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Years later he was standing at a bar with a friend who said “You know, you might not want to hear this. But since you brought her name up before or maybe you do, now, or wouldn’t mind, when it’s so long after the fact, but I never knew what you saw in that California broad — Angel, or Evangel, or Angelina. She wasn’t—” and he said “Evangeline. She never liked it shortened or would tolerate any nickname,” and his friend said “Evangeline, then. But just that, that she wouldn’t, with such a mouthful of an uncommon name. But she wasn’t smart or sharp or good-looking. Her body was like a board. She didn’t like one person you knew, me most especially, I think because I was your closest friend. She in fact looked on everyone we knew as if she wanted to spit great wads on top of their heads. She hated the city, was afraid of everything, and treated you like shit. She wouldn’t even cook part of the dinner when Beverly and I came over — you had to do it all because we were your friends, not hers. What possibly could have possessed you? Usually your taste in women was pretty good,” and he said “You sound like my dad there, may his soul, etcetera, and the rest of him . . ” and his friend said “Then your dad was right. He knew a looker; look at your mom. He also knew — I could tell, even sick as he was the last times I saw him and with not much use for talking because of his paralysis problem — what was up and who was phooey and what in life was hype or gauze or fake.” “There was something between her and me that can’t be explained. But I’ll try, right? That’s what I usually do. If you don’t think she was good-looking or smart or anything like that.