Betty’s Rum: December 1921

After I place my ballot at the voting station, I notice that there is an old man in a booth giving away free bottles of rum to voters. I walk up to ask for a bottle. I’ll just have a drink or two from the bottle with Florence and then I’ll give the rest to George. The old man seems tired. He must’ve been at this booth all day.

“Can I help you, Miss?” The old man’s eyes linger a little too long on my blouse as he looks up at me from his chair.

“I just voted and I saw that you were giving away free bottles of rum. I sometimes fancy a shot of rum so I figured I’d walk up and ask for a bottle.” I pull my overcoat tighter around my blouse. “It’s a cold one out there today! I could use the rum to help me warm up a bit!” I give a half-hearted smile.

The old man laughs. “The rum isn’t for you, deary.”

I hate it when old jossers call me names like “deary”.

The sign on his booth taunts my periphery: ‘Free Rum for Voters: Your Next Drink is on Me!’

I point at it. The paint on the sign is chipped. “Your sign says you’re giving away free rum to voters.”

The man laughs. “I’ve been using that old sign for four elections now. I guess I should change it now that women are allowed to vote.” The absurdity of this remark leaves me speechless for a moment.

The old man glances at a voter standing behind me who is also looking to get a free bottle of rum. The voter cuts in front of me and the old man reaches out to shake his hand.

The voter grabs the old man’s hand confidently. “G’day John! Your rum is always my favourite part of election day.”

The old man, John, passes the voter a bottle of rum. “Of course, Gene. Have a good one!” Gene walks away with a smirk on his face and a bottle in his hands.

John looks back at me and his friendly demeanor subsides. “Why are you still standing there? I can’t help you.”

I stare at him in disbelief. “I voted, so I deserve a bottle of rum just like the men. Give it over and I’ll be on my way.”

John rises out of his chair, teetering in annoyance. “Go home now, deary! I don’t want to have to ask you again.” A vein protrudes from his forehead. “You shouldn’t be able to vote anyway.”

I can feel my face warming up with anger.

A man with a blue shirt stops talking to a group of poll-workers and walks over to John, eyeing me warily. “What’s the problem here, Johnny?”

“This woman here wants a bottle of rum!” John points his old gray finger at my forehead.

“Look at the band on her finger Johnny,” The man gestures at my wedding ring. “She’s probably just taking a bottle home to her husband.” The blue-shirted man hastily hands me one of John’s bottles and quickly walks away to talk with more poll-workers.

Again, John points his knobby finger at my forehead. “I know damn well that you aren’t going to give that bottle to your husband. You said so yourself that you were fancying a drink of it!” He slumps back down in a huff. “But hurry away now before another woman sees you and gets the wrong idea.” He smiles as if he’s done me a favour.

“Yes, it would be a pity if another woman had to deal with your nonsense.” I crack open the rum and splash a shot of it onto John’s feet. He sits there in shock as I storm out of the building with the rest of the bottle before he has a chance to say anything.

I feel a void in my stomach as I walk back home to George with the bottle of rum in the pocket of my overcoat. I worry that he won’t take my side when I relay the events that happened at the poll station. It’s about a thirty-minute walk home. The sky gets dark so early now in these winter evenings. I should have gone in to vote with George when he went early this morning. I continue to trudge through the snowy streets, the wind biting at my exposed face. I cannot wait to get home and pour myself a drink of rum.

The air is getting colder and colder outside, nipping at my skin. I suppose I could have a drink to warm me up a little bit. I take the bottle out of my overcoat pocket, open it up, tilt my head back, and pour a shot of the rum into the void in my stomach. I feel its warmth surge through my chest. It makes the wind a tad more bearable, but its harshness still bites. I have another shot. And another. As I continue to walk, I drink about three or four more shots and then the bottle is empty. The wind doesn’t bother me anymore. I drunkenly walk through the snowy streets until I finally reach our house and step inside after fumbling with my keys.

