Ulas Gift

for Ed Lukawski

On the third anniversary of his mother Ulas death, Michaels most vivid and
lasting childhood memory of her floods into his dreams and he wakens with a
start. With the unpredictable amplitude of an irregular wave, it has oscillated
its way through Michael's lifetime, disappearing for long stretches,
sometimes years at a time, then slamming into his consciousness suddenly
and unexpectedly. It is a memory that he still finds improbable after all the
time that has passed, luminous, exhilarating, terrifying. He hasn't thought of
it since the day of her funeral, and now here it is once more.
Five years old, restless and imprisoned by a drenching July rain, Michael's
white-blond hair is cropped close, his usual photogenic towhead locks
sacrificed for a bit more comfort against the unexpectedly high heat and
humidity of that long gone Indiana summer. He clutches his baseball glove in
his left hand, a soft pink rubber ball tucked away in the thin plastic webbing.
He wants nothing more than to step outside and throw that ball against the
side of a nearby building or maybe play the caroms off the brick steps that
lead up to the front porch landing, and later, when his father returns home,
to have a catch with him if hes not too overcome from the mills heat and
the sheer physical stress of the exhausting steelwork. But the rain is
relentless on this day and Michaels vision of himself as Ernie Banks taking
infield practice at Wrigley Field, snaring vicious ground balls and throwing
runners out on close plays as the first baseman stretches as far as he can to
receive Michaels unerring throws, will have to wait.
Sometimes, fleetingly, he wants to question if it really happened at all,
though of course he knows that it did. It is more enduring, more compelling
and haunting, more indelible even than the memory of the first time he
enters the bright and impossibly raucous Chicago Stadium with his father to
see the Blackhawks skate against their arch-rivals from Detroit, or when he is
struck breathless at the unexpected wonder of his first solar eclipse, or even
when, at the birth of his first child, he will faint dead away just as the baby
enters the world.
As a teen, he is too embarrassed to bring it up with Ula or his aunts. He
wonders if it was cultural, a sisterly ritual, perhaps a custom his mother
learned back in Warsaw or in Lodz. He wonders, in the immature way
teenagers have of fantasizing about adult behavior, whether there might
have been something unwholesome or even slightly deviant about the
moment. In high school it was always there just below the surface. When
male camaraderie brought around the inevitable snickering conversations
about the girls in their class, Michael found himself inexplicably uneasy about
his friends guffawing references to knockers and headlights and bazooms.
Once, when one of them playfully joked about his own mother shes got

nothing there, her jugs are just little shriveled oranges Michael thought
about the word his father had taught him, piersi, and the one time he had
overheard his father say, when he thought he was alone with Ula, Your
piersi, Ula, how I love to bury my head in your luscious pears!" "Mothers do
not have jugs!", he screamed at his friend.
While he stands at the doorway absent-mindedly surveying the stillness of
the neighborhood, he hears a muted burst of high-pitched laughter from the
second floor of his parents apartment. The bedroom he shares with his older
brother Edziu is up there; all the bedrooms are there. His two aunts are
visiting, his mothers sisters Beatrycze and Jagna. They arrived mid-morning
excited to see his newborn sister Grace and now they have gone off with his
mother and the baby for womentalk, Misiu, just womentalk, leave us alone
now, bd szczeglnie ostrony, tak? Yes, he tells them, yes, he will behave
himself. Still, when he hears the laughter and the breathy tones of the
women urgently shushing each other he is drawn to the sound, wondering if
perhaps some deep secret is being kept from him. On days like this when
the house seems to hold in the weather the rooms upstairs are like a
sweatbox, unwelcoming even when the windows are cast open wide and the
fans are set to high. Sleep is difficult, and Michael and his brother flee to the
first floor kitchen as soon as they climb out of bed in the morning, their
pillowcases and sheets rumpled and damp and their thin pajamas stick to
their bodies. He does not understand why his mother and his aunts would
want to spend their time up there, but his curiosity is powerful and he finds
himself ascending the stairways scuffed narrow steps, his right hand sliding
along the banister, pulling his body forward and upward almost against his
will.
During college the memory would present itself at surprising, unpredictable
times. He recalls the night as a freshman when the mysteries of a womans
body were first revealed to him: he and his first serious girlfriend Lissa
Bartkovic, frantic to explore each other. Overcome by the stunning power of
their pure physical needs, their clothes are quickly in a heap on the floor and
they are standing a foot apart and staring into each others eyes.
When Lissa, who in minutes will become the first woman Michael makes love
with, playfully shakes her shoulders and then takes hold of her breasts and
thrusts them toward Michael before reaching for his hands and drawing them
to her, in a flash he is suddenly five years old again and approaching the
door of his parents bedroom. His mother is beckoning him to come closer,
closer. Her body seems to take up the entire room. She is the only thing he
can see. At that moment his mother and Lissa meld together in his mind, and
he is horrified to see only his mothers face and hear echoes of the startled
vehemence in the voices of his aunts. He feels himself begin to wilt and is
certain in the knowledge that his first experience with sex is about to end in
a moment of inglorious embarrassment as soon as Lissa drops her eyes and

