Chapter 11
Without being asked, Henry collapsed gratefully on Vito’s couch. It was old, but that was not a drawback. The leather was worn and stained at the tops of the cushions, where Henry imagined heads resting. The thought should have been repugnant, but it seemed homey to Henry, who had grown up in a house where everything was always pristine, and if it wasn’t, it was replaced.
He sank into the couch, and it was like the embrace of someone who cared. He looked around the room while Vito went into the kitchen to make coffee and get the dogs their food. He could hear their toenails clicking on the kitchen floor linoleum as they paced impatiently.
The room, like the couch, was warm and comfortable, maybe even comforting. Newspaper littered the coffee table. The two windows, facing the
