BOSTON — You've seen the stories. You may have cringed--or wept outright--as you thought of young lives snuffed out by some awful, angry error of fate. You've felt those stories haunt you and wondered about their aftermaths.
This is what happened, anyway, when novelist Russell Banks found his attention riveted by news reports in 1989 of a school bus crash in rural Texas that killed 14 children.
Banks kept dwelling on the aftermath. How did the families carry on in the face of such a tragedy? What of the survivors, those who must forever balance guilt at having lived against a blessed relief at having been spared? What of the community and its struggle to restore some semblance of order?
As he read more about the town and the accident, he found himself reflecting on his own experiences growing up dirt-poor in New England. The fatal bus accident became a metaphor and a vehicle. The "personal and the extra-personal," Banks said, began to link up. The result was "The Sweet Hereafter," his 11th book, about how a community copes with the tragic death of 14 schoolchildren on a snowy day.
"I got intrigued by the community," Banks said in an interview here. "I was interested in the morality of it, and in the possibility of redemption." He wanted to find out: "How could a community not come undone?" More than in any of his earlier books, he wanted to offer "a positive and optimistic look at life in the here and now."
His fascination with what happens to people in tightly knit communities when disaster occurs led him to put aside 150 pages of another novel in progress and to announce in a note to his editor: "I'm about to write a book that begins with a school bus accident."
"Oh great," Banks could imagine his editor thinking, "another cheery topic for a book."
But what finally emerged in "The Sweet Hereafter" was a hopeful portrait of a town's spiritual redemption, and of the strength of the individual human spirit. Banks calls the novel "a book that gropes its way toward transcendence." Despite the horror they have been through, he said, "the characters themselves are able to transcend their plights, their catastrophes."
This kind of optimism is a departure for the 52-year-old Banks. Menace has traditionally inhabited his books; so have horrifying shifts of mood and a sense that tragedy is as imminent as it is inevitable. Race, class and gender imprison many Banks characters. Small gritty towns are the settings.
"Affliction," his last novel, dealt with domestic violence and a terrifying father. Both were familiar themes for Banks, who both hated and adored the father who drank too much, abused his wife and children and cast a constant shadow of fear before finally abandoning the family when Russell was 12.
"Continental Drift," published in 1985 and nominated for the Pulitzer Prize a year later, probed the dark world of drug trafficking in Florida and the Caribbean.
If there is a harshness to the reality of a Russell Banks novel, it is because that is the truth with which Banks was raised. His father was a pipe fitter in the blue-collar town of Barnstead, N.H. There were four children, not much money and a lot of argument. In the Banks family there was an expectation less of failure than of lack of success. "Success was a kind of betrayal," Banks said.
But a "great good fortune" also watched over him, Banks has come to believe. "As I get older, I realize it increasingly," he said.
He had two unmarried aunts, for example, "who, I have a feeling, provided me with a sense of my own self-worth." One, "Aunt Frances," took over whenever his parents were fighting--which was most of the time. "Those first four years of my life, I probably spent more time with her than I did with my parents," Banks said. "Aunt Mimi," a "middle-aged bachelor lady" who was also a schoolteacher, "was the one who took you seriously if you demonstrated any kind of intellectual interest or gifts, while the rest of the family kind of carped about it," Banks said.
Fortune handed Banks a passport out of poverty when Colgate University offered him an academic scholarship. But eight weeks of college convinced him he was a misfit. Banks dropped out, determined to go to Cuba and fight the revolution with Fidel Castro.
The fact that he spoke no Spanish, had no money and didn't really know where Havana was brought his revolutionary intentions to an abrupt halt. He got as far as Florida, where he married and promptly found himself with a job as a window dresser at Montgomery Ward and a baby on the way.
Good luck seems to have kept its eye on Banks there as well. He drank a lot and was prone to barroom brawls, he says, but "at least I didn't get shot in a bar."
Then, at 22, Banks again collided with fortune. By day he was working as a plumber in Concord, N.H., where he moved after his divorce. At night he was writing a novel. He packed up his manuscript and headed for a mountaintop writers' conference, where one of the first people he encountered was Nelson Algren.