glances south. Thankfully, her eyes stay locked on his. If she is surprised in
any way by the state of what she finds when she reaches down to touch him,
she says only Michael, stay still, and with a stroke or two of her gently
probing fingers every nerve in his body is leaping and dancing, his chest is
on fire, and all thoughts of Ula are completely, utterly driven from his mind.
The day is gloomy and the hallway upstairs dank, the air inside the
apartment heavy and unmoving. He can see that the door to his parents
bedroom is slightly ajar, just barely wide enough for a sliver of daylight to
spill out into the hallway. He thinks he sees motion through the small
opening, perhaps a hand gesticulating or an arm waving about. In the air
there are the cadences of rushed, excited whispering, but the words are
muffled and indistinct. He moves quietly towards the door, hesitating a
moment before slowly beginning to push on it. He knows instinctively he is
not meant to be there.
As the door opens wider, Michael can see immediately that the women have
gathered themselves around Graces crib at the far end of the room. The crib
is the same one his father built when Edziu was born and that later Michael
climbed from when he was barely a year old, landing on the hardwood floor
with a loud thud that brought his father running from the downstairs parlor.
It was the first sign of the physical prowess that would later earn Michael
high school football fame and scholarship offers from several Big Ten
universities. On this day the crib is tucked into the space under the rooms
one large window overlooking the cramped alcove to which his parents often
retreat when they need privacy to discuss a family matter or when they just
want to steal a moment together away from the children.
With the window flung open and the curtains pulled back, Michaels mother
and aunts are seated somewhat awkwardly in the narrow space where
theyve managed to cram three wooden folding chairs, rickety from constant
use, arranged at odd angles to each other. His mother has her back to him,
her head and upper body silhouetted against the window frame. On a
brighter day, in the dappled sunlight that often streams through the window,
the hair she brushes so carefully each morning would shine like burnished
gold and reflect a dozen different shades that delight Michael and Edziu and
especially their father, who without fail slowly runs his fingers through Ulas
hair and then kisses both sides of her head gently each morning before he
leaves for work. His aunts are sitting opposite his mother, their backs to the
window. At the moment of Michaels entrance, they are all looking down into
Ulas lap at Grace, asleep in her mothers arms.
Years later, the memory surfaces again. He is sitting with his wife Margery
enjoying a quiet weekend breakfast while she nurses their firstborn child,
Adrian. When he reaches out to touch the babys delicate fingers with his
own, he sees the fierce way Adrians greedy mouth is working at Margerys

