He and Charlie were talk-show hosts for the same radio station, and it was because of Charlie he’d discovered the woman who channeled angels.  talk-show hosts for the same radio station and  Charlie left her pamphlet in the reception room. As soon as he read it, he thought of Mrs. Martinez:

Have you ever prayed to angels or wished you could? Do you get solace from a belief in the miraculously divine? Are you aware of 'guiding forces'?    If you have answered 'yes' to any of these questions, you will welcome my help!  I am an experienced angel channeler and can direct you  to  higher powers which will give you solutions to your most personal, heart-wrenching needs.  Special rates for house visits, and 'angel purification' ceremonies. Call Roxanne, 861-ANGE  to make an appointment.

             Roxanne, the angel channeler, was photographed in blurry light: She had starlit hair and diamond earrings. He assumed Charlie had interviewed her, but Charlie said, he’d left it in the waiting room as a joke.
People are nervous before they come on. I want them to lighten them up. 
            What if they believe in angels? 
            Then they'd feel all good and mushy inside.  Charlie noticed he’d stuffed the pamphlet in his pocket. You don't believe in all that crap, do you? 
            He’d said no, he was doing research.

            Roxanne, the angel channeler, lived in the fog-belt of San Francisco. Her house, a small grey Victorian with one turret, was next to other tiny houses  surrounded by mist. There was a knocker on her door in the shape of wings. He held it in the middle, where an angel's spine would be.
            Hello! said a thin voice when he knocked. Can you give me five minutes? This last one had a lot to say.
            Sure, he said. But I’m on a break.
            What do you do? the thin voice asked.
            I happen to be an English teacher.
            Cool. That was my favorite subject.
             He waited on her steps reading a school bulletin, something about parent's night, something about a raffle for his youngest son’s soccer team.  He was always getting bulletins from the school and never had time to go. He jotted down dates, just in case. Soon the door opened and there was Roxanne, who didn’t look at all like her picture: Her hair was short with green streaks. Both eyebrows had silver rings. Her nose had a silver star. She wore a black T-shirt with cuffs rolled up, and a long rust-colored velour skirt with a slit up the left side. She was short, thin, maybe twenty-three. She reached out a small white hand.
             I'm sorry to be late. But if I don't pause properly, I might get the wrong angel.
             She's a nut, he thought, following her down a peach-colored corridor. They came to a parlor with climbing-rose wallpaper, Roxanne waved to an overstuffed chair,  he sat down, and Roxanne sat opposite him. He'd been prepared for dreamy eyes. Hers were small and sharp.
            What are you thinking? she asked. 
            That you don't look like your picture.
            I know. Angels don't like Victorian stuff. People just think they do. She gestured toward the silk pillows and pie-bald velvet furniture. Pretty soon I'm going to get rid of this stuff and do everything over in black and chrome.
She leaned forward, reminding him of his daughter, Sylvie, when she wanted a ride to the mall. I only got that funky photograph because I thought I should ride the crest, she said. Then my face went punk and my body followed.
            What's the crest?
            You know. Whatever people believe in these days. Ideas that fly by at a hundred miles an hour.
            You mean the zeitgeist?
            The what-geist? I'd rather call it the crest. Anyway,--she sipped Coke from a piecrust table--how come you're here?
             It's about my housekeeper. She's unhappy and I thought you could help.   You mean it's not about you? Roxanne looked concerned, even angry. You mean you came to talk about someone else?
            Well in a sense it really is about me. What I mean is that my wife left me about three years ago and this woman has taken care of my kids ever since. But her daughter in Colombia has disappeared and she can't cook, or eat and or even sleep. All she does is cry. He was close to tears himself.
             Roxanne looked at the ceiling as though talking to invisible spirits.
            Mr. Rose, she said in a tone that made him sorry he hadn't told her his real name. Mr. Rose, let me be honest: In all my years as an angel-channeler--and I've had a few—I’ve found that people who want to hook other people up with angels  are always concerned with themselves. To be blunt,--she took another sip of Coke
--these people need an excuse to find their own personal angel and they hide behind some other person's problems. I'm really sorry to say this, Mr. Rose, but that's been my experience.
            He looked at the  plush couch, lamps with pink silk fringes,  crystals dangling from lace-curtained windows and a filagreed lamp that was creepily arcane. The book on the piecrust table was a large black book called The Terrain of Madame Blavatsky.  It must be old: the gold of the title was peeling.
            I'm sorry, he said, but it really is  about my housekeeper. I don't mind  doing the cleaning, or cooking. It's just terrible having my kids see her so unhappy.. They love her, they care about her. And all she does is cry.
             Then why don't you get someone else?
             Get someone else?
            Yeah. Put an ad in the paper and get someone else.
             Roxanne, how old are you?
            Twenty-two and a half.
            Have you ever had kids?
            No.
             Then you don't understand: Mrs. Martinez is all my kids know. Besides. We love her.
             For a moment Roxanne's face softened, as if lit by interior light. Why didn't you just send her then?
            I feel protective. I need to check you out. 
            Check me out? Listen to that: He needs to check me out. Roxanne looked at some invisible presence on the ceiling. Needed to check me out, she said again.
            So you won't help?
            Roxanne closed her eyes. Mr. Rose, please be quiet. Your personal angel has arrived.
             The room was hot. He thought he smelled incense and started to sweat.  He felt trapped in mud, brick, lime---whatever was in the walls of the tiny run-down house.
             Mr. Rose, please. Don't move around. I'm channeliing. Roxanne fluttered her eyelids. Her fingers trembled.
 I should go, he thought. I should get out this minute. He shifted in his chair, a first step in getting up. Don't leave! Roxanne commanded. If you leave, your personal angel will be very upset.
