The Badger in the Vest

In the sweltering heat of a deceased relative's attic, two grieving in-laws struggle with the physical weight of furniture and the crushing weight of silence, until a grotesque discovery forces a crack in their armor.

The oak wardrobe refused to budge, rooted to the floorboards as if it had grown taproots into the house’s foundation. Simon shoved his shoulder against the wood, the grain biting into his shirt through the thin cotton. He grunted, a short, ugly sound that seemed too loud in the dead air of the attic. Sweat, cold and oily despite the July heat, trickled down the valley of his spine. It smelled like old varnish up here, like baked dust and the sweet, sickly scent of dead wasps.

"It’s not moving, Simon," Agnes said. Her voice was flat, lacking the usual sharp edge of impatience she carried like a handbag. She was standing on the other side of the monstrosity, her hands—knotted with arthritis and spotted like quail eggs—pressed uselessly against the dark wood. She wasn't pushing; she was just leaning, letting the furniture hold her up.

"It has to move," Simon said, breathless. He adjusted his stance, his sneakers squeaking against the dry rot of the floor. "The access panel is behind it. Unless you want to leave the wiring alone and let the whole place burn down next time a storm hits."

"Maybe I do," she muttered. She wiped her forehead with the back of her wrist, leaving a streak of grey smudge across her pale skin. She looked older today. The harsh light cutting through the single, grime-encrusted dormer window did her no favors. It deepened the hollows under her eyes and highlighted the frizzy escapees from her severe bun.

Simon stopped pushing. His heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs—too fast for a man of sixty-two who had been warned about his blood pressure. He stepped back, his knees popping audibly. The attic was a kiln. The air was thick, gelatinous, refusing to circulate. It pressed against his eardrums. He looked at the wardrobe. It was hideous. Victorian Gothic, maybe, but the cheap kind—heavy on the carving, light on the craftsmanship. Gargoyles with pug noses leered from the corners.

"Five minutes," Simon gasped, holding up a hand. "I need... five."

Agnes didn't argue. She slumped onto a stack of National Geographic magazines from the 1970s, the yellow spines groaning under her weight. She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed at her neck. "It’s the humidity," she said. "It’s not the heat. It’s the damp. Even up here."

Simon nodded, though he didn't care about the meteorology. He walked over to the window and tried to peer out, but the glass was opaque with decades of dirt and insect residue. He scratched a small circle with his fingernail. Outside, the overgrown garden was a riot of green and brown, suffocating under the midday sun. He could see the rusted roof of his car in the driveway. He wanted to be in it. He wanted to be driving away, leaving this house and its contents to rot.

But he couldn't. Because Arthur was dead, and Arthur had been a hoarder of the highest order, and Simon was the executor, and Agnes was the sister who had been written out of the will but showed up anyway, driven by a guilt she wouldn't name.

"Do you think he knew?" Agnes asked. She wasn't looking at him. She was staring at a broken lampshade on the floor.

"Knew what?" Simon asked, leaning against the chimney breast. The brick was rough and warm.

"That he had all this... junk. That he was drowning in it."

"He knew," Simon said. He reached for his water bottle, which was sitting on a trunk. The water was tepid. He drank it anyway, the plastic crinkling loudly. "He just didn't care. Or he cared too much. It's the same thing in the end."

They sat in silence for a long time. The house settled around them, the timbers groaning as they expanded in the heat. It was a mournful sound, like a ship shifting at anchor. Simon watched a spider navigate the treacherous terrain of a pile of old curtains. He felt a profound, heavy sadness in his chest, a physical weight that made breathing difficult. It wasn't just Arthur. It was everything. It was the way his own house felt empty since the divorce three years ago. It was the way his knees hurt when it rained. It was the realization that he was spending his Saturday in a grave made of furniture.

Agnes sighed, a long, shuddering exhale that seemed to deflate her entire frame. "I found a box of letters yesterday," she said softly. "From our mother. He kept them. I thought he burned them."

