Temporally Out of Order Read online

  The woman behind the desk—Holly—smiled. “Hello,” she said. “Are you here to pick up that book about Alaska?”

  Megan blinked. “Excuse me?” She stepped into the room as she spoke. She didn’t have much experience with libraries, but what little she had told her that it was impolite to shout.

  “Alaska.” Holly produced a travel guide from beneath the counter. “You’re Megan Halprin, yes? I have a hold on this in your name.”

  Megan had been considering a trip to Alaska for years. It was an easy cruise, according to everyone she knew who’d taken it, and it wasn’t even supposed to be that expensive. Talk about relaxing: two weeks all-inclusive in a floating hotel seemed about perfect. “Yes, that’s mine,” she said, suddenly making up her mind. “Do you have internet here?”

  “We do,” said Holly. “Would you like me to show you how to use the public access terminals?”

  “Yes, please.”

  An hour later, Megan had all the information she could possibly have needed about Alaskan cruises, what they cost, and when the best times to book were. Some of the cruises were even in her price range, if she was willing to scrimp and save for the next six months or so. Something she had always assumed was outside of her grasp might not be that impossible after all.

  “Thank you for all your help,” she said, turning to the librarian.

  Holly—whose name tag identified her as part of the library’s archive corrections department—smiled. “That’s what I’m here for,” she said. “Was there anything else you had been meaning to look into, and just didn’t have the time for?”

  Didn’t have the … but that was a fair description, wasn’t it? Megan had been dreaming of Alaska for years. She’d just never been willing to make the time. Much like she’d never made the time to go back for her GED. “Do you have study guides?” she asked.

  Holly’s smile widened. “Let me show you.”

  The book on preparing for your General Educational Development Test came up as four years overdue. The librarian suggested she come back later, after the system glitch had been repaired. Megan agreed and, still clutching her book on Alaska, stepped out the door, where she promptly disappeared.

  oOo

  Megan Halprin was twenty-nine years old when she got her first library card, on the recommendation of her GED prep instructor. “Read more and you’ll get more comfortable with reading,” was Mr. Milton’s suggestion, and since she wanted to pass the class, she’d agreed to go to the library and sign up. There was an app available, even, to stand in for her library card. It only cost $1.99, and the proceeds went to pay for library upkeep. She’d shrugged and swiped her credit stick. Might as well be a good patron from the outset, right?

  Most of the carrels and study areas seemed to be in use. Regular library visitors probably got there early to make sure they’d be able to snag the prime spots. Megan wandered until she saw a closed door. “Temporally out of order,” she read, after a moment. “Cute.” Then she turned the knob, and stuck her head inside.

  The librarian behind the circulation desk smiled like the sun. “Hi,” she said. “Megan, right? I’m Holly Littlejohn. I have a study guide for you.”

  Megan blinked.

  This time, before she checked out, she picked up a beginner’s guide to personal computing. She liked her job with the housecleaning service, but she was pretty sure she could figure out spreadsheets and move into clerical work, if she just took the time. Maybe there would be a computer unit in the GED prep.

  The book came back five years overdue. Megan left.

  oOo

  Meg Halprin was twenty-four years old when she got her first library card. She collected her book on personal computing, and got a weird error message on a book about deferred college admissions. The librarian suggested she step out for a cup of coffee.

  oOo

  Megan was nineteen when she got her first library card. The librarian in the weird little private room she found had a book on deferred college admissions already waiting for her. She found a book about computer programming for beginners that—ironically—couldn’t be checked out, since it was already five years overdue.

  She promised to come back for it later. The librarian watched her go, and smiled.

  “Earlier,” she said, and turned back to her book.

  oOo

  Meg was fourteen when she finally decided to get a library card. Middle school had been a slog, and she was sure high school was going to be even worse. Access to more books might help. Besides, she’d heard that the library had books on programming that were up to date and even counted for high school credit.

