Chapter Text
Two Years Later, Late Summer
“You know somebody from Toledo, Clyde?”
Clyde had bitten into a strip of overcooked bacon when Mellie asked. Shards of crisp, salty meat broke between his teeth and rained down on his favorite t-shirt like confetti. He set the leftover fatty part on his plate and swiped at his chest.
Toledo. Well, if that wasn’t a trigger word…
“Not anymore,” he said, and watched his sister take the seat opposite him at the breakfast table. “Who’s asking?”
Mellie shuffled a short stack of envelopes, collected from the morning mail run. “Just curious.” She gave Clyde a pink envelope, his name and addressed in elegant cursive. “I thought at first it was junk. These charities do up cards to make them look like you’re getting mail from somebody you know. That looked real, though.”
It was. The name Pritti on the envelope’s top left corner unlocked a trove of Mud Hen memories. Night patrols and day watches, marathon ball tosses between the Quonset huts, Clyde peering over tattered Uno cards to figure out Mud Hen’s next move.
In his mind’s eye the face of his departed friend flashed as brilliant as his smile whenever he spoke of Toledo. Mike Pritti left Iraq never getting to see another ball game or kissing his girl. Clyde’s heart ached for that fact alone. The other pains, over time, had faded.
“Huh.” Why any relative reached out after two years baffled him. Holding the envelope in his good hand, he slipped one of the robotic fingers attached to his prosthetic hand under the flap and opened up a notecard with the same penmanship.
Hello, Mr. Logan.
My name is Mare Pritti. Mike Pritti, who served with you in Iraq, was my cousin. While deployed, Mike spoke highly of you in his letters home. His parents were happy for him to have found a close friend there, especially one from a similar background.
Clyde paused in reading aloud to check Mellie’s reaction. He doubted the Pritti family had also executed a heist of a major sports venue with a seven-figure bounty. Mellie shrugged and he continued.
You probably knew Mike was a die-hard Mud Hens fan. Recently, Fifth Third Field underwent a renovation. The Mud Hens held a fundraiser where fans could donate and sponsor a seat. Our family purchased a seat on the third base line in Mike’s memory. A dedication ceremony is scheduled for the Saturday after the last home game.
In Mike’s last communication with us, he said he planned for you to visit and see a game. We would be honored if you could come…
“Clyde? What’s wrong?” Mellie sat up higher in her chair as Clyde closed the card. He set it by his plate and she finished the rest of Mare Pritti’s letter to herself. Fine with Clyde, since he knew what it said.
The Prittis had a ticket waiting for him at Will Call. They wanted him to have the first sit in a chair that belonged to Mike. Mud Hen. No way.
“Well, this is sweet of them to think of you,” Mellie said, gaze still on the card. “They got a whole event planned for this. A carnival and an exhibition game.” Her eyes widened. “Ooh, Jamie Farr’s going to be there.”
“Jamie Farr?” He was still alive? “Shoot. He can sit in Mud Hen’s chair then.” Clyde took back the card. “Where did you put your laptop? I want to send an email and decline.”
“Clyde.”
His appetite for bacon lost, Clyde pushed away from the table and stood. He was barefoot and wearing loose-fitting shorts cut from an old pair of sweatpants. On this sweltering August day, Mellie had every window unit cranked up as high as possible, prickling his skin so his leg hair stood on end. Perhaps today they’d all give out from the struggle, but Mellie wasn’t about to spend any of her speedway take on home improvements unless the whole house collapsed. Fine by Clyde; he considered his discomfort rightful penance.
“Mud Hen’s family won’t want me there once they learn I’m the reason he’s dead,” he said.
Mellie sank in her chair, clearly exhausted to repeat the argument. She bent her fingers in quote marks. “Clyde, the Logan curse…”
“Caused Mud Hen’s death.”
“A land mine caused his death, and you weren’t the one driving the transport. It’s not the driver’s fault, either. None of you knew the mine was planted in the road. It was an accident,” Mellie said. “It’s been a year since Charlotte and nothing’s happened.” She got up and pressed against his right side, slipping under his good arm. “I think we finally beat it.”
Good for them now. Where was this fortune two years ago on a war-beaten road on the other side of the world? Clyde bowed his head, brushing his face in Mellie’s hair. “How am I going to face his family,” he asked, “given that I came home and he didn’t?”
“Well, Clyde.” Mellie reached for his good hand and twined their fingers. Clyde studied her flawless pink manicure; no matter the time of day or how dirty the job, Mellie showed off the prettiest hands in the county. “You ever think this invitation isn’t about you? Maybe Mud Hen’s family wants to meet his closest friend from the Army, and learn something about him only you can share. Why would you deny them that?”
Clyde hadn’t considered that angle. “I don’t know,” he said after a long beat. “I’m just scared I’ll say something to offend them.”
“Then say nothing. If Mud Hen was telling the truth about you to his family, they’ll know you don’t talk much.”
Mellie had to get ready for work, but Clyde wasn’t due for his shift at Duck Tape until the afternoon. He’d arranged a ride in with his friend Earl, so that left Clyde to his own devices for several hours. A stack of library books waited for him beside his recliner, but Clyde spent the better part of the morning with one open on his lap with Mare Pritti’s card covering the pages.
He appreciated the invitation, and the opportunity to see Mud Hen’s hometown and meet his kin. Over the course of their shared tour, the two soldiers had traded countless anecdotes of home. Sibling rivalries and first loves, though Clyde had fudged his boyfriends’ genders when it was his turn to talk. Mud Hen may have included his cousin Mare in some stories, but damned if Clyde could recount any at present.
In overcoming the pain of losing his friend, Clyde set free many of those memories and focused on his present. This morning, he recalled with great detail the sensation of a wayward industrial vacuum sucking off his old prosthetic during the speedway robbery, but Mud Hen’s middle name remained lost.
It was probably in Toledo, with cousin Mare and an empty chair on the third base line at Fifth Third Field.
And Clyde’s heart, if he was honest. He hadn’t told Mellie that the fear of slipping about the Logan curse didn’t compare to the confession of his love for Mike “Mud Hen” Pritti. The way Mike talked about his family, they seemed progressive, but Clyde heard it all before. Lot of people claimed to support a cause until the cause crossed their thresholds.
Of course, he didn’t have to say nothing. As the contents of the card implied, the Prittis planned to celebrate their fallen son and wanted all the important people in his life to share in it. Perhaps a visit might put Clyde’s misgivings and mourning to rest.
Clyde closed the card and noticed Mare had written her email address on the back. It appeared to be work related, unless this Enervate was Toledo’s Internet provider.
He found Mellie’s laptop in the living room, open to her favorite baking website. He opened a new browser tab and called up his Gmail account and prepared a new message.
Hello, Ms. Pritti. I received your card this morning, and I appreciate your family thinking of me. Mike was a good friend, and I’m a better person for having known him. He spoke fondly of his family and Toledo and had looked forward to giving me the full tour. Though it pains me that it will never happen, I am honored by your invitation and would be happy to meet you and your family in person.