It was a demonstration, but they couldn’t tell if it was for Haiti, Palestine, or janitors. They were so accustomed to Friday financial district activism that they hardly paused. The waiter nodded toward the street with a fond look on his face, and left. Brad asked about the wine. “I think you’re being too empathetic here,” he observed. “Looks like you’re drinking extra when my life’s a mess. Or maybe you’re already having second thoughts about the work thing.”

“Oh no. I have my very own stresses.”

“Yeah well…”

“No. Really. Even today.” She looked for the wine but it was too soon to expect it. “I didn’t behave well this morning.”

Brad sat back, attentive. “The PG&E meter reader slipped on my path at around 9 today, and broke her ankle.”

“Shit!” Brad blurted impulsively. Still without thinking he added, “But I’ve warned you about that path…”

“I know; I know. Don’t start with me. It wasn’t even the main part of the path.” There was a brick walkway from the sidewalk to Susan’s house. It was probably as antique as her 90 year-old abode. The land sloped down from the street to her front door, and the brick path lay on the land. It was picturesquely edged with moss, and after rain it could be as slippery as ice. Susan often swept, brushed, hosed, or scrubbed at those bricks, in an effort to make them less slick. Sometimes in the wettest part of the winter she looped a rope across the pathway where it started at the sidewalk, so anyone approaching her place would be encouraged to tread the lumpy asphalt of her driveway instead of the slick bricks.

It wasn’t a straight walkway. It headed directly for the center of her house from the sidewalk, but it forked six feet short of her porch. The left branch led to her front door. The right side went nowhere: to the part of the house outside the kitchen, without even a yard. The only thing there was the electric meter. It had never occurred to Susan that she should be scrubbing the right-side path.

“Well I’m sure your homeowners insurance will…”

“Oh that’s not what I’m worried about. For all I know, there may not even be a claim. I mean, isn’t this kind of an occupational hazard for a meter reader? They have to come on people’s property under all sorts of conditions, so maybe they take responsibility if they fall down. That part of the path was very slippery, especially after last week’s deluge, but it looked slippery, you know? An experienced person should have known to step off it onto the dirt alongside. Ahh,” she interrupted herself as the waiter set her glass of wine on the table. She nodded her thanks and took two sips. “No. That’s not the part that’s bothering me.”

Brad looked attentive. His spoon hovered over his custard.

“She screamed like crazy when she fell. And I ignored her.” A gulp of wine. “Worse, when she asked me later if I had heard her, I lied.”

“Hmmm.” Brad was surprised but tried to hide it. When they were kids he took all the merit badges. Susan was notorious for lying, cheating, even experimental stealing, while Brad was the good neighbor and excellent sport. Their mother still treasured the letter of commendation from the local police, written after Brad turned in a cash-stuffed wallet he found on the street. But as adults Susan was the honest sibling. Brad’s teasing and story-telling sometimes crossed the line. He waited to hear more.

“Of course I heard her. She was amazingly loud. I was in the middle of doing an aerobics tape and suddenly there were these shrieks: ‘Help! Help me! Somebody! Please! Help! Me!’ My immediate responses were ‘Oh shit, I don’t have time for this’ as well as ‘Nobody in real distress could yell that strongly, that lustily.’

“To be honest (now, anyway), I didn’t think she was for real. And I had no idea she was on my property. I thought she was one of the walking crazies in my neighborhood. I’ve described Tim, the barking man. And I know I mentioned the tall guy with the red helmet who kneels and genuflects at every corner. He’s harmless, and now that I’ve gotten to know Tim I don’t see his barking as all that provocative. But the bitch lady is a whole other matter, and that’s who I thought was yelling.

“She looks clean enough. Fiftyish and dowdy. Carries bags of bags in each hand. Likes to yell at residents if she thinks their dogs should be inaudible or their yards altered. Every time she sees me she curses me. Loudly. Once she even thrust her middle finger right in my face. If I try to be friendly she mimics me and then yells at me. If I ignore her she just yells. I’ve never heard her do a ‘Help Me’ yell but she’s who I pictured as I endured those screams. I thought she was one or maybe two houses away, on the sidewalk. It was sunny this morning, and there was a line of cars edging up the street, and I remember thinking that some of those drivers had to be hearing the screams, with their windows open and all, and since they weren’t reacting, my assumption that it was bitch lady, acting out, was probably correct.”

Susan swallowed more wine. Brad pushed his dessert plate toward the middle of the table and drank the last of his coffee. The waiter stopped by their table and slid their tab in its vinyl folder onto the well-laundered cloth. Susan didn’t look at the total before covering it with her card.

“It got quiet after that. Actually, I’d paused the tape and I went downstairs then for more coffee. I thought I heard a voice and even wondered if bitch lady had gone into the neighbor’s front yard and was mock-calling the police about something; that would be her style. I carried my coffee upstairs and finished my tape.

“Then I went into the bathroom to shower. I opened the window to see if the traffic was still as bad as it had been. ‘Hello?’ I heard from immediately below. ‘Please?’ came quietly. And then ‘Can you help me?’ I leaned out the window and looked down. I was horrified to see a young woman sprawled on my brick path.

“‘Omigod! Just a moment! I’m coming!’ I yelled. I raced downstairs and outside and over to her, where I slipped on the bricks and nearly went down myself.