My Ken

He came again, with his slick black hair, ill fitting suit, pen at the ready to jot down anything he thought useful in his well worn little black book. He came with questions. Not the sort I liked to answer to a stranger but he was nice enough, even jovial and the dog liked him.

Not that I place much store in what the dog has to say but I always remember that time she bit the neighbour. As it turned out, Annabelle Keaton, and you know the sort, top button done up, nails perfect and always on this committee or that. Well, seems she had a first husband. Well the first I knew about a first husband was when they dug him up from under her prized rose bushes. Found him by xray of all things. Who knew that was even a thing? And I never realised that I would get so much pleasure from seeing a back hoe sitting on top of them.

Anyway, the dog bit her and she liked Mr Smarmetti… Smar-metti…. Smarmti…. However you say it. He could have just been a Jones or a Smith but I suppose you can’t judge a person by their name.

This time, he wanted to know about Kens job twenty years ago when he ran the factory floor. He asked about a kid that ran one of the machines. How am I supposed to know about what happened at Kens work all the way back then and it’s not like Ken was here to ask, rest his soul.

Best man I ever met. Swept me off my feet with a blue heaven milkshake and some salt and vinegar chips. We were kids then with not a care in the world. Summer days at the beach, gossip about boys, lying back with your knees bent, just so that your legs looked skinny.

Ken was a real hard worker. Started at the bottom and worked his way up. We were real proud when they made him foreman in charge of all the boys. Then they went and made him production manager. It seemed just like it was yesterday that first day I pinned his badge to his shirt. Ken Groves, production manager it said. My Ken.

But you’ve got to take the bad with the good and when I said for better or worse, I meant it. And it got real worse, real quick. At first we thought he was doing too much but then he started dropping things and slurring his words.

Ken Jr did that ice bucket thing and I reckon he got half the town doing it too. That raised a bit of money for us. It helped pay for someone to shower my Ken. Not that I wouldn’t have done it but he wouldn’t let me. Just kept pushing me away. He was always a proud man and maybe seeing him not even able to wash himself was too much for him.

I don’t think I’ll say much more about my Ken being sick. Some things are too hard for words.

It’s been five years and still I miss his funny ways. And not just funny strange but funny with a meaning behind it. Like when he took our holiday money and gave it to one of the blokes at work. “One of the best machinists we’ve got”, he’d say. “Can’t have him sleeping in his car.” Then he goes and puts the tent up in the back yard. Camping next to the clothes line. Funny man. He even got the kids on board when they were little. Not that I’m saying it was easier because they were little, quite the opposite really. He made a pot of soup once. Vile stuff. It went through the whole house. He called it super swimmer soup and the kids couldn’t get enough of it. Funny man.

These are the kinds of things I remember about my Ken. I’m not sure work memories quite got the same priority. That was his thing. Same as my work at the RSPCA. That was my thing. There were a couple of dinners both sides but mainly it was just us. We were enough.

Mr Smarmetti, and I’m sure he’s got a first name but he’s never said and it’s not on his card, well he handed me his little black book and you could’ve knocked me over with a feather. The bloke I said before, you know, the one living in his car…. I’m sure that’s the name he’s got written. Andrew Carlisle. Yep I’m sure it is, my Ken used to call him Andy.

Mr Smarmetti said he wanted to meet me.

What’d he want to meet me for? Mr Smarmetti didn’t say but he probably knew though. Anyway, it was set up for Wednesday.

Butterflies got to me on Wednesday. Not sure why. Thoughts were changing in my head quicker than Ken jr could flick through the channels on the tele. Was he still living in his car? Did he want money? Did he want something of Kens? Better to just put these questions out of my head, I had to tell myself but not quite sure I could evict these particular tenants taking up room in my head.

“Hello Mr Carlisle,” I said, thinking I’d better greet him properly. “Please come in.”

We sat at the kitchen table. That’s the heart of my home. It’s where we eat, tell our days stories, sit as a family.

“Call me Andy,” he said

“What brings you here, Andy,” I asked, wanting to get straight to the point.

“I got a promotion at work,” he said.

“Congratulations,” I replied simply but wondered why on earth he was telling me this.

“Thanks,” he said. “My promotion’s made me the General Manager and I couldn’t have done it without your Ken all those years ago.”

The hairs bristled on the back of my neck. You see I’m a bit protective of my Ken, especially seeing as he’s not here to defend himself.

“Yes,” I said, keen for him to continue.

“So we’d like to make a yearly presentation to someone in the company and call it the Ken Grover award.”

I was speechless and so proud that even after all these years, what he did, still mattered to people.

"We thought that the first recipient should be you, seeing as Ken….,” his voice trailed off without finishing.

“I’m very flattered,” I said, genuinely.

“And there’s a prize that goes with it,” Andy said, holding out an envelope.

“Don’t open it now,” he said, as he placed his hand over mine before I could tear it open. “And it comes with a request.”

“But you don’t have to if you don’t want to,” he quickly added.

“We’d like you to present the next one. A kind of pay it forward thing.”

I’m not an emotional person but this put all of what my Ken was about into one sentence. Bringing others up along the way, helping a mate.

All I could manage was, “sure.”

With that one word, it all seemed to be over. The two men stood. Andy tipped his head and Mr Smarmetti shook my hand, not that I’m a hand shaking kind of person but it seemed like the proper thing to do.

I waved them off and watched peace return with the settling of the dust behind their car. I was still holding the envelope and sense should’ve told me to sit before I opened it.

Twenty thousand dollars. There was a cheque for twenty thousand dollars with my name on it. I think it gave me more questions than I cared to contemplate. Blessings and burdens all wrapped up in one piece of paper.

I decided to sit on it for a bit and give it some proper thought. I talked to Ken about it, not that he talked back but sometimes, just sometimes, it felt like he did.

On the Friday, after a whole day of thinking about it, I took my cheque to the bank and opened a new account. I called it the Ken Grover memorial trust.

The town looked different after that, different in quite a conscious way. I don’t know how often I’d look at a child with no shoes and say to myself, “if I only had the money”.

I found that I had to give myself a good talking to, you know, sometimes you just have to when there’s no one else to do it.

So I put on my big girl pants and told myself.... “Girl, put your money where your mouth is because making up excuses for being blind to struggle is no longer valid and you will no longer be complicit.”

Wow, I didn’t know I had it in me.

And you know that weight you never knew you were carrying until it’s not there anymore? Well that’s just about where I’m at. The money isn’t mine now but it’s made such a difference. I even caught myself with a smile.

And I knew my Ken was real pleased ‘cause he smiled right back.

Now you might think I’m a few sheep short in the top paddock but I know full well that that rainbow didn’t happen on its own.