38 | Psychopomp Magazine
Bell.
For Christmas we had the usual traditions with a tad of local flavoring. Plenty of Christmas lights, a motorcycle parade of old men dressed as Santa Claus—none as jolly and fat and burly as Mr. Peakes—with a sexy Mrs. Claus, who worked in the diner, clutching his bowl-full-of-jelly with her pink press-on-nails, and a crèche in the rotunda on main street. We even had longhorns lying down near a crib with an honest-to-God real baby. Made the whole thing mean more for everyone.
Jimmy’s brother, Sammy, played the infant Jesus. He did a helluva job. Looked angelic. Pale little fellow didn’t cry much but beamed amid lowing cows and Mexicans dressed as the Three Magi.
Miguel Hernandez has a wonderful baritone, which he rumbled through the afternoon and part of the evening, booming sonorously, “We Three Kings of Orient Are.”
Miguel’s father used to sing at a restaurant in Boquillas on the other side of the border from Big Bend National Park. Married a Fort Davis rancher’s daughter, joined us in the Lone Star state.
After Miguel sung himself hoarse caroling and went back to his ranch, Mr. Peakes and the cows babysat little Jesus.
Christmas Eve grew mighty damp and chill. To make his own heat, Mr. Peakes suckled the glass bottle teat of his Scotch buddy of long acquaintance, Johnny Walker.
Mrs. Bell attended a Christmas party and Jimmy was so busy showing off the Handle, he wasn’t nearby when little Sammy got paler and paler and Mr. Peakes grew redder and redder. He didn’t notice when the baby Jesus expired right there in the cradle before ever getting a chance to make marvels. As for the cows, they peacefully ate hay and said nothing. Holy night. Silent night.
It wasn’t till midnight that Mrs. Bell showed up, staggering to the