowel Syndrome) had fully recovered her honorable status in the congregation. Due to Heidi’s jubilant conversion, and ready absorption into Elm Creek Kingdom Hall, my sister – and by extension our family – were back in good standing, freed from speculation and reproof. 

At the finale of August, two weeks after their baptism, Heidi accompanied us on our annual end-of-summer camping trip to Roaring River State Park in Cassville, Missouri. We slept in the RV while Heidi stayed in a tent. In the middle of the night, when I awoke to pee, I could see her flashlight, a circle of light illuminating the canvas, the tent becoming a lantern, enticing a host of moths and katydids. 

I inquired of her one afternoon, while walking to the trout hatchery, what was she doing with such resolute devotion in her tent at night? Annotating her Bible? Studying the most recent Watchtower with highlighter in hand? 

She looked unduly startled by this, as though I’d surmised she was building a rocket ship. “I’m reading a book about the history of Henry County. There’s an entire chapter about Bishop Hill!” Heidi’s sandals slapped at her heels as we walked. She wore baggy suspender overall shorts she’d embroidered with dragonflies and daisies, a yellow tank top beneath. She’d recently cut – or rather, chopped – her long molasses hair to the shoulders, creating an uneven fringe about the face she’d contemplated dying purple. Mandy and I had reasoned her out of this, calling upon scripture. 1 Timothy 2:9: And I want women to be modest in their appearance. They should wear decent and appropriate clothing and not draw attention to themselves by the way they fix their hair. 

I wrinkled my nose. “Why would you want to read something so dull?” 

“Oh, but it’s far from dull. Do you know the back story of the original settlers?” 

“The Swedish Radical Pietist Sect,” Mandy said. “Led by Eric Jansson, they immigrated from Sweden and settled Bishop Hill.” 

“Yes! The Janssonists. A cult.”  

The dark relish with which she pronounced this word turned my stomach and raised the hairs on the back of my neck. Bishop Hill, after all, was a sacred place of joy and festivity, Swedish dancers and apple cider, kettle corn popping in the park. I was already excited for Jordbruksdagarna, only a month distant. “Bishop Hill’s founders were expert farmers and craftspeople. Not a cult,” I said. Cults locked themselves in abandoned buildings and engaged in sexual orgies while awaiting salvation in the form of spaceships. 

Heidi went on, “Did you know that Erik Jansson enforced settlement-wide celibacy? At first the Janssonists lived in dugouts, like caves in the ravines, and the men and women were separated. Then Jansson changed his mind, arranged marriages between them, and performed mass wedding ceremonies. Did you know he would ring a bell at 5am every morning? His followers had to rise and get to work, milling and making crafts. Only it wasn’t a festival. It was hard labor! They had to study English, too, so they could preach to people outside the settlement. And if they ever got sick of it and wanted out? Jansson made it almost impossible for them to escape. He posted guards to keep watch!” 

Mandy’s mouth fell open. She hugged herself as we walked along the Roaring River, fly fishermen and women in waders, standing near shoulder to shoulder, water roiling around their thighs as they snapped their lines back and forth. “We’ve been going to Bishop Hill since we were babies. I did not know any of this! Did you, Bethany?” 

“No!” My flip flops stomped along the asphalt. 

Thank goodness we’d reached the hatchery. 

The scores of trout, swimming in their rectangular pools, at various stages of growth, kept safe from the many dangers of the big river, never failed to sooth me. Mandy and I, per tradition, bought food pellets from a machine, twisting the knob so the small, brown cylinders rained into our open palms. We taught Heidi to do the same. Then we three sat on the edge of a pool brimming with full grown trout, big daddies, shimmering blue, green, and silver skin, a dark pink stripe running horizontal from gills to tail, a smattering of freckles. They also possessed sharp teeth, and you had to be careful to toss the pellets and swiftly pull your hand away as they writhed over and across each other in a lavish, flashing disco ball of colors. One jumped, and splashed us, and we fell into a bout of giggles, wiping water from our faces. The trout had worked their magic. Peace and goodwill was restored. Yet, after the laughter subsided, Heidi’s mood turned somber, heavy. I could feel it weighing on my skin, like the August mid-day heat. 

“Mandy?” 

The dark note in her voice raised goosebumps. 

“I had sex with Elvis.” 

I reeled. Elvis the rock n roller, the heartthrob, the long dead hip-shaker? But how could that be? Was this a metaphor? Before recalling Heidi’s erstwhile best friend, namesake of the velvet caped, infamously gyrating crooner. 

“What?” Mandy said, breathless. “You told me you cut ties with him.” 

Elvis, we had learned, was a very bad (promiscuous and pot-smoking) boy. 

“I did. Except – for one night.” Heidi looked up at us, wincing through her ragged fringe of hair. “I’m sorry.” 

“Yes you are!” Fury drove me to my feet. “How could you!” I wheeled and walked straight toward the trail, blind to everything, blood thumping bass notes of rage through my ears. I heard, as though from another realm entirely, Heidi calling, “Bethany, wait! Please wait!” 

I did not wait, nor turn. I hiked relentlessly up the steepest trail at Roaring River, to a large boulder perched on the bluffs, overlooking the stern and perfect rows of rectangular trout pools.  

