Mean Woman Blues

Lexus woman dangerous? He had to assume so; so far as he knew, Terri had no friends or acquaintances in Dallas.
    He needed Langdon. But how to get her? He didn’t have either her home or pager number with him. He left a message at the Third District.
    He ended up driving the streets with his cell phone on, hoping Terri would phone, hoping to catch a glimpse of her somewhere, somehow. “Go to Deep Ellum,” the desk clerk said. “That’s where the action is.” He went; saw nothing. Drove more; saw more nothing. Eventually, he found himself a hotel only slightly better than the Bluebonnet.
    He slept for a few hours, waking up early and thinking what a foolish thing he’d done, flying to Dallas to try to find Terri. He should have waited till morning, and now it
was
morning and he wasn’t even in New Orleans where he damn well ought to be. He tried her again, and again didn’t get her. He got up and headed to the airport; he’d made a return reservation for nine a.m.
    On the way, he called Langdon at her office again, leaving another message, begging them to track her down and have her call him. Having no idea if they would or not.
    Mentally, he ticked off avenues he’d followed, trying to decide if he’d left out anything.
Lovelace
! he thought. He hadn’t called his niece. The thought filled him with panic. Anxiously, he dialed her number.
    “Hi, Uncle Isaac.” She must have caller I.D.
    He could hardly get his breath. “Lovelace. I saw a man who looked like my father. It can’t be him, but I can’t be sure it’s not.” There was a tiny trickle of calculation in what he was saying, the way he was saying it.
    She picked up on his peculiar phrasing. “Isaac, your OCD is back, isn’t it? Oh, Isaac, I’m so sorry.”
    “Lovelace, I can’t be sure. It might be him and it might not.” This was one of the manifestations of his OCD: When it was in full force, he couldn’t be sure of certain things. “Can you be extra careful for a few days? I’ll call back when I can be sure.”
    “Are you all right? Is the man in New Orleans?”
    “Of course, I’m all right. I’m not even in New Orleans. Listen, you shouldn’t have to suffer for this problem; it’s my problem. I’m really sorry I frightened you, but I just… can’t be sure.”
    He hung up sweating, thinking,
I really blew that one
. The last thing he wanted to do was terrify her, but he’d had to talk to her, to make sure she was where she was supposed to be, if nothing else.
    Before he was even off the plane, Isaac accessed his messages. Terri’s cheerful voice chirped out at him: “Hi, Isaac, I’m really sorry I forgot to call. I had dinner with an old friend from New Orleans…” Here she laughed. “…dinner and a whole lot of drinks. Somehow, it just slipped my mind. Everything went great with the show. See you later this morning.”
    He’d heard Terri’s voice; he knew she was fine. But he couldn’t be sure. Okay, he was obsessing; he knew it. But he also knew it when he washed his hands twenty times a day and checked ten times to make sure he’d locked the door. It wasn’t something he could help. He hardly even bothered apologizing to himself— just took a taxi home, jumped on his scooter, and sped to her house.
    But she wasn’t home. He was deeply disappointed. Her mail had come and hadn’t been collected. That argued that she hadn’t gotten back yet. He could wait for her. Should he? On the other hand, she could have gone to the store or something, maybe out to lunch.
    He obsessed so long about it, it actually constituted waiting. His cell phone battery was dangerously low, but he didn’t dare leave his phone off. And finally, inevitably, he ran out of juice.
    That made his decision: Nothing to do but go home. He half-hoped she’d be there, and he was disappointed when he didn’t see her car. The minute he walked in, he began cleaning. He cleaned the already spotless kitchen; he swept the floor, carefully counting each stroke; he stripped the bed and put the linens in the washing machine. Then and only then did he permit himself a shower. He ran it till the hot water gave out, and still he stayed in. His fingers and toes were like raisins— ice-cold raisins— by the time he stepped out.
    He wished he had something white to dress in. The White Monk, his former persona, had dressed only in white, and it was what he needed now, but he’d thrown out all his white to begin his new life.
    He picked up his broom