The Hounds of Spring by Lucy Andrews Cummin (fiction, ’87)

An excerpt (Chapter 1, Page 1) from The Hounds of Spring, the new book by Lucy Andrews Cummin (fiction, ’87) from Tupelo Press:

 

 

Morning

The first order of business was to let Spock out into the very small backyard. This
morning while he nosed about, Poppy watched from the very small wooden deck
Clive had built last summer, admiring the pansies and primroses he had planted in
terra cotta pots over the weekend. She was thinking about how different they were.
Clive liked to be busy. He liked to go from one thing to the next. He was the same
at home as at work. He was happy.

She was happy with Clive, but she was not happy with herself.

Her first choice of career had failed and she had fallen into wandering the city
and woods, dogs as her companions, with time to note how a tree wrote its
history in its bark or a family revealed their state in the condition and
decoration of their front door. What was unnerving was that this life suited her
quite well and she was even being paid, but it was a stopgap. A er almost two
years it was getting to be a very long stopgap.

Spock returned, tail wagging, tongue lolling, li ing his upper lip slightly so only
the gums showed; his imitation of a human smile. They went in.

Her breakfast today was yogurt with nuts and blueberries. Early morning was
her best time and breakfast her favorite meal. No one asked, “Shall we have
green beans or peas? Pasta or potatoes? Beef or chicken?” No one remarked,
“Haven’t we had brown rice and chicken the past five nights?” Best of all, she
was alone, so there was no scattering of dreams or diminishment of the day’s
potential.

Poppy liked breakfast so much that she was apt to slip like a leaf diverted into a
quiet shallows, spinning lazily, until the prickling sense of time passing made
her consult a clock.