Ten-year-olds don�t give much thought to death; there�s very little reason. I thought death only happened to people at least as old as my granddaddy. The week before my tenth birthday, all that changed and, with it, my assurance that all was right in my small world.
Little Jonas Huckaby was only two, but he was quite the favorite in our neighborhood, maybe because he smiled all the time. His mama said he had been born smiling and apparently had never found sufficient reason to stop. Jonas had been walking for several months, and he was often seen in the company of the older kids who didn�t seem to mind having him tag along in the immediate neighborhood.
One fall afternoon, I saw Mama talking quietly to Jonas� mother. I couldn�t tell what they were saying, but the way Miz Huckaby kept rolling up her apron and tugging at her sleeves, I knew it must be serious. When Mama came home, all she said was for us to stay away from Jonas� house. She said he might have measles. I saw Dr. Beck come and go several times over the next two days, and each time as he was leaving he would stand momentarily on the front porch and talk to Jonas� worried parents. Most of us kids had already had measles, so we didn�t see much cause for alarm.
On Friday morning just after daylight, Bill and I were awakened by somebody screaming.
�It�s Miz Huckaby,� Bill said as he peeked through the curtains beside our bed. �Mama and Daddy are over there, and something terrible is going on.�
Almost scared to look, I peered across the vacant lot that separated our house and theirs. Dr. Beck was sitting on the steps tending to Miz Huckaby who lay sprawled on the porch. She was still screaming, and the yard was beginning to fill with neighbors. We watched until Mama came slowly home and sat in the swing under the elm trees just outside our bedroom window. Even in the early morning light, I could see that her face was drained of all its color.
�What is it, Mama? What�s wrong?� I asked reluctantly because I was afraid the answer might be something I didn�t want to hear.
�Little Jonas is dead,� she said, her voice trailing off almost before the sentence could finish. �There was nothing anybody could do.�
Still looking out our bedroom window, I could see Mr. Huckaby on his front porch. He was holding tight to the porch railing, staring into space as if he saw something I couldn�t see. He was still standing there when the hearse arrived to pick up little Jonas� body. I didn�t want to look, but I couldn�t tear my eyes away as one of the undertakers carefully carried a little white bundle and placed it in the back of the waiting hearse.
Mama told Bill and me that we needed to go over and pay our respects to the Huckabys.
�But I won�t know what to say, Mama,� I pleaded.
�You don�t have to say much,� she replied. �They just need to know that you care.�
After making us put on clean clothes, Mama walked with us across the vacant lot and tapped lightly on the back door. I could see through the screen door Miz Huckaby sitting at the kitchen table surrounded by her relatives and friends. When she saw Bill and me, she almost smiled and held out her arms.
�I�m sorry, Miz Huckaby,� I said faintly as she held me tightly and sobbed.
�Me, too, Miz Huckaby,� Bill said as he stood there with his hand on her shoulder.
�Would you boys like something to eat?� she asked as she pointed to the cabinet top lined with food.
�No Ma�am,� we uttered, almost in unison. �Before you go, Mr. Huckaby wants to ask a favor of you, and we�ll understand if you say no,� she said sadly.
What Mr. Huckaby asked of Bill and me was to be pallbearers at little Jonas� funeral. We weren�t sure what pallbearers did, but we couldn�t refuse whatever he asked of us.
�Sure, Mr. Huckaby,� said Bill before I could answer. He shook our hands and held on for a moment as he managed a faint smile. On the way home, Mama explained that pallbearers carried the coffin from the church to the hearse and from the hearse to the open grave at the cemetery.
On the day of little Jonas� funeral, Mama got us up early so we could polish our good shoes. She had already laid out our Sunday suits, white shirts, and ties. �Little Jonas would be very proud,� Mama said after we got dressed and combed our hair. �I know I sure am.�
When we got to the Baptist church to receive our instructions, we found four of our friends who would also carry Jonas� coffin which rested at the front of the church by the altar, surrounded by more flowers than I�d ever seen in one place.
Mama had taken Bill and me to several funerals before, so we knew to sit quietly and be as respectful as two little boys can be. The preacher assured us all that little Jonas had gone to a better place, a place where there was no sorrow and no pain. Bill and I sat quietly with the other pallbearers on the front row, and we were all doing okay until Mr. Huckaby began to sob and call Jonas� name.
�It�s okay to cry if you need to,� Bill said quietly. The lump in my throat had grown until I could hardly breathe, and everything seemed to be suspended in a mist in front of me. With Bill�s reassurance, I wiped my eyes and unbuttoned my shirt collar until I could get my breath.
At the cemetery, we quietly said our goodbyes to little Jonas and laid our boutonnieres on top of the tiny coffin. �If Jonas has his way,� the minister concluded, �Heaven will be a happier place.�
I thought of all those afternoons when Jonas had followed us all about with that infectious smile on his sometimes dirty face, and I couldn�t help but smile too. �Amen to that,� I muttered quietly under my breath. �Amen.�
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