April 1997. ‘Jesus,’ says Lula Mae. ‘You look like you’ve been dipped in shit three times and pulled out twice.’
‘Something like that,’ says Max. They’re at The White Horse again, drinking pints of Bass.
‘Where’ve you been?’ says Lula Mae. ‘I’ve been calling you and getting the answering machine for the last two and a half weeks.’
Max tells her where he’s been, who said what, and what happened.
‘Poor Lola!’ says Lula Mae. ‘Is the baby all right?’
‘I don’t know. I haven’t been able to talk to Lola or find out anything about her.’
‘So what’s going to happen now?’
‘I don’t know.’ Evasive posture.
‘You’re tiptoeing across that road like a possum caught in the headlights.’
Max lets a What-Can-I-Say? expression appear on his face. High overhead an aeroplane passes, trailing a banner: SAY SOMETHING, MAX.
‘I’ll make it easy for you,’ says Lula Mae. ‘You’re only a little bit in love with me, no more than that. And I’m only a little bit in love with you. We’ve given each other a lot of pleasure. That first time at my place you recited “The Courtship of the Yonghy-Bonghy Bo” while we made love. It was weird and it was wonderful and we hadn’t ever had anybody like each other before but doing it more times didn’t really take us any further. You know and I know that we haven’t got marriage and a family and growing old together in us. What I do have in me is being a single mum and doing my own thing in the place where I feel best, which is Austin.’
‘That was fast. No sooner am I a father-to-be than both my kids-to-be leave me. Is this a record?’
‘“There never was a horse that couldn’t be rode, there never was a cowboy that couldn’t be throwed.”’
‘True. I guess you did give me fair warning.’
‘This is not a sad ending, Max – we’re simply accepting that you can’t pour out of a jug more than you poured into it.’
‘There’s no use crying over spilt milk,’ says Max, ‘and certainly a stitch in time saves nine.’
‘There you go, and bear in mind that I’ll keep you up to date with letters and photos, plus you can visit as much as you like or even move to Texas if you want to keep an eye on Victor or Victoria.’
‘You’ve chosen a name already?’
‘Well, I believe any kid of ours will be a winner, so I thought Victor for a boy and Victoria for a girl.’
Max sees, as in those stop-motion films of flowers unfolding, Victor/Victoria growing from infancy upward. He hopes the child will have Lula Mae’s looks and her brains as well. Tears seem to be running down his cheeks. ‘I’ll help with money,’ he says.
‘We can work out the details later,’ says Lula Mae. ‘Maybe the next round should be double scotches. My shout.’
‘Ah,’ says a nearby drinker as Lula Mae’s going-away view passes.
‘I know,’ says Max.