  She found a room that wasn’t filled with “helpful” adults who wanted to approve her reading choices before she could decide whether she really wanted to make them. She found the book she was looking for. She also found a book about calculus for pre-teens that she thought looked pretty cool. It scanned as already overdue.

  “Why does that happen?” she asked, scowling at the book, and then at the librarian.

  “Well, there are a lot of reasons,” said the woman—Miss Littlejohn, according to her name tag. One more “helpful” adult in a world that was just full of them. “Mostly, it’s a matter of causality being broken in this room. You know, that’s the first time you’ve asked me that question?”

  Meg blinked. “What?”

  “Never mind.”

  “No, really. I don’t understand.” Meg hated it when adults talked like they were smarter than she was. She couldn’t wait to be a grownup, and be able to answer all her own questions. “I’m old enough to have a library card. That means I’m old enough to understand how it works.”

  Miss Littlejohn looked weirdly amused. “My apologies,” she said. “Every book has a unique footprint in our system, and sometimes the computers try to backtrack when someone checks them out. So they go, for example, ‘Oh, someone who’s reading Programming for Beginners probably read Middle School Mathletics: Calculus five years ago.’ And then they show the second book as overdue. Are you sure you want it? You have a long reading list ahead of you already. Although I’m going to bet you don’t need a few of them anymore.”

  Meg bristled. “I’m sure.”

  “All right,” said the librarian. “Go get a soda and come right back.”

  Meg went.

  oOo

  Meg was nine when she convinced her mom that she was ready for her first adult library card. She had been looking for the children’s library, flush with the excitement of being able to get any book she wanted, when she made a wrong turn and wound up in front of a door marked “out of order.” Not just any “out of order”: temporally out of order, which didn’t make sense.

  “Can I help you?” The voice was kind, mellow, and adult. Meg turned to see a librarian standing beside her. The woman was pretty, in that adult sort of way, with long blonde hair and a friendly face. Her nametag said she was Miss Littlejohn. It was a funny name.

  “What’s in there?” Meg asked, pointing to the door. “Time can’t be out of order.”

  “Not usually,” agreed the librarian, cheerfully. “Come on. Let me help you find a book.”

  They turned, together, and walked away.

  The door stayed closed.

  SALAMANDER BITES

  by Elektra Hammond

  Steve checked the next ticket up and groaned—it was marked “Chef’s Choice,” and the server had written “VIP” across the top. Someone out front thought this customer was a reviewer or food blogger. Their meal needed to be perfect.

  It was just over a year and a half since they’d combined his cooking expertise and his girlfriend Carrie’s business skills to open With Wine, and now he was running his kitchen with a skeleton crew, working himself to exhaustion.

  He sighed as he assembled the ingredients for a classic escargot starter that had been a specialty at Avec le Vin, the famous French restaurant where he’d learned to cook, preoccupied with trying to decide what would be an appropr
iate entrée to follow up with.

  He turned to the Salamander, a high temp broiler that looked like an open-front toaster oven on steroids. He put in the jazzed-up snails and, distracted, moved too close. There was a nasty sizzle, and a second later his arm stung with intense pain. He sputtered a curse as he stared at a narrow crescent of skin starting to tighten next to a nearly identical old scar.

  “Problem, Chef?” said Marco, from across the room.

  “Burned myself. Hurts like a sonuvabitch. Don’t get too close to the lower right corner on the Salamander. Damn thing bites.”

  He took a brief moment to check the oven, noting the offending area was on the Salamander’s metal front leg: a dent had left a raised area on the far end. It was only a hazard to those passing too near in the tight kitchen. It was an odd place for an almost invisible protrusion; the Salamander at Avec had had a very similar one, courtesy of an altercation with a cast-iron pan wielded by a very annoyed chef. Better to take out a complaint on a piece of kitchen equipment than to yell at an unhappy customer …

  He pulled out the starter, plated it, and sent it out to the dining room. A nagging worry made him glance back at the prep station. The spices were conspicuously absent. Damn! What a time to let distraction push him into making a beginner’s error. But it was too late to fix it now.

