David Green

I saw her standing on the corner at Ocean Avenue. She was there every day looking around for a “Cross Me.” I would guess she was about five years old. She never looked at the traffic light. It didn’t matter if it was red or green. She waited until someone came along to lead her safely across the intersection. Then she scurried off to PS 152. A pony with her short chubby legs trotting along and her auburn mane streaming behind. Once I asked her what her name was but, wrapped in her silence, she never answered, so I nicknamed her Carla May. 

     It was 1942. That Thursday was an unusually chilly day. Fall was closing in on Brooklyn. You needed a warm sweater to feel comfortable. The sun was bright. The sky was blue and perfectly silent. 

     “Please, mister. Cross me.”

     “Of course little miss. Sure. I’ll cross you.”

     She would hold up her hand and I would take it. So trusting. I could be anybody. What was her mother thinking sending her off to school alone?

     On that day we heard a buzzing overhead. A sort of droning sound, like bees swarming high in the air. The streets were usually empty at that time of day. Just garbage trucks and an occasional car passing by. I looked up but I couldn’t see anything. That was OK, I thought, there weren’t any planes anyway. There weren’t any passenger flights because of the war and all. And if you could find a flight, where would it land? All the planes and airports were military. “For the war effort,” they said and that was fine with everybody. For the war effort we didn’t complain that there were no new cars. Oh, we grumbled alright, but we lived with the rationed gas and meat and shoes and so many things. We gave them all up for the war effort.

     Carla May looked up. Even from where I was, I could see the worry line on her brow. We both heard the approaching noise. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion until a screeching siren and a clanging bell came from the left and a fire-engine raced down Ocean Avenue with loudspeakers blaring. “Take cover. Unidentified plane overhead.” A fireman hung over the side and yelled at a driver, “Get out and run for shelter.” He saw Carla rooted to the spot with her mouth open and he called to her, “Go home little girl. Go home.”

     She forgot the “Cross Me.” Together we looked up and saw a small plane moving across the sky heading towards the beach at Coney Island. It was going to pass right over our heads.

     I ran to the corner and saw Carla running back home screaming, “Mommy! There’s a plane coming. They’re gonna drop a bomb. Mommy. Come get me!”

     I’m not sure what happened to Carla that day. I imagined her running home, stumbling through the door with her chest heaving, her throat hoarse from yelling, her face frozen in fear.

     Of course, nothing ever really happened. There were no enemies overhead or bombs poised to fall. Just an unmarked cargo plane on its way to the naval landing strip out by the bay. But the image of the little “Cross Me” kid is still with me. Here it is, forty years later, and I still hear her little voice, “Mister. Cross me please?” and I can feel her warm sweaty hand in mine. 

Carla May

I hate finding someone to cross me. I wish Mommy would walk me to school like the other kids. I don’t care about the new baby.

     I hate it when a woman comes. They stare at me like I was a bum or something. They think I’m gonna ask for something. I hate that. I’ll wait for a man. Mommy tells me I shouldn’t talk to strangers. Why’d she change her mind? Because of the new baby, I guess. 

     There’s that man down the street. The one I like. He says “yes” all the time and calls me “Little miss” and smiles and he doesn’t think I’m stupid or anything. I’ll ask him. But I still think mommy should walk me to school. 

     What’s that awful noise in the sky? Like daddy’s car but cars can’t fly. I never saw anything so high but birds.

     What’s that siren and fire bell? It’s coming real fast and maybe there’s a fire here. I’m scared. A fireman is leaning out shouting about a plane and he’s shouting at me, “Go home little girl! Go home!”

     I’m gonna run very fast and I’m gonna scream because I’m scared and I’m afraid the bombs will kill me. I want Mommy to be there and she’ll give me a hug and say “Don’t worry honey. I won’t let anybody hurt you.” But if she’s too busy with the baby to say those things, I won’t even cry. 

     It isn’t fair. That’s all.