Mandy and Heidi tried to catch up, but they could not. 

I heard Heidi cry, from well behind, “Will she ever forgive me?” 

Oh! So the feelings of little Bethany were important now!  

In majesty, that revelation trumped even the scenic overlook. 

“I will not forgive her,” I declared that night, following an awkward hotdog roast wherein I suffered the terriblest thoughts and curiosities while running my wiener through the stick. 1st Corinthians 15:33 was not amiss. My own mind, sullied because of Heidi Spencer’s illicit romp! Mom and dad asleep in the camper, and Heidi glumly retired to her tent, Mandy and I sat whispering at the picnic table, the last embers of the fire trembling, and dying. 

“You are obliged to forgive her,” Mandy said. 

“She sinned!” 

“She wasn’t yet baptized, when the act occurred.” 

My shoulders sank. “She still sinned.” 

“Yes, but without full understanding.” Mandy’s face was grim. “Remember, Bethany. She wasn’t born into the faith, as we were. Jehovah would want you to forgive. Now that she is baptized, her sins are washed away. She is new, like a baby. It is up to us, you and I, to raise Heidi Spencer in The Truth.

This injunction, accorded to both of us, swelled my chest, and softened my resolve. 

The following day found us in Eureka Springs, Arkansas, meandering the fairy tale cobblestone streets of the historic downtown – our hearts reunited. Heidi even went so far as to hook her arm through mine, with genuine ardor! 

As we strolled, Heidi drew sundry looks from passerby, and at times, much to my startlement, even cat calls. This because she wore bloomers – actual vintage bloomers! Ivory cotton with lace trimmed ruffles just above the knee, tied with silken bows. 

Even mom, who thought Heidi’s outfits quirky and adorable, had nearly lost both eyebrows, they leapt so far from her face. She’d whispered to me, from the corner of her mouth, “Aren’t they undergarments?” 

We three stepped into the waffle cone scented AC blast of an old-fashioned ice-cream shop, cramming into one side of a booth together, yet – would you believe? No one banished me to the opposite side. Mandy and Heidi spread out their purchases, exclaiming, as usual, over the booty: tarnished brooches, menacing hat pins, dusky pink depression glass, black and white photographs of old women in aprons, gnarled hands, sunflower fields. Mandy excused herself, and after a minute of perfect silence, I looked at Heidi. I swallowed hard. “Bethany,” she said, “what is it? Are you still mad at me?” 

The malt shop was dark. I leaned in and whispered, “What was it like?” 

Heidi blinked. “It?” 

I couldn’t speak the word, yet I was desperate to know. All the Watchtower had told me was not to be like Potiphar’s wife. Yet how could I avoid it, when I didn’t even know what the male sex organ looked like? “Was it like a hotdog?” I asked, biting my lip, forehead beading. “Oscar Meyer, or Ballpark Frank?” 

Heidi’s jaw dropped. “Bethany!” she hissed. Then, looking side to side, she took a coy sip of her shake. “It’s not the least like a hotdog. Far too much texture.” 

I grabbed Heidi’s arm, and shook. “Hurry,” I said. “Tell me. Where did he put it? And what did he do with it, once it was correctly placed?” 

After ice-cream we continued to shop, my mind throbbing with all I had learned. 

They moved inside of you with their veiny and hooded part? 

In, then out? Slow, then fast?

I longed to go somewhere, to be alone with my body and imagination, for what purpose I did not know, but the compulsion was sweaty, overwhelming, and I was irritated when abruptly, we halted. I, stepping on the back of Mandy’s heels. And though usually she would kick up a tremendous fuss about this misdemeanor, instead, she barely noted the discomfort. She was fixated so keenly on Heidi. 

Heidi gripped the door handle of Enchanted Moonbeam, her bloomers poised to enter. This shop, like so many in Eureka Springs, specialized in gnome, elf, and fairy figurines, along with crystal balls and plentiful varieties of incense. 

Mandy said, “Do not enter. True Christians do not partake in such places.” 

Heidi tilted her head. “Why not?” 

“The occult.” 

“Elves are the occult?” 

“Yes. Elves are Satan’s children.”  

“Satan’s children!” 

“Like Smurfs.” 

Here, I interjected, recalling Mandy’s exhortation that we must raise Heidi in The Truth. “When you come into the land which Jehovah your God is giving you, you shall not learn to follow the abominations of those nations. There shall not be found among you anyone who makes his son or his daughter pass through the fire, or one who practices witchcraft, or a soothsayer, or one who interprets omens, or a sorcerer, or one who conjures spells, or a medium, or a spiritist, or one who calls up the dead. For all who do these things are an abomination to Jehovah.” 

Heidi stared. 

“Deuteronomy 18:9-12,” I clarified. 

“Oh,” she said, with a slow nod. “Okay,” removing her hand from the door handle of Enchanted Moonbeam, slowly, as though it were a snake she had longed to pet, not knowing it seethed with venom. 