Simon looked at her. Her eyes were red-rimmed. She wasn't crying, but she was on the precipice. "He kept everything, Agnes. You know that. Look around. He kept yogurt containers."

"It's different," she snapped, a flash of the old Agnes returning. "Letters are different."

"I suppose," Simon said. He didn't want to talk about feelings. He didn't want to navigate the minefield of Agnes's family trauma. He just wanted to move the wardrobe.

He pushed himself off the chimney. "Right. One more try. On three. And really push this time. Don't just pose."

Agnes glared at him, but she stood up. She brushed the dust off her slacks, a futile gesture. "I was pushing, Simon. You're just weak."

"I am not weak," he said, feeling a childish irritation rise. "I have a bad rotator cuff."

"You have a bad attitude," she corrected.

They positioned themselves again. The wardrobe loomed over them, a dark monolith. Simon wedged his foot against a loose floorboard for leverage.

"One," he counted. "Two. Three!"

They heaved. Simon gritted his teeth, his face turning a dangerous shade of plum. Agnes made a high-pitched noise of exertion. The wardrobe groaned, tilted, and then, with a screech of wood on wood that sounded like a dying violin, it slid six inches to the left.

"Keep going!" Simon yelled. "Don't stop!"

They pushed another foot. Then, disaster. The front right leg of the wardrobe, weakened by decades of woodworm, snapped cleanly in two. The massive piece of furniture lurched forward, pitching like a drunk.

"Watch out!" Simon shouted, grabbing Agnes’s arm and yanking her back.

The wardrobe slammed into the floor, the doors flying open with a violent bang. Dust exploded into the air, a grey mushroom cloud that instantly coated their throats. Simon coughed, waving his hands in front of his face. The sound of shattering glass came from inside the cabinet.

"My god," Agnes coughed, hacking into her elbow. "Is everyone alive?"

"I think so," Simon wheezed. He squinted through the dust. The wardrobe was lying on its face, looking like a fallen soldier. Its contents had spilled out across the floorboards.

Simon stepped closer, wary of broken glass. "Well. That’s one way to move it."

"Is it broken?" Agnes asked, peering over his shoulder.

"The leg is gone. The rest looks... solid enough. But look at what fell out."

Among the pile of moth-eaten coats and stiff, yellowed linens, something hard and rectangular had slid across the floor. It wasn't the access panel. It was a taxidermy display case, but the glass front had shattered.

Simon crouched down. He picked up a piece of the broken glass and set it aside. Then he reached for the object inside. It was a badger. A European badger, by the looks of the stripes.

But it wasn't just a badger.

Simon lifted it up. The creature was frozen in a rigid, upright posture. It was wearing a miniature, custom-tailored red velvet waistcoat with gold buttons. In one paw—which had been wired into a human-like grip—it held a tiny brass candlestick. In the other, a monocle on a chain.

Simon stared at it. The badger’s glass eyes were crossed. The taxidermist had clearly struggled with the expression, resulting in a look of profound, existential confusion.

"What..." Agnes’s voice trailed off. She leaned in closer, squinting. "Is that... is that a badger?"

"It appears to be," Simon said. His voice was trembling slightly. "A badger butler."

"Why?" Agnes whispered. She reached out and touched the velvet vest. "It has a pocket watch. Simon, look. It has a tiny pocket watch."

Simon looked. Sure enough, a gold chain led to the vest pocket. He gave a gentle tug, and a dime-sized clock face emerged. It was stuck at 4:20.

"Arthur," Simon said. "Arthur bought this. Someone made this, and Arthur paid money for it."

He looked at the badger’s face again. The crossed eyes. The slight snarl that clashed with the formal wear. The sheer, overwhelming absurdity of it against the backdrop of the sweltering, miserable attic.

A sound escaped him. It was a snort. A harsh, involuntary expulsion of air.

Agnes looked at him. Her mouth twitched. She looked back at the badger. "He looks," she said, her voice wavering, "he looks like Uncle Gerald at your wedding."

