The monsignor, presumably sober, never bothered to pronounce Dominique’s name correctly, calling her “Dominick,” as if he didn’t even know the gender of the person he was eulogizing. Every time he said Dominick, Alex’s and my ears burned with rage and we blurted out, “Neeek! Neeek! DomiNEEK!” Heads turned our way but we didn’t care, and this time Dad didn’t try to halt our outbursts. We continued for the burial at Westwood Memorial Park, and gathered around a freshly dug plot only yards from where Mom’s best friend, Natalie Wood, had been laid to rest a year earlier. As Dominique was being
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