In Tourist Season, award-winning author Enid Shomer offers ten brilliant, unforgettable stories of resilient women aged seventeen to seventy, each at a pivotal point in her life. Their journeys cross distances of place and mind: A middle-aged Floridian who learns that she is the reincarnation of a Buddhist saint takes daring steps on her path to enlightenment; a long-buried secret forces one woman to leave the daughter she deeply loves; a Radcliffe student faces shocking family truths and taboos during the summer of 1966; an unexpected kinship forms between two women who land in a county jail after an excursion to Las Vegas. These travelers wander through shifting emotional landscapes of love, sex, and relationships, often after missing the destinations they'd hoped to reach. Whether journeying to new geographical locales or exploring uncharted personal terrain, Tourist Season offers a provocative, engaging, and often humorous road map of the heart and soul.
Excerpt:
When her husband, Milt, retired, it was as if a bell that Frieda had heard ringing pleasantly in the distance all her life began striking right next to her head. Milt was everywhere she turned. "We're on our second honeymoon," he'd say, jollying her into another game of bingo, another round of golf. After four months of solid togetherness, while she was lying on the wicker settee on the balcony Frieda day-dreamed that Milt had dropped dead. Tears sprang to her eyes as she pictured him laid out in a casket, looking perfectly healthy. Deeply ashamed of her thoughts, she began to ponder ways for him to spend his time.
Nearly a decade before, Milt had bought a piece of a middleweight. It had been one of the most exciting times of his life--the domed dark of the armories, blue pillars of cigarette smoke, Milt hanging on the ropes, barking instructions to "the Hurricane." Frieda had loved it, too--loved the fighter's pink satin robe draped over the corner stanchion, voluptuous as the lip of a conch shell, loved the blowzy crowd and oily-faced vendors hawking drinks and programs. But Tadeusz Simkowicz turned out to be a bleeder and after five bouts traded his Everlast shorts for a job selling Cadillacs.
What about investing in another fighter, Frieda suggested now.
No, Milt said. The fight game had lost its dignity. It was becoming a spectacle, like wrestling, the men wearing sequinned shorts and tutus, messages shaved into their hair.
Next, Frieda urged him to get involved in the management of their condo, maybe run for a seat on the board of directors.
No, definitely not for him. how could she suggest it? The directors were a bunch of bullies who couldn't pass for businesspeople if they had ticker tape coming out of their butts. He hated the officious notices they tacked on the bulletin boards. There will be a ballot in your mailbox regarding pool chemicals (chlorine versus bromine). Vote by July 15 or lose your say in this important matter!! He'd propped up dictators in Latin America with customs bribes. He wasn't about to waste his time debating whether to paint the lobby yellow or green. He was retired, goddammit, and he was going to do nothing with the rest of his life if he felt like it.
-- From "Tourist Season."
