At the Oceana Apartments, he counts the years with Mae.
Six? Eight? Which is it?
Eight, he decides. Give or take.
How many of them were happy?
Most. Some. He knew it could not end well, not with a husband in the wings, and a son, and a common-law bed, but Mae held on to the fantasy for as long as she could. It was all Mae had.
Still, there were good times, happy years, and the conclusion, when it came, would not be entirely hateful, not at first.
And Babe?
Well, Babe had fewer happy years.