That night, back at Roaring River, the two took off together on a guided nature hike, ostensibly, to search for owls. I was not invited. Mom and dad, seeing me bemused and sorrowful, inquired, out of pity, if I wanted to accompany them to feed the trout by moonlight, which I refused. 

So that, I was there when Heidi and Mandy returned early. 

So that, I was there when they disappeared into Heidi’s tent. 

There watching, as the flap was firmly zipped.  

There watching for Heidi’s flashlight beam, which for a long time, did not alight. 

A week after our camping trip, while I prepared for another school year, knowing that to be a good student was to be a good Witness, though not too good of a student, for that was glorifying Worldly education above Jehovah, I heard erupt from Mandy’s room – mournful cries, wrenching and guttural.  

I dropped my binder and ran to her room, flinging her door open, only to find her on her knees, a letter gripped in her hand. I snatched it from her, and read: 

My Dearest Mandy,

I’ve been lying to you. 

I was baptized a Jehovah’s Witness to stay close to you, because you are a sister to me, and more. I’ve never met another being on earth who shares the fabric of my being, as though we were part of the same tapestry when the world was formed, then somehow, rent asunder at birth, to different families and upbringings. 

I was baptized so I could keep you as sister, in this lifetime, on this earth. 

But I realized on our camping trip that deceit is the gravest wound one can inflict. 

I would rather lose you, sister, than deceive you. And I can’t keep deceiving, and losing, myself. 

Mandy, I have practiced witchcraft since the age of twelve. That is my faith, my truth. 

What you call the occult, and Satanism, I call magic, and meaning, and beloved beauty.  

I imagine – this is the end of us. 

I will grieve that forever. 

Love, 

Your Heidi Spencer

That night, I watched from the window. 

Mandy, though she had vomited repeatedly, with violence, and hastened to bed, was outdoors, at the unlikeliest hour, barefoot and hair flowing, beneath a sky sequined with stars, digging a grave. Into which she placed a small antique chest. I knew what it must contain. 

Ah, sister. 

My heart broke for her. 

Davenport, Iowa – River View Trail Rides, 2025 

“Bethany, let’s go!” My husband’s command broke my trance, mesmerized as I was by the young girl in velvety pink top, leaned forward on a glossy black horse, running barrels.  

Heidi Spencer. 

I considered looking her up again. But quickly stifled the perilous impulse. The last time I’d surrendered to that temptation, I had profoundly regretted.  

Not the action though. 

Not ever the action. 

Digging up the chest. 

Pawing through, by moonlight, the trinkets and gifts they’d exchanged. So many! Pendants and charms, dried flower and herb sachets tied up in little ribbons, curled at the ends. And the photographs, the two of them in Trash Can Annie, posing, cheek to cheek. Photos that I, myself, had taken. 

Heidi’s letter, as anticipated, was there, too. 

When I delivered it to the Elder body at Elm Creek, her confession of devil worship was all the evidence needed. 

1st Corinthians 5:13. Remove the wicked one from among you. 

I did not regret. I rejoiced. 

“Bethany!” 

I jogged to the stables, toward my husband – the new Circuit Overseer of over twenty congregations. 

Little Bethany Wilkinson, a Circuit Overseer’s wife! 

Who would have thought? 

Our two sons, David and Saul, already astride horses. “Hurry, mom!” 

“Here I am. I’m here.” 

The time I’d looked up Heidi Spencer, I’d been thunderstruck by the pink gingerbread Victorian in Eureka Springs, Arkansas. A commercial property. A business called Bloomers: Victorian Intimate Apparel and Photography. 

Think of it! 

Also in the chest, the real gem – a letter Mandy had written to Heidi, but never sent.  

Who would have guessed, my sister could write poetry? 

I’d delivered that letter, as well, to the Elders. Though humble men, not highly educated, they were skilled enough to interpret the salacious metaphors. 

Two birds with one stone. 

Baptized and disfellowshipped – together. 

Jehovah’s ways are perfect, indeed! 

Though I had not seen nor spoken with my sister in well over twenty years, since her expulsion from God’s organization, I well knew where she was. Pink Gingerbread. Bloomers. Business partners! On the website, a black and white photograph of a woman, in a bathtub, bare head to toe, except for the ridiculous massive hat, lavish with flowers and feathers, and Victorian walking boots she had, at last, managed to fit. And I, who had grown up with her, never having seen her naked – now, the world. And she, robust with bosom, certainly no longer looked sickly! 

Yet, who would it be, off to Jordbruksdagarna with my dear family this fall, and soon, so soon, just a whisper away, who would it be, ushered by Jehovah and his angels into the New Earth, a paradise, in order to craft and procreate? 

Not them, but me. 

I climbed upon my horse, lifted my chin. 

We would follow each other in a straight, plodding line for miles. 

I looked forward to it. 

Summer Hammond grew up in rural Iowa and Missouri, one of Jehovah’s Witnesses. She earned her MFA from the University of North Carolina-Wilmington. Her writing appears in New Letters, Moon City Review, and Tahoma Review, among others. She won the 2023 New Letters Conger Beasley Jr. Award for Nonfiction and her essay was selected for Best American Essays 2025. Her debut novel, The Impossible Why, is forthcoming from Apprentice House Press in 2026.