body and is instantly transported back in time to that morning so many years
earlier. He hears his mothers ecstatic cry Life, Michael, I gave you life! and
suddenly he begins to tremble and he breaks into a series of uncontrolled
sobs that leave him gasping and Margery at a loss to understand.
Misiu, what is it?" In the nearly twenty-five years since that summer
morning when he was five Michael has never spoken about it to a single soul
not Edziu, not Grace, not his father or his closest friends. Beatrycze and
Jagna have never said a word to him. Ula has never taken him aside. Now,
suddenly, it feels to him as if a floodgate is opening.
There's a memory of my mother when I was a kid," Michael says. Margery is
wide-eyed with astonishment as the story unfolds. For a moment when he
finishes, Michael sits so still it seems he has stopped breathing. He locks
eyes with Margery and presses his fingers into his scalp just above the
temples as if trying to knead away the powerful emotions that have seized
him.
Im trying to envision it, Ula doing that, you that young, Margery says.
How that might affect you. She reaches for his hand, draws it to her cheek.
It must have been traumatic, Michael, more than you could possibly
realize.
Well thats the thing, isnt it? Michael says. I keep wondering why Ive
locked it up all these years, but I think I finally figured it out." He stops for a
second and draws a deep breath. I was afraid, Margy. Its as simple as that. I
was afraid.
When the door is almost fully open, the hinges give off a brief low squeak.
Immediately, the conversation stops and the women seem to go completely
still. Beatrycze looks up over Ulas shoulder at the doorway, startled to see
Michael at the threshold peering in toward the alcove at the women and the
baby. Ula, she says. Her eyes move away from Michael and she looks
directly at Ula. Ula, its Michael. Jagnas hand has flown to her mouth in a
gesture of shock and surprise, and it remains there for several seconds as if
fastened to her lips. For a moment, there is only the sound of the window fan
whirring slowly as it labors to create a cooling breeze against the rising heat
and humidity in the room.
Michael is completely startled by what he sees. He cries out Mama?
simultaneously a question and an exclamation, but he makes no movement
forward into the room. He is too surprised and confused to do anything but
call out for her again, Mama?
Ulas posture is regal and upright as she continues to sit with her back to
Michael. And that is what he sees in the somber daylight and what confuses

himher back. The entirety of her back, pasty white and fully exposed, the
skin surprisingly radiant and coated with a thin sheen of perspiration. Ula is
wearing neither a blouse nor a brassiere and there is no covering of any
other kind on her upper torso.
Michael! Beatrycze shouts before Jagna can think to say anything, before
Ula begins to turn her body toward him. Michael, please, close the door and
go! Wyno sie! She grabs Ulas shoulders to stop her from turning any
further, but Ula shakes herself clear of Beatryczes efforts to restrain her.
What will the boy think, Ula? Psiakrew! He shouldnt see you like this! Let
him be. What will he think? Michael is frozen in place, too perplexed by
what he sees and hears to do anything more than stand there in silence.
Again Beatrycze exhorts Michael to leave. Wyno sie! Wyno sie!
When Ula speaks, she is loud and decisive. Beatrycze, prosze! Let go of me!
Michael, kochanie, stay here! Czeka! Ula avoids Beatryczes clumsy effort
to wrestle her into a bear hug and instead thrusts Grace into her arms. The
baby has woken to the shouted sounds around her and is already
whimpering loudly. Here, take the baby and keep her calm! And then Ula
stands and turns to face Michael.
A few days after Ulas eighty-eighth birthday, the sunshine is brilliant in a
cloudless blue April sky. Still, Ula feels a chill, as she often does now even
through the steamiest summer heat. She and Michael are sitting together in
a private corner of the quiet, outdoor courtyard of her assisted living
residence near the small flower garden she fusses over each year when
spring arrives. Her tattered pierzyna is thrown across her lap, the ancient
hand-knitted family comforter that she has kept for as long as Michael can
remember. Ula is swaying quietly in her favorite wicker rocker. Three weeks
later at mid-morning her nursing attendant will find her there, a cluster of
freshly cut yellow daffodils clasped lightly in the fingers of her outstretched
hand, her body silent and still.
Do you remember it, Mamusiu? Michael asks. That morning with your
sisters when Grace was a newborn and I came upstairs and stood at the
door? Do you remember what you did? After all the years that have passed,
it is as if he has needed to summon some form of great, uncommon courage
to finally choke out these words.
"Of course I remember it, Misiu. It was nothing, really. A very hot day. The
clothing was sticking to our bodies. Beatrycze and Jagna were with me that
day, yes? We had gone upstairs for privacy. I was feeding Grace when
suddenly you appeared. What was there to do?
She looks down at herself, tugs at her blouse, its wrinkled, plain white fabric
pressing lightly against her chest. She smiles and tucks the blouse tighter at

