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The Black Republic Journal

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    Quinn said, looking down at the little old woman, had on her shoulder. "I know," she said. "That's why I'm gonna shoot his ass." He's dead, ma'am." "Lord," she said. "What happened?" "He died about forty years ago," Quinn said. "I heard he had a heart attack. Long time ago."
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    She stared at him, weathered face, clouded eyes, not knowing what to say. Her dry mouth then formed the words to ask, "What kind of nonsense are you talking, boy? I used to change your diapers." "That was my uncle." "You don't get out of my way, Hamp Beckett, I'm going to the nearest tree and switching your ass red."
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    The night was coming on fast, dark clouds moving in from the Delta, folks talking about rain and sleet through New Year's Day. He took off his old coat, the one that had belonged to his uncle, maybe making the confusion complete, and set it across her brittle shoulder bones. The faded tobacco brown ranch coat reached the old woman's knees.
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