The Company You Keep. Tracy Kelleher

she reached for her shoulder bag—and didn’t feel it. She patted along her hip. Nothing. She looked down. “Oh, cripes.” She peered over her shoulder, seeking out her brother. “Press, hey, Press,” she called out.

      He glanced over his shoulder at the sound of his name.

      “Listen, it looks like I left my purse in the car.” She pointed outside. “I can run back and get it if you give me your keys. Or can you cover it, and I’ll pay you back?”

      Press pushed toward her, shaking his head wearily. “I don’t have any cash, but I suppose I could use my debit card.”

      “That’s all right, Press,” Angie said reassuringly as she reached his side. She motioned for Carlos to vacate his post at the register. “I know you’re good for it. You can pay me some other time.” She waited as her assistant raised the flap in the counter for her to come across.

      “Please, allow me.” Vic pulled out two twenties. “Just add it to my bill. A meatball hoagie with hot sauce, side of fries and—” he raised his eyebrows at Mimi “—and one bottle of water—large and extremely wet.”

      “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll just run back to the car. It’s only across the street,” Mimi insisted. She waved away his hand.

      He squeezed closer to the cash register. “She’d give you the shirt off her back—and trust me, I’ve seen her do it. But it’s probably faster if I take care of this.” He kept his arm outstretched with the bills.

      Mimi nudged him away with her elbow. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She turned to Angie. “I’ll be right back, I promise.”

      “Will someone make up their mind?” Press asked behind them.

      Mimi and Vic turned their heads, she clockwise, he counterclockwise. Mimi raised her eyes. Vic lowered his. His nose almost grazed her forehead.

      The cash register drawer opened with a loud ding.

      Mimi and Vic turned back, she—lowering her head slightly, he—pulling back ever so much.

      Angie reached out for Vic’s twenties and deposited the correct change in his hand at the same time. “Okay, big boy, let’s keep the line moving. We’ll call you when your orders are ready,” she said smartly, all five foot two of her substantial body imposing itself. One did not argue with Angie.

      Needless to say, Mimi and Vic shuffled to the side and hovered as inconspicuously as possible against the side wall. Mimi pretended to look at the snapshots of patrons wearing Hoagie Palace T-shirts in places like Machu Picchu and the Parthenon in Greece. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Vic pocket his wallet and fold his arms across his chest.

      Press sidled over and popped his can of Palmer iced tea. He eyed Vic skeptically. “Hey, do I know you?”

      Vic uncrossed his arms. “Vic. Vic Golinski. I was a classmate of Mimi’s at the university.” He held out his hand to shake Press’s.

      Mimi glanced over. “Oh, sorry. Vic, this is my half-brother, Press Lodge. He’s a Grantham grad, too,” Mimi said. Press might be almost as tall as Vic, but Vic had about sixty more pounds of muscle on him.

      “Hi, there.” Press went through the handshake motions, then scratched his head. “Wait a minute. You used to play pro football, right?”

      “Briefly.”

      “I remember seeing you play at the Meadowlands.”

      Mimi looked at Press. “You went to a game? With Dad?”

      “No, of course not with Dad. It was a birthday party or something, and someone else’s parents took me.” He narrowed his eyes and considered Vic. “Yeah, I’m sure of it. It was a game against the Giants. There was this head-butting incident. And you were involved in it. Am I right?”

      He shrugged. “That’s so long ago, it’s ancient history.”

      “No, no.” Mimi shook her head. “Even I recall something about it. I mean, I was in Kuwait at the time, and the Armed Forces Radio was going bananas over this flagrant foul.” She looked at Vic. “I remember it being totally out of the blue. And it sounded absolutely malicious. Were you badly hurt?”

      “Oh, darling sister of mine—” Press chimed in, sounding pretty pleased with himself “—before you offer any after-the-fact consoling, I do believe your buddy here was doing the butting, not the player on the receiving end.”

      She opened her mouth. “Oh.”

      “Oh, is right,” Press said with enthusiasm. “What a hit! And what a fine. If I remember correctly, it was a League-leading record at that time.” He seemed very ebullient, practically bouncing on the white soles of his beat-up boat shoes.

      “Not one of my finer hours. How about we just drop it?” Vic said, his voice eerily soft.

      Press closed his mouth and opened his eyes wide. “Sure, no problem.”

      “A chicken cheesesteak, meatball with hot sauce, Arnold Palmer, another meatball with hot sauce and water,” Carlos shouted out.

      “I’ll meet you guys outside with the orders,” Press offered. He clearly knew a way out when he saw one and lunged back to the counter.

      “Shall we?” Vic offered, holding his hand out for her to lead the way.

      She nodded, and she could sense the crowd part not so much for her as for the large set of shoulders sheltering her to one side.

      They stepped out of the door. Mimi stretched out a tight-lipped smile. Vic made a similar face. She looked down where the sidewalk was heaving from the encroachment of a large tree root.

      “So do you come back often?” “You live around here?” they asked at the same time.

      “You first.” She nodded.

      “No, you.” He held out his hand.

      She smiled nervously. “No, I don’t get back much. But when I do it’s always great to get a hoagie first thing back. Kind of like Grantham’s version of madeleines, don’t you think?” She sounded pretentious, even to her ears, but here among the throng of people on the street she wasn’t relaxed. Not fearful, as she would have expected, but nervous—giddy nervous. Which was…well…unexpected.

      Vic frowned.

      “You know, Proust? How he smelled madeleines—the little French butter cookies—which evoked all the memories of his past?” She stared up at Vic. Why the hell was she talking about some nineteenth-century author, who truthfully, she’d never read more than a few pages of, when what she really wanted to ask him was, “So you do remember me? In a really bad way? Or maybe just a bad way?” Or maybe not at all.

      Press forced himself through the doorway, leading with two large bags. “Here you go.” He peered in the bags and handed one to Vic. “Yours, I believe.” Then he slipped out a waxed paper covered hoagie for Mimi and a paper pouch of fries. “If you want ketchup for the French fries, I can muscle my way back in. Sorry, I forgot, but I’m happy to…” He cocked his head over his shoulder.

      “No, I’m fine,” Vic said.

      “Me, too. I don’t want anything to get in the way of the mounds of salt.”

      Press stuffed the bag with his food under his arm. “Listen, you guys, I just got this text about meeting some friends. They’re free shortly. So, I don’t want to cut your personal reunion short, but I’d like to get a move on if possible.” He motioned with his car keys to where they’d parked across the street.

      Mimi stood there, hugging her hoagie to her side. “I’ll need to get my wallet out to pay Vic.”

      “No, don’t bother. It’ll be my treat,” Vic offered. “Anyway, I don’t want to hold you up,” he said to Press.

      “Don’t