            She was still trembling. Her eyelids moved like butterflies.  Oh my, she said in a quiet voice. Your angel is giving me some information we're going to have to clear up right now. He's telling me you're traveling under an alias. He's telling me you really aren't Mr. Rose. Your last name starts with an S  and you're pretending to be someone else because you feel weird about seeing me. She opened her eyes and looked at him.  Is that right?
             Yes, he said. The word flew out, unbidden.
            Good. That's what your angel says, and I'm glad you agree. You don't have to tell me your real name. You just have to tell me the truth. If you don't want to tell the truth, don't say anything. Okay?
            Okay.
            Thank you. Your angel understands. Roxanne frowned. Are you cynical?
            I'd rather say I was skeptical.
             Skeptical, she said, closing her eyes. That's probably why you used an alias.
            What?
            It doesn't matter. Your angel told me not to get into this sort of thing with you. He says he wouldn't be helpful. Her head was against the back of the chair. There were beads of sweat around her mouth. Even if she were a quack, he saw she was exerting tremendous effort. Mr. S, she said, this is what your angel is telling me: Your problem isn't your housekeeper. It's you.
            I should leave, he thought again. I should just get up and leave. He looked around the room for signs of his angel, thinking he'd believe anything: An odd quality of light. Rustling from the big black book. The only luminous object was a TV in the corner; most of it was covered with blue velvet cloth.
            I'm sorry to disappoint you, he said, but I want to know about her. My kids need her and I thought you could help. It's just that simple. And now I'm leaving. You know? Like I'm getting up.
            Mr. S! Roxanne opened her eyes. Nothing is that simple. Why have you been alone all these years? Why haven't you gotten married?
             That's a personal question.
            I didn't ask it. Your angel did.
             Wives don't grow on trees.
            Have you ever looked?
             He didn't answer. Roxanne's eyebrows fluttered. He watched while the silver rings went up and down. Mr. S, she said softly, angels only know the truth. That's why they can talk to talk to you. Angels are beyond. They're beyond the crest of this current age.
            He no longer remembered whether he was supposed to be answering a question or asking one. Roxanne leaned back in her chair. He leaned back, too, and they sat in silence. There was a floating feeling in the room. It reminded him think of his wife floating out of the house, in a nimbus of alcohol. It was almost a levitation, the way she left, one Sunday morning, wearing a white angora dress that seemed airborne. She floated out. Mrs. Martinez floated in. Where's Mom? Seth had asked. She left for a while. Everything will be okay.
            Is something occurring to you, Mr. S?
            No. And you can call me John.
            All right, John. Is anything coming to mind?
            No. Nothing. 
            Well I'm hearing something. Do you want me to tell you?
            If you want to.
            Well.....It's a letter your wife left. A letter that said something like: We have a children, a house, friends. And we're caught up in this ridiculous net, that people like to think is the world. I want to go outside. I want to go back to where the stars burn underwater. That's  what I've been hearing....  
              He remembered the letter. He kept it in the trunk where he kept the coat and read it every Halloween when found costumes for the kids. 
            Does that sound right to you? Roxanne asked.
            Listen, I didn't come here to get my mind read and I'm going to leave.
            That's fine. You can leave whenever you want to. But don't call me a mind-reader. I'm not and neither is your angel. He's just lived your life. He's lived it from the day you were born.
             How come he hasn't bothered to tell me?
            Because. You haven't asked him. Roxanne took a deep breath. Anyway, he's told me not to quibble. And I happen to have something to
 to tell you, which is that Mrs. Martinez wants to go back to Colombia. Even if she gets killed there. She’s only staying because she's worried about your kids, and also that you'll  be too sad without her.
            But she says she wants to stay.
            It doesn't matter what she says. I'm telling you what she wants.
            So there's nothing I can do?
            There’s a lot you could do if you wanted to. Roxanne frowned. The lines between her brows became dense. I'm sorry, Mr. S. she said. Your personal angel has to leave. He's on call somewhere else. He sends his blessings. She leaned back, breathed deeply. The frown relaxed.  She opened her eyes. He saw she was pale and drained.
            Who is my personal angel, anyway?
            I can't tell you his name, because you didn't tell him yours--at least not your full one.
             What if I tell it to you now?
            I'm sorry, but he's gone. If he ever comes back, you can negotiate.     
I don't understand.
            I don't either, except angels do everything on a basis of exchange.
            Like money?
            Like truth.
            Oh Lord. What do I owe you?
            Nothing. Your angel doesn't want you to pay me. He says you’re a special case.
            How come?
            He asked me not to explain.
            Why?
            Something about your rational mind, Mr. S. The way the circuitry is connected. He'll tell you when he wants to.
             He stood up, feeling disembodied. He looked over at The Terrain of Madame Blavatsky. He wondered if the book were a country. Roxanne stood up, too. She looked smaller, more waif-like.
            How long have you been in this business? 
            Seven years.
            What got you into it?
            I'm not sure. Maybe if I knew I wouldn't be doing it. Roxanne looked around the room and touched a fringe on the lampshade. As soon as I get my act together, I'm getting out of this creepy house. That's why I'm sorry he wouldn't let you pay me.
            I'm glad to pay you. Really.
            I never go against orders.          
            He left her house, and stood outside, holding his coat and listening to the radio, which Roxanne turned on the moment he left. He could hear someone talking about Iraq, someone talking very fast. Someone riding the crest at a hundred miles an hour.