The Lady on Pemberton Street

by Albert DiBartolomeo

    Shortly after the author and his wife move to a house on a little street called Pemberton, they get acquainted with a special neighbor － Mable Howard, who has battled all her life against litter, decay and disorder to make life more enchanting in the neighborhood. Here is the moving story of Mable Howard, the beloved block captain.

    For many years my wife, Sue, and I wanted to live near Philadelphia's Center City. The only place within our means was a row house on a little street called Pemberton. The house needed work, but I am fairly handy so we had little concern about fixing it up.

    What did concern us was the neighborhood. Some buildings were dilapidated. There was more crime than we had been exposed to in the past. But our block seemed okay, and we decided to buy. After the settlement, we went to our new home. The street was vacant, but I sensed that we were being watched. Sue was upstairs measuring for blinds when I heard a rap at the door.

    "Hello?" a reedy voice called.

    I opened the door upon a woman with bright eyes somewhere between fierce and merry. She was at least 65, thin, but not at all frail. Quite the opposite. All tough sinew, she looked like a hawk eyeing prey.

    "Sorry to bother you, my dear," she said. "I'm Mable Howard, the block captain."

    I had only a dim awareness of what that meant. But I soon learned that a block captain's function was to request city services, report trouble to police and coordinate efforts to keep the block clean and safe.

    I introduced Mable to Sue, who had come downstairs. "I'm BLOCK CAPTAIN," Mable told her, after I failed to mention her title.

    "Trash day is on Tuesdays," Mable continued. "Don't put any trash out before seven o’clock the night before. Sometimes animals get into it and make a mess. It just looks terrible. I try to keep a clean block here."

    "We noticed," I said.

    "What do you do for a living?"

    We told her. I also mentioned that I did handiwork on the side.

    "Oh, that's good." She drew out the last word as if responding to the sight of a luscious cake.

    We continued to exchange pleasantries until Sue and I had to return to work. I escorted Mable to the door.

    "Did you see the sign?" she asked, pointing to a utility pole. Below a parking sign was one inscribed with Mable Howard, BLOCK CAPTAIN.

    "Nice," I said.

    When we left the house ten minutes later, Mable was sweeping the sidewalk.

    The Clean Sweep. On our first morning on Pemberton Street, the sound of sweeping woke us early. I looked out the window. Mable was swishing her broom down the street.

    The next morning began the same way, and the one after that. I soon learned that Mable began every day this way. She swept in light rain. She swept in winds that scattered leaves. She swept snow. On such days we shook our heads at her.

    On that first morning, however, this was all new to me. Since I couldn't sleep, I began replacing the front-door locks. It wasn't long before Mable came up.

    "Good morning, sweetie pie," she began. "What a nice toolbox." She seemed to genuinely admire it. " I need a lock of my own changed. Maybe you could do that?"

    "Uh, sure."

    Mable went back to sweeping. I heard her muttering as she swept up some crack vials. "Riffraff," she said, and shook her head in disgust.

    Later I changed Mable's lock. The next morning I found an envelope on my vestibule floor. Inside were three dollar bills and a thank-you note. "Love, Mable" was scrawled at the bottom.

    I knew Mable wanted to pay me, but I wanted no money. While she was at church, I put the envelope through her mail slot.

    That afternoon the envelope found its way back to me. I promptly returned it again. Mable's husband, Jarvis, soon showed up at my door.

    "You have to let her pay you," he said, handing me the envelope."Otherwise, she won't sleep at night." I did not want to be responsible for Mable's insomnia, so I kept the three dollars.

    The Alley Gate. It was not quite 7: 30 on a summer Saturday morning when I left the house with my toolbox and headed toward an alley near the corner.

    "Good morning, Mable," I said, as I came abreast of her.

    "Good morning, sweetie pie."

    "I'm going to fix the gate now."

    "Oh, wonderful," she said, and followed me.

    The wooden gate was in disrepair, and "riffraff," according to Mable, were using the alley for "Lord knows what." For weeks she had been asking me to replace the broken slats and put a lock on the gate. I finally saw her point. Why should the alley be a private place for crude behavior, just because it was public property?

    Shortly, Jarvis came by carrying his daily newspaper. He had been a chef all his life, and now, long retired, he worked a few hours in the cafeteria of a Catholic grade school. He loved the kids, he told me. With Jarvis's help, I finished repairing the gate in short time. Mable commenced sweeping up the sawdust while I packed up my tools.

    She gazed down the length of the street. The bright sun had turned the upper windows of the west side into fiery rectangles of yellow. The blue sky above appeared enameled.

    "I like a nice clean block," Mable said.

    "It does look splendid," I said, handing her the key to the gate.

    The Block Cleaning. I soon participated in my first block cleaning. Two weeks before, Mable affixed placards to utility poles, admonishing us to move our cars on the Saturday specified. A week before, she put fliers into our mail slots. On Friday she reminded everyone again.

    Early Saturday I heard Mable knocking on doors, rousing us to move our cars off the block. There was a certain combativeness in her voice, as if those who did not help had sided with the dark forces responsible for litter, decay and dilapidation.

    When I returned from parking my car I met my neighbor Mike Garcia, wearing slippers and looking sleepy.

    "Why do we have to do this so early?" I complained.

    "Because the Boss said so," he laughed.

    When the cars vanished, the street was open its entire length and width. That incongruous sight was soon eclipsed by a gushing fire hydrant and phalanxes of neighbors pushing brooms to work the water and dirt down the street. The water shimmered in the morning sun and left the street glistening.

    The cleaning was infectious. Several neighbors washed their windows. Others tended to window boxes. Mable seemed to be everywhere at once, calling directives.

    As the sun brightened, the atmosphere became festive. People who had seen one another only in passing stood elbow to elbow and chatted. I had not seen anything like this in all my years of city living.

    I found myself wiping down the sign that proclaimed Mable block captain. "I think I'm having fun," I said to Mike.

    "Me too."

    The Debt. This year age had caught up to Mable. She sweeps only on days when the weather is fine. The street is suffering a bit.

    Recently I stopped by to put together her new vacuum cleaner. "Hello, sweetie pie," Mable said, and embraced me when I entered. She was not merely thin but skeletal. I told her that she looked well, lying.

    The following morning there was the envelope with its three dollars on my vestibule floor. I had long ago stopped trying to return the money, even though I am more in Mable's debt than she is in mine.

    Going outside later, I saw that a sheaf of advertising circulars had been scattered by the wind. I could not get the image out of my mind. After lunch I took a trash bag and went outside. Hesitating a moment, I left my doorstep and went up and down the street gathering the litter.

    I was a bit self-conscious, but I knew Mable would be pleased. I was proud to call her my captain.

    (1 390 words)

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