The wood digs into his back, forcing him to sit up straight. To his left, people shuffle in scanning the room for a seat. To his right, a window encloses the cemetery. In front of him sits an elderly man. Under his breath, he counts the spots on the manʼs bald head. “1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6...” In midst of his counting, everyone stands as mass begins. He finishes off, “7, 8.” The priest speaks but he ignores the lecture and stares at the crucifix. He wonders how long it would take to grow a beard like Jesus. He remembers his high school years when he used to have Jesusʼ build. His attention shifts to the Stations of the Cross lining the churchʼs walls. He begins to count, “1, 2, 3, 4...” Under the fourth station sits a Mexican family. Stunned that Mexicans attend his church, he stares bewildered in their direction. “Honey what are doing?” His wife whispers to him.
He counts the family members ending with the youngest daughter, “1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7. All good children go to heaven.” “Honey,” his wife repeats. “Countinʼ spicks,” he responds. “Norm, thatʼs awful. Weʼre in church.” Uninterested in her scolding, he turns to the right and gazes into the cemetery. As his eyes travel up the hill he spots a girl perched in front of a gravestone. Intrigued but unsure why, he continues to study the lifeless youngster. At 12:52, mass lets out and churchgoers flee to their cars. As Norm exits he checks for the girl on the hill. She remains on top, hunched over the grave. His car sits directly in front of the church but he walks toward the girl instead. “Norm,” his wife says, “Where are you going?” He ignores her and continues his hike. “Norm!”