Russell Banks - The Sweet Hereafter

We didn’t have available to us the various means that many of our neighbors and relatives had for easing the blow. At least I didn’t. The Christians’ talk about God’s will and all — that only made me angry, although I suppose I am glad that they were able to comfort themselves with such talk. But I could not bring myself to attend any of the memorial services that the various churches in Sam Dent and the neighboring towns invited me to. It was enough to have to listen to Reverend Dreiser at the twins’ funeral. He wanted us all to believe that God was like a father who had taken our children for himself. Some father.

The only father I had known was the one who had abandoned his children to others.

And then there were those folks who wanted to believe that the accident was not really an accident, that it was somehow caused , and that, therefore, someone was to blame. Was it Dolores’s fault? A lot of people thought so. Or was it the fault of the State of New York for not replacing the guardrail out there on the Marlowe road? Was it the fault of the town highway department for having dug a sandpit and let it fill with water? What about the seat belts that had tied so many of the children into their seats while the rear half of the bus filled with icy water? Was it the governor’s fault, then, for having generated legislation that required seat belts? Who caused this accident anyhow? Who can we blame ?

Naturally, the lawyers fed off this need and cultivated it among people who should have known better. They swam north like sharks from Albany and New York City, advertising their skills and intentions in the local papers, and a few even showed up at the funerals, slipping their cards into the pockets of mourners as they departed from the graveyard, and before long that segment of the story had begun — the lawsuits and all the anger and nastiness and greed that people at their worst are capable of.

At first, however, people behaved well, which is to say, they behaved as you would expect: they decently gathered around one another and tried to provide comfort and aid. That’s when you could be glad that you lived in a small town, relieved that you had family and friends, whether they could help you or not. The attempt was dignified and praiseworthy.

Most of my own family, at first, did exactly that, and I was appropriately grateful. We are not an unusual family — that is, we are not much of one. My mother, because of Alzheimer’s, had been in a nursing home in Potsdam for over two years then, and she no longer even remembered the bare fact of my existence, let alone my children’s; but my three sisters, who are married and have children of their own, called me as soon as they heard about the accident on the evening news. They and I are not personally close, we are in no sense confidants, but they are conscientious women and live in the area, you could say — the nearest, Sally, in Saratoga Springs, with her husband, who is an accountant for the racetrack commission, the other two in western New York, Rochester and Buffalo, where their husbands work, one as a machinist, the other as some kind of technician for Eastman Kodak. My brother, Darryl, the youngest, is out of the loop altogether. Years ago, he followed our father to Alaska but only got as far as Washington State and didn’t quite disappear; once every eighteen months or so, he gets drunk and calls me late at night. I never heard from Darryl when the twins were killed, although I am sure he learned about it right away from my sisters, and when a year or so later he did call me, drunk as usual, very late at night, neither of us mentioned it, me for my reasons, and he no doubt for his. I was probably as drunk that night as he was. Of course, I never called him, either, to tell him what had happened; that would have been impossible for me, almost unthinkable — in fact, it took me until this very instant to think of it.

But it didn’t matter, because, regardless, I was unable to take the comfort offered me. Something metallic in me refused to yield, and when one by one my sisters phoned and offered to come up to Sam Dent, an old compulsion took over; the same thing happened when various local people — Reverend Dreiser, Dorothy Coburn, even the men from the garage — called or came by to see how I was or to ask if there was anything they could do for me. It’s something I have done since childhood, practically. When a person tries to comfort me, I respond by reassuring him or her — it’s usually a her — and in that way I shut her down, smothering all her good intentions by denying my need.

I can’t help it, and I’m not sorry for it; I’m even a little proud. People think I’m cold and unfeeling, but that’s a price I’ve always been willing to pay. The truth is that I’m beyond help; most people are; and it only angers me to see my sisters or my friends here in town wasting their time. To forestall or cover my anger, I jump in front of them, and suddenly I myself have turned into the person come to provide comfort, reassurance, help, whatever it is they originally desired to provide me with. I take their occasion and make it my own. I never know this at the time, of course; only afterwards, when I’m alone again, sitting in my living room with a glass of whiskey in my hand, brooding over my solitude, trying to generate a little feeling, even if it’s only self-pity.

When my youngest sister, Sally, called on the night of the accident, she was the first in the family to reach me, but it was maybe the fifteenth telephone call I’d received since hiking through the snow all the way home from the site. I had walked in whited out like a snowman, shucked my soaked clothes and put on a bathrobe, sat down at the kitchen table, opened a bottle of Scotch, and started to drink. I knew what it looked like and was glad no one could see me, although I was not ashamed. I knew why I was drinking, and it wasn’t to numb the pain. Gary Dillinger, the school principal, called, and Wyatt Pitney, and Eden Schraft; and I reassured them all that there was nothing they could do for me. I’m okay, I’ll be fine. They believed me: not that I was fine; they believed that there was nothing they could do for me. I was like a wounded animal gone to ground: better leave him to heal alone, or you might get bit trying to help. A couple of reporters called, and I simply hung up on them.

Jimbo Gagne called from the garage, and as usual, it was like we were both in Vietnam again — I was playing the lieutenant and he the corporal. We were all logistics. What did I want him to do with my truck? Leave it at the garage; I’d drive my car in tomorrow. Where should he put the wrecked bus? Out of sight behind the garage, and keep people away from it, because there was sure to be an investigation. Was there anything I needed? No, but if people came into the garage and asked, tell them I might be taking a few days off from work, so there’ll probably be a delay for a couple of jobs.

“Are you okay, Billy?” He finally came right out and asked it. “How’re you doing up there on the hill? You got somebody at the house with you?”

“Are you okay, Jimbo?” I returned. “It must have been rough on you out there.”

“Yeah, sure,” he said. “I’m all right, I guess. It was rough …,” he began, but then realized where that would lead and swerved away. “But, yeah, Billy, I’m okay.”

By eight that night, when my sister Sally called, I was thoroughly drunk and was responding automatically, as if my mouth were a telephone answering machine: You have reached the home of Billy Ansel, he has suffered an irretrievable loss, has discovered that he is inconsolable, and thus, to save you trouble and him embarrassment, has removed himself from normal human contact. He will probably not return, but if you wish to leave a message anyhow, do so at the sound of the ice cubes tinkling in his glass, and if someday he does return, he will try to respond to your message.