Lisa Gornick’s second novel, Tinderbox, will certainly be compared to Jonathan Franzen’s acclaimed The Corrections. And it should be, since Gornick creates a world of characters every bit as complex and flawed — and as real — as Franzen’s subjects. Both novels similarly spin a web of family entanglements that strain to hold its members aloft as expectations shift beneath them. Of Franzen’s work Entertainment Weekly wrote, his “domestic drama teaches that, yes, you can go home again. But you might not want to.” And while the same lesson can be taken from Tinderbox, Gornick also presents us with the hope of redemption.
Tinderbox’s matriarch is Myra, a successful psychotherapist in New York City. From the outside she’s as cool and classy as the muted suits she wears to work, but on the inside her lining is unraveling. Myra’s son Adam, a fear-riddled introvert perennially writing an unfinished screenplay, and his family are moving in to Myra’s brownstone where nothing but a classical piano chord she’s still practicing has the slightest imperfection. Along with Adam comes his wife, a Moroccan-Jewish dermatologist who is all rough edges, and their precocious young son, Owen. These guests herald a lifestyle shift, so through some cousins in Peru, Myra hires a housekeeper, Eva, to help with the added responsibilities. From a humble background, Eva arrives with little physical baggage, but is heavily laden with the emotional sort. By placing Eva’s damaged psyche within range of Myra’s psychoanalytical radar, Gornick forces both characters to confront transformative ethical questions. Tossed into the mix is Adam’s sister, Caro, a childless child-care worker who drowns memories of mistakes in midnight eating binges.
What exactly is tinder? I considered, after I’d come to know Gornick’s characters a bit. It’s dead wood that’s frayed at the ends, making it easier to catch fire. And as Gornick so capably relates through her characters, we all contain pieces that are old, splintered, and best thrown out, if we only could. Instead, more often, we accumulate these volatile shards, until we are on the verge of reaching a flashpoint. And then, it takes very little for the whole mess to ignite.
Many forest plants require the searing heat of fire to complete their lifecycle, and the literal and figurative flames that rage through Myra’s family are similarly life-changing. In the wake of the blaze, the undergrowth is cleared, leaving space for the shoots of new life and the fragile blossoms of new love.
