Emily B. Cataneo

I am a lifelong New Englander and journalist (ask for my opinion about how lax zoning laws are affecting every aspect of life in upper middle class Massachusetts suburbia! Or, don't ask) and history book critic. I spend most of my spare time crafting fiction stories, or crocheting and watching Parks and Recreation if I'm feeling lazy. -- Emily Cataneo Reporter at Watertown TAB/Wicked Local Watertown Reporter at Cambridge Chronicle/Wicked Local Cambridge Freelance journalist Twitter: @emilycataneo Phone: 603-397-2310 Website: emilycataneo.wordpress.com

I am a lifelong New Englander and journalist (ask for my opinion about how lax zoning laws are affecting every aspect of life in upper middle class Massachusetts suburbia! Or, don't ask) and history book critic. I spend most of my spare time crafting fiction stories, or crocheting and watching Parks and Recreation if I'm feeling lazy. -- Emily Cataneo Reporter at Watertown TAB/Wicked Local Watertown Reporter at Cambridge Chronicle/Wicked Local Cambridge Freelance journalist Twitter: @emilycataneo Phone: 603-397-2310 Website: emilycataneo.wordpress.com

The Desert Cold Oasis and Spa

The woman in the diner’s backroom sat in a chair–but no, she wasn’t just sitting. She had become the chair, or the chair was eating her, consuming her like a wicker tumor. Half her teeth were gone and white willow strands had forced through the empty spots in her gums. Wicker strips curved from her hands instead of fingernails. Beneath her faded peony-pattered skirt, curls of wicker cleaved to her legs instead of varicose veins.

“Girl.” The Wicker Woman reached out a veined hand, tried to stroke Maddy’s face, and her wicker fingernails clattered against Maddy’s cheek.

“How long have you been here? What are you–do you need to go to a hospital?” said Maddy.

“Not the hospital. The camp.”

“What camp?”

The woman nodded at a dusty book at her feet, a withered piece of newsprint sticking out the top. The book was called Strange but True: Mystical Phenomena of the American Southwest. Maddy pulled the newsprint out of the water-warped pages.

A picture of a beaming man, his hair curled in a 1940s pompadour, his face superimposed over a palm tree. The Desert Cold Oasis and Spa, Offering Electroshock, Hypnosis and the Occasional Healing Boat Ride. Exit 6 off I-15.

“You get healed there,” said the woman, lisping around the wicker protruding from her mouth. “I want to go.”

Maddy stared at the soft newsprint in her hand and imagined this spa, sand blowing through its deserted buildings, or a chain restaurant erected where it had once stood. But then she saw the Wicker Woman looking at her with brows knitted over cloudy eyes.

“I can take you,” said Maddy. “I’ll take you with me.”

Maddy dragged the chair through the gloaming of the diner, past the turquoise Formica counter and the tintype of a boy holding a glass Coke bottle. She banged out the broken screen door and pulled the chair over the sparse grass between the diner and the pitted road.

Maddy threw open her U-Haul truck, which overflowed with furniture, books, lamps and an old mannequin Maddy had bought at Goodwill freshman year.

“There’s no room,” said the Wicker Woman. “Are you going to leave me here?”

“No, I–”

“Leave some of these things, girlie. You don’t need them. What’re you going to do with that thing?” She gestured at the mannequin.

Maddy hesitated, but she shook her head, hauled out her aqua desk chair and plunked it by the side of the road. Dust eddys jumped around the chair wheels.

One less thing to move in when I get to Los Angeles, thought Maddy. And truly, she liked the look of her chair on the grass, about to pass from Maddy’s concern, about to be far behind her on the road.