  He looked at the empty pan, which seemed more oval than when he had put it in the Salamander, then shook his head. He must be imagining things.

  In between managing his small staff, and inspecting every dish before it went out to the dining room, he personally prepared Coquille Saint Jacques for the VIP’s main course, being extra careful before giving it a quick pass through the Salamander to melt the cheese perfectly. He plated it with care, then handed it off.

  “Chef, the guy at table eight loved the escargot. He said it was seasoned to perfection.”

  “Good to hear,” Steve said, thinking he couldn’t possibly be a critic if he hadn’t noticed the lack of seasoning. “Better get this out before it gets cold.”

  The work in the kitchen finally eased up, so Steve took his time preparing dessert, a fresh fruit tart with Grand Marnier sabayon. He cut up strawberries, blueberries, raspberries, pears, peaches, kiwis, and oranges. He whipped up the Grand Marnier-flavored sauce, coated the fruit with it, arranged it in a tart shell, and heated it up in the Salamander to give it just a bit of a crust. He sent it out to the dining room.

  He’d sent a request via one of the servers asking Carrie to come back to the kitchen, but she’d never materialized. Couldn’t someone cover the hostess station for two minutes when he needed her help? He slapped a bandage on his arm, which was starting to blister, no thanks to her, and went out to talk to the customer.

  Steve gestured at the empty chair at table eight. “May I?”

  “Please do, Stephen,” said the man seated there in softly accented English, his dark beard obscuring his familiar face.

  Steve started. For a moment, he was back in Avec working his ass off as Chef Étienne taught him the wonders of French cuisine. Never a minute’s rest. But no, this man was too young and his accent wasn’t nearly as thick. After a few seconds, he had it—the grandson who helped out on the occasional weekend.

  “Pierre! What brings you to my restaurant?”

  As Steve settled into the chair, Pierre said, “Happenstance. A new French restaurant in town. How could I resist?”

  “I hope it was worth your time.”

  “A meal of delights. I don’t believe my grandpère could have done better. Your Escargots á la Bourguignonne was perfection.”

  “Glad you liked it,” Steve said automatically, as he desperately tried to figure out how Pierre had utterly failed to notice the missing spices. “Not everybody does. We’ve been getting murdered by reviews. I work my butt off cooking, and some critic comes in and says that the food is ‘okay’ or ‘lacks complexity.’ We’re barely scraping by. We need a break. Soon.”

  “I am just one man, and I must needs be honest, but perhaps I can do for you something, Stephen. I will think on it.”

  “Thanks, man. Every little bit, you know. Hey, Carrie!” He waved at his girlfriend as she passed by.

  “Carrie, this is Pierre. His grandfather was Chef Étienne—the Chef Étienne I’ve told you about. The chef who taught me to really cook. Pierre, my partner Carrie.”

  “Nice to meet you,” said Carrie.

  “The pleasure, it is mine,” said Pierre, with a bow of his head. “Carrie? Surely that is not your given name …”

  “Carolina,” said Carrie, with a half-smile and a little giggle.

  “A lovely name, Carolina,” Pierre replied, taking her hand and kissing it.

  Steve watched the exchange, glad to see Carrie flirting with Pierre a little. If he was going to review the restaurant, a little female attention would surely help. Maybe there was a way to get them dancing …

  “Your grandfather, how is he?” asked Carrie.

  Damn. Hadn’t he told her about the old man’s breakdown?

  “My grandpère is not well, I’m afraid. He never recovered from closing the restaurant—cooking was his life.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Carrie said, softly.

  Pierre shrugged.

  They chatted for a bit, then the bartender waved Carrie over to answer a question. A few moments later, Steve excused himself from Pierre, hoping the meal had been enough to turn With Wine’s luck around.

