On Grudges
The legendary grudge: Back in the 90s my brother lived in an apartment on the Hudson River, fifty yards from the Burr-Hamilton duel site. Aaron Burr’s grievances against Alexander Hamilton peaked in 1804 with arguably the United States’ most notable mortal challenge. Hamilton shot a tree branch above Burr’s head. Burr shot Hamilton in the gut.
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The nearly interminable grudge: When I was four my mom revealed sacred news to me and my sisters. She was going to have another baby and we weren’t to tell anyone. We nodded, wide-eyed. Then I bolted next door and told my friend Allison, who ran to tell her parents.
Within a day the news circled the block, right back to my mortified mother.
Long after twins emerged from her womb, Mom remained bitter over the betrayal.
“Why would I tell you anything?” she asked when I was in my thirties, after I inquired about her Before-Dad boyfriends. “I can’t trust you. You told everyone I was pregnant.”
I stared at her across the kitchen table. Her jaw was set firm, a blockade against words that might unwittingly escape her mouth. It was well past time to defend my preschool self.
“Why would you tell a four-year-old your secrets?” I asked.
Mom was oddly still, as if rotating the idea in her head, examining it for its validity.
“You’re right,” she said finally. And that was the end of it.
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Grudge: a feeling of resentment toward an entity or person, for a real or fancied wrong, typically experienced for a long period of time.
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The questionable grudge, part I: My mom’s sister Fran hasn’t spoken to their nephew for three decades.
“It’d be nice if she’d tell us why, so we could apologize,” his wife told me a few years ago.
On a scorching Jersey Shore afternoon I sat on a bench with my aunt outside Dairy Queen, both of us licking chocolate dipped cones. In a cautious yet casual manner I asked what led to the break from my cousin.
“He didn’t say hello to me at my brother-in-law’s funeral,” she said.
I waited for her to elaborate. She didn’t. I finished my ice cream and decided not to share this information.
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The questionable grudge, part II: They were always simmering, those two, even in old age. Put them in a room together and tensions thickened like roux with each passing minute.
“What is it about your sister that bugs you most?” I asked my mom.
“She’s a snitch,” she said, without missing a beat. “She ratted me out for wearing lipstick in high school.”
There had to be more to it, but okay. Despite their sororal squabbles they always found a way back to one another and when Mom was dying my Aunt Fran cared for her, buying groceries, making soup, sweeping floors.
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The anticipatory grudge: I just know that when I get home the sink will be full of dirty dishes.
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The mutual grudge: “Why am I the one who always takes out the garbage and cleans the fridge?” I asked my boyfriend.
“Why am I the one who always mows the lawn and scrubs the toilets?” he replied.
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The waning grudge: In 2013 my brother visited me in southern Mexico, where I resided at the time. He griped and groused about the absence of decent lattes, the poor internet connection, the limited food options, the stark poverty he didn’t want to see. He hightailed it back to New York a week earlier than planned.
I didn’t talk to him for a year, until he started to miss me. Until I started to miss him.
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The mystery grudge: “I forgive,” my friend Penny once told me. “But I don’t forget. I’ll remember the kind of gum you were chewing when you did me wrong.”
Penny stopped returning my calls years ago. I wonder what she remembers, besides my gum.