Simon felt the dam crack. The image of Agnes’s pompous, heavy-drinking Uncle Gerald, red-faced and stuffed into a tuxedo, superimposed itself over the badger. The resemblance was uncanny. The crossed eyes. The confusion.

"The vest," Simon choked out. "It’s... it’s velvet."

Agnes let out a strange, high-pitched giggle. It sounded rusty, like a gate that hadn't been opened in years. "He’s holding a candlestick. Like he’s going to show us to our rooms."

"In the badger hotel," Simon added. He started to shake. His shoulders heaved. He sat down hard on the floor, still clutching the badger.

Agnes covered her mouth with both hands, but the laughter leaked out. She sank down next to him, her knees cracking. She pointed a trembling finger at the monocle. "It’s... it’s just so... dignified."

And then they were both gone. Simon roared. A deep, belly laugh that hurt his ribs and made him dizzy. He leaned back against the toppled wardrobe, tears streaming down his dust-streaked face. Agnes was gasping, rocking back and forth, slapping her thigh.

"It’s so ugly!" she shrieked, gasping for air. "It’s the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen!"

"He kept it!" Simon yelled, holding the badger up like Simba on Pride Rock. "In the wardrobe! For special occasions!"

They laughed until they couldn't breathe. They laughed until their stomachs ached and their throats burned from the dust. It wasn't happy laughter. It was hysterical. It was the sound of pressure valves blowing. It was the release of three days of funeral arrangements, of twenty years of family tension, of the oppressive heat and the smell of rot.

Simon looked at Agnes. Her face was flushed, her hair coming loose from its pins. She looked younger. She looked human. For a moment, she wasn't the sister-in-law who criticized his job or his car. She was just a tired old woman laughing at a badger in a vest.

He lowered the badger to his lap, stroking its coarse fur absentmindedly. The laughter tapered off slowly, replaced by hiccups and deep, shuddering breaths. Simon wiped his eyes with the hem of his shirt. He felt exhausted, drained, but the heavy, suffocating weight in his chest had lightened. It wasn't gone—grief doesn't vanish because of a taxidermy rod—but it had shifted. It was manageable.

Agnes took a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh. She leaned her head back against the wardrobe. "God," she whispered. "I needed that."

"Me too," Simon said. He looked at the badger. "We should keep him. Put him on the mantelpiece."

"Don't you dare," Agnes said, but there was no venom in it. She smiled, a genuine, tired smile. "Maybe the guest room. Scare the hell out of visitors."

Simon chuckled. The air in the attic didn't feel quite so heavy anymore. The dust motes dancing in the shaft of light looked less like debris and more like... well, just dust. But manageable dust.

"Help me up," Agnes said, extending a hand.

Simon grasped her hand. Her grip was strong. He hauled her to her feet, and she groaned.

"Okay," she said, brushing down her slacks again. "The wardrobe is down. The badger is liberated. Where is this damn access panel?"

Simon turned to the wall that had been hidden behind the wardrobe. There, peeling and painted over a dozen times, was a small plywood door.

"There," he pointed. "The heart of the beast."

Agnes walked over to it. She hesitated, her hand hovering over the latch. "Simon?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks. For... you know. Moving the thing."

"You pushed too," he said.

She nodded. She looked at the small door. "What do you think is in there? More badgers?"

"God, I hope not," Simon said. He placed the badger carefully on top of the stack of National Geographics. The creature stared out at the attic with its crossed eyes, a silent guardian of the absurdity of life.

"Ready?" Simon asked, stepping up beside her.

"No," Agnes said. "But let's do it anyway."

Simon reached out and slid the latch. It was stiff, rusted shut. He used both thumbs, pushing until the metal screeched and gave way. The door swung inward, revealing a dark, cool void. A draft blew out, chilling the sweat on his face.

He clicked on his flashlight. The beam cut through the darkness, illuminating a narrow crawlspace that ran the length of the house. And there, sitting in the dust about three feet in, was a small, grey metal lockbox.