Spite

My aunt Martha was a serious grudge-holder. She always assumed that everyone else remembered all the petty little things from 40 years ago that she referred to obliquely, imagining that she had scored a zinger, when actually no one knew what she was talking about.

Martha would relate anecdotes in which she had enjoyed what she thought was a "gotcha" moment. Once at the City Clerk's office, where she was annoyed by having to file some kind of paperwork, she reminded the young person behind the window that "This city doesn't actually exist, legally," and belived she had scored points when the worker had nothing to say in response. Martha's remark was based on her memory of something that had happened decades earlier, when here was some technical irregularity in the city's incorporation papers. She assumed everyone with a city job knew about that.

Like a lot of self-righteous people, Martha always imagined that if people had no response to her pronouncements, it meant they knew she was right. It never occurred to her that they just thought she was crazy.

Martha was married over 60 years to Frank, who often seemed baffled by the endless supply of anger his wife harbored. Many of her most cherished grudges involved him, something he had or hadn't said or done when they were dating and during the early years of their marriage. One of her favorites was that he had complimented her potato salad when they went on a picnic, but later admitted he really hated it. In her eyes, that made him a liar, and she never forgave him for the revelation that her cooking skills were subpar.

In his eighties, Frank experienced health problems, along wth a cognitive decline. His ability to process information deteriorated, he exercised poor judgment, and he was no longer able to drive. He became dependent on Martha for nearly everything.

Once, I was at their house, helping Martha reorganize the garage. We were chatting about random things, and she began telling me a story from her early life with Frank. They had rented a small house in an old neighborhood, not within walking distance of any shops or businesses. It sounded to me like what today we would call a "food desert". They had one car, which Frank drove to work every day, leaving Martha at home with the baby.

One day, she asked him to pick up something for her on his way home. He declined, because it was out of his way, and said she'd have to wait for the weekend, when she could get it herself. She was bitterly disappointed and never forgot his selfishness.

"Last week," she said, "there was some little thing Frank wanted me to get for him. I told him I couldn't do it because it was out of my way, and he could wait until the weekend. He remembered. Oh, he remembered." With a smug look on her face, she continued moving boxes.

I didn't believe Frank remembered the incident Martha was referencing. More likely, he just felt helpless, even hopeless, at the mercy of a mysteriously angry woman who could arbitrarily deny his requests. I wondered if she was planning to get revenge for every slight, every disappointment, every misstep for the past sixty years. I wondered if I should investigate further, and if I would have to call Adult Protective Services.

Frank was inside, watching TV with the volume turned up. He asked me where Martha was, and appeared reassured when I said she was cleaning the garage. It seemed unlikely that he recalled last week's conversation.

Frank had a third heart attack later that year, and did not survive. Martha no longer had the strength or the will to maintain the house, so she moved into assisted living, where she survived another ten years, accumulating minor grudges against the manager, a couple of the housekeepers, and some lady named Helen.