The Wooden Chair by Rayne E. Golay Page A

lamps to brighten the gloomy room. On her stomach on the floor, Leini drew pictures in her coloring book. She heard a key turn in the front door. As she glanced over her shoulder, she saw a man on the threshold. Gazing up at him, he was so big, like the picture of a giant in one of her story books. She wondered who he was. Why did he have a key to their home? The man came closer. He leaned over her and spoke in a soft and warm voice.
    “Leini! Papi’s little girl.”
    At the sound of the familiar voice, she turned to sit. He sounded like Papi, but she wasn’t sure. He didn’t look the way she remembered. Her papi used to be big, but not so tall, and his eyes sat deep in their holes. And her papi didn’t have a full red beard like this man; at least she didn’t remember he had one.
    “Papi?”
    “Yes, Leini girl. I haven’t been home in close to a year. Do you still remember me?”
    He wrapped her in his arms. Leaning away from him, she stared at his face, the mild gray eyes, the wide smiling mouth. She couldn’t quite believe he was her papi. He hugged her close.
    She took a deep lungful of air. Then she remembered—he smelled of pipe smoke and something else, she didn’t know what, but it was nice because he smelled like her papi.
    Although she recognized him, she was a wee bit afraid of him. His voice boomed when he talked. Papi sat in his easy chair with her on his lap. With his arms around her, she was a little stiff at first.
    “Leini, my little Leini.” Papi sighed. “It feels so good to be home!”
    Her papi used to talk to her like that. Now she was sure he was her papi, home from the war and hospital. Comfy and warm she played with his beard, liking the way it tickled her palm when she ruffled it, like Björn’s fur, but softer. She took his face between her hands and rubbed noses with him. Papi hugged her to him, and she loved him so fiercely she had tears in her eyes. She buried her face in his neck, inhaling the smell she remembered.
    Safe and happy she repeated after him, “My Papi, my little Papi.”
    “Oh my God. Oh my…Robert. You’re home. I can’t believe it.” Mamma’s voice was low, her eyes wide as she kept gazing at Papi. “You didn’t tell me you were coming home today.” She took a few steps into the living room. “Oh, Robert!” She rushed to him, leaned past Leini to take his face between her hands, kissing him, his cheeks, his eyes.
    Papi rose, sat Leini on the floor and enfolded Mamma in his arms. Leini watched as they stood with arms wrapped around each other, cheek pressed against cheek. Mamma’s fingers twined in his hair, while she moaned low in her throat. Papi caressed her back, cupping her face in his hands as he kissed her over and over. And Leini had never seen Papi cry, but now there were tears in his eyes, and he opened his mouth to speak but no words came. Clinging to Mamma’s and Papi’s legs, Leini laughed as she swayed with them, feeling happiness too big for her heart to hold.
    During his first days at home, Papi slept a lot.
    “I’ve been very sick, my Leini. I need to rest. But soon I’ll be well again.”
    He often sat in his easy chair by the window in his den, off the living room. Leini was content to be in the same room with him when he read or just sat quiet, staring out the window. She had her own two rooms and a bath all to herself now at the end of the long corridor, but she liked Papi’s den the best. It smelled of Bay Rum and his pipe.
    “Do you still like music?” Papi asked.
    Cross-legged at his feet, finger combing Maia’s hair, she nodded while he rifled through the pile of records. She smiled when Papi placed one on the player.
    “Do you remember this piece of music?” he asked.
    Head cocked to the side, she listened. She gazed at Papi, sad that she didn’t recognize it.
    “No wonder, it’s been a long time. This is Jean Sibelius’ ‘Valse Triste.’” In his chair, Papi opened his arms to her. “Come sit with me. While I