  He was unfocused during clean up, again thinking back to working at Avec. It had been one of the hottest tickets in town back then, but he’d left after customers starting complaining that the house specialties didn’t taste as good. He’d worried he would be blamed. Once he was gone, though, he’d heard a series of bad reviews had sent the restaurant into a downward spiral. Eighteen months later it closed its doors for good.

  Steve came back to the present as he finished putting things away.

  “Marco, did you notice these pans don’t stack right?” he asked, examining the pans for dents. There were none.

  “No, that’s odd. They did yesterday.”

  Steve spent a few minutes puzzling over the pans, but he was too tired to care. He had a kitchen to clean up.

  The next night the restaurant was packed. Steve was struggling to keep on top of all the orders without yelling at his sous chefs, Marco and Joe. He sliced onions and tried to calculate—how many days like this before he could justify more staff? But where had the people come from?

  “Steve, look at this,” Carrie had slipped into the kitchen while he was daydreaming about success, and now held her iPad in front of him.

  He pushed it away. “I’m too busy cooking. Later.”

  “Now,” she insisted, getting into his personal space.

  The tone of her voice drew him up cold. He glanced at her iPad. A blog with the title “Ville Gastronomie ~ Fine Dining in the City” was displayed, with the top entry labeled “With Wine.” He read as much to get Carrie to leave him alone as out of curiosity:

  Chef Stephen has mastered classic French cuisine. Eating at With Wine reminded me of the very best of times at my grandpère’s table. I look forward to returning there.

  Carrie said, “The whole review is stellar. And there are a ton of comments—people saying they want to eat here. I think that’s why we’re so popular tonight. Got to go!”

  As the night wore on, dishes were popped in and out of the Salamander constantly, to brown them attractively or melt cheese on top. Reports coming back from the dining room were positive, which kept the mood in the frantic kitchen from going sour.

  After clean up, more of the pans didn’t nest properly. When Steve peered at them closely, they were a different brand then the ones he had purchased, and a slightly different shape. Hadn’t Avec used that brand? Both Marco and Joe denied any knowledge of switched out pans, and he wondered where the hell they’d come from …

  The next day, the prior night’s momentum brought Steve in a bit early to get d
inner prep going and he had the kitchen to himself. He grabbed a standard pan and started making Coq Au Vin—it had a long cook time. He slipped it into the Salamander to simmer, then saw the bacon sitting on his cutting board. Another rookie mistake. He pulled the pan back out, intending to add in the bacon, and opened it.

  He stared.

  The dish in the pan was completely cooked and ready to be served. And it visibly included bacon, despite the uncut bacon clearly sitting on his station. He tasted it. It was amazing. Complex layers of flavor, smokiness, earthiness, with tender, perfectly cooked chicken. The seasoning was worthy of Chef Étienne on his best day.

  Something very strange was going on. A memory surfaced, and Steve poured himself a glass of red wine, swirling it in the glass as he sipped and tried to recall. A day at Avec, before he moved on, trying to distance himself from a doomed restaurant whose executive chef was showing signs of losing it. A customer had complained that their Coq Au Vin had no bacon. And was under-seasoned.

  He drank some more wine, finishing the glass and pouring another.

  He deliberately took another standard pan and placed a filet of sole in it. He covered it in fish stock and grated some cheese over it. Into the Salamander it went.

  Out came a dish that looked and smelled delectable. He tasted it. Filet of Sole Mornay. Both pans were rounded and not the same brand he’d been cooking with.

  He sat down and thought for a few minutes as an unpleasant smile slid onto his face.

  He was in the bar when Carrie came in for work a little while later, drinking yet another glass of wine. “Carrie, where did you get the Salamander? It’s used, right?”

  Carrie tilted her head a little to the right, frowning, with that look she got when she was unhappy with something he was doing. “You took care of getting the Salamander. That’s the broiler, right? I handled procurement for front of house, you took care of the kitchen.”