her waist. Oh, kochanie, what theyve become after all these years. I was
so shapely then. Michael offers a smile before reaching out to grasp Ulas
hand as she goes on. For me it was a moment of szczcie i uciecha i
kochanie. You remember these words, Michael? Happiness? Joy? Love?
Michael has never seen a womans breasts before this moment. He doesnt
yet know the word for them, and when Ula turns herself toward him he is
capable of neither embarrassment nor speech. Of course he has no memory
of suckling as an infant. His sole sensation involves their warmth and
softness, nuzzling against them so many times when his mother holds him to
her chest and hugs him in the morning or at bedtime, and often when he is
sad or crying. They are the comfortable cushion Ula gives him willingly,
automatically, nothing more than the duty of a mother.
As Ula turns to Michael she is framed by the window behind her, her body
blocking the light so that her entire upper body is cast momentarily in
shadow, backlit the way the subject of a photograph might be with the sun
directly above and behind. For a moment, Michael cannot see her eyes
distinctly, nor her other facial features. He cant see the look on her face or
the curious smile her mouth is forming. He cannot see the boundless love
she holds for him in her heart.
Jagna reaches out to stop her when Ula steps forward out of the shadow, but
it is an inconsequential gesture and Ula easily shakes herself free of her
sisters thin, half-hearted grasp. She takes one step, then a second, and as
she does so Michael sees that she has placed a hand underneath each
breast and is cupping them together, lifting them so that they touch and
compress slightly against each other while she pushes them forward to him.
Here, Misiu, she says, smiling at him and then looking down at herself as if
to ensure that she draws Michaels attention to her chest. Look here,
kochanie, look here! There is nothing self-conscious in her demeanor, not
the slightest hesitation in her action. It is a moment of pure joy and pride for
Ula, and her eyes are shining and starting to brim with tears. With these,
kochanie, I gave you life. Just like Edziu and now Grace. I gave you life!
When Michael steps to the church podium to speak at Ulas funeral, this is
the memory that he shares. "Im going to tell you a story about my mother,"
he begins. "It reaches back almost sixty years to a rainy summer morning
with mama and Ciocia Jagna and Ciocia Beatrycze. No one but Margy has
ever heard it." There is a stirring in the pews. He locks eyes with his brother
and sister sitting side by side in the second row, holding each others hands
and looking up at him.
Michael is eloquent in the telling, shocking some who listen, mesmerizing
others. Jagna and Beatrycze wipe away tears. Edziu and Grace are amazed at

the secret in their brothers hidden, unknown heart. How he follows the
sound of conversation to his parents bedroom door. The whiteness of his
mothers back. The way she turned, holding herself out to him, and how she
took a few steps forward, the dim light from the hallway falling across her
body. He repeats the words she spoke to him. "'I gave you life', she told me
that morning. 'I gave you life'."
Michael has no idea what to do or say. He doesnt really understand what his
mother means about giving him life. He knows that, like Grace, he was inside
her while he grew and then he was born, crying and breathing, cradled in her
arms and in his fathers arms and a fresh new part of the world around him.
Isnt that how she gave him life? So what do these do, these ample mounds
of flesh his mother is holding out to him with the smooth skin and dark
crimson circles and little round marbles wet, he thinks, with some kind of
gray-white perspiration?
Ula beckons to Michael once more. Its all right, Misiu, here, come here.
Grace is sleeping again. Come here, give me a hug.
Mama, no, Michael manages, his lips trembling. Tongue-tied and unable to
say anything more, he remains unmoving as Jagna steps forward and leans
down in front of him, placing her hands gently on his shoulders.
Ula, Jagna says. She motions to Michael to turn around and leave the
room. Ula, please, thats enough. Michael, your mama needs to get back to
Grace now. Lets go downstairs. She takes Michaels hand and urges him
through the doorway. He twists away once to glance back into the room at
his mother. She has turned toward the window again, and he catches only a
glimpse of her unclothed back. Should he have run to her, hugged her? He
thinks he hears Beatrycze say Put your blouse on, Ula, while she steps to
the door and pushes it to. There is something impatient and curt in his
aunts voice. Then he and Jagna are walking through the hallway and down
the stairs to the first floor while the sky darkens and thunder sounds in the
distance.
Michaels mind is going in a dozen different directions. At the age of five it is
impossible for him to articulate, let alone understand, the powerful surge of
emotions he has felt ever since he pushed the door open and saw his mother
sitting unclothed in the alcove across the room from him.
Lets get some milk, Jagna says. Michael nods his head and keeps hold of
her warm, steady hand as she takes him to the kitchen. Upstairs, Grace is
stirring, yawning awake. Beatrycze holds her while Ula dresses, the szczcie
i uciecha i kochanie in her heart still radiating toward Michael at the speed of
light, as tender and fierce as the day he was born.