George is sitting at the kitchen table with his newspaper and looks up at me with a smile as I walk into the kitchen. “Hey Betty! How did it feel to vote for the first time?” His smile never wavers. “It must feel good, now that men and women are on the same playing field!” I can’t tell if he is serious or not.

“Yes, I guess it feels good to finally have at least a sliver of a voice in this country.” I let out an exasperated sigh. I stumble a little as I bend down to untie my boots.

George laughs a little then gives me a concerned look that almost seems condescending. I think he is noticing. “Are you—are you drunk?”

“Yes, I am rather inebriated.” I echo his assumption and laugh an honest laugh. “Is there a problem with that?”

“I guess not.” He looks at the empty bottle sticking out of my pocket. “You must have gotten a bottle from my buddy John at the poll station. I got one too, but I put it up in the liquor cabinet rather than drinking the whole bottle on my way home.”

“How do you know John?” I nearly trip over myself as I take off my coat and boots.

“Johnny is one of the other fishermen that I see down at the docks every summer. He’s a kind old man, always cracking jokes.” George smiles and looks up at the ceiling. He must be recalling some stupid thing that John said that made all the other fishermen laugh.

“Oh.” I answer dimly. Even in my drunken state, I realize that I shouldn’t tell him about what happened at the poll station.

“Why do you ask?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I guess he just didn’t seem kind or funny to me.” I feel like I’m watching two other people have this conversation.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” George scrunches his eyebrows.

“I don’t—I don’t know. Never mind.” I suddenly feel the void in my stomach again,  empty as my bottle of rum. I glance up at the liquor cabinet and consider taking George’s bottle, but I ultimately decide against it.

As I fall asleep later that night, my dreams are so vivid yet unusually mundane. I dream that I take George’s bottle  from the liquor cabinet and pour myself a shot. I dream that I go outside for a short walk under the night sky. I dream that I walk over to Florence’s house and we talk about the cold weather we’ve been having. It all feels so real, but none of it is.

“It’s been so cold lately,” Florence says. “I wish I had as nice of an overcoat as yours to get me through these awful winter months.”

“I know it looks new, but it actually used to be my mother’s.” I say.

“Oh really? She must have refurbished it for you, did she?” Florence asks.

“Yes. She’s always been good at refurbishing old clothes.” I laugh, the word ‘refurbishing’ distorts in my dream. “She gave it to me just before last winter and said something along the lines of ‘make sure you always wear it when the weather gets dreary.’ She’s always been very caring like that.”

I wake up with a smile on my face but it fades as I remember what happened at the poll station yesterday.

I spend the day cleaning the house and cooking supper for George. It isn’t until after supper when my work is finished  that I sit down on the living room sofa.

I recall my dreams from last night, and despite the late hour, I decide to walk over to Florence’s house to give her a visit. I get off the sofa and grab my overcoat by the door. I realize that the coat still has the empty bottle in the pocket. I set the bottle on the kitchen table and decide that I’ll rinse it out later.

I shrug on my coat and stuff my feet into my boots before heading out the door. I take a few steps away from the house before I turn around, go back inside, and grab George’s bottle of rum from the liquor cabinet. I walk to Florence’s house with the bottle sticking out of my pocket.

Florence smiles when she opens her door and sees me. “Hey Betty. How’s it going?”

“Pretty good, Flo! I brought over some rum for the two of us. I figured we could have a drink and play cards while we catch up.” I lift George’s bottle out of my pocket and gesture toward her as if giving a toast.

“That sounds lovely!” Florence grabs a deck of cards out of one of the kitchen cupboards. We play cards, drink, and share old stories.

I tell her about the old man and how I splashed a shot of rum onto his feet. Florence laughs and I feel vindicated. “Serves him right. He should’ve just given you the damn bottle in the first place!” She raises her drink. “Good on you!” I return her knowing smile and we clink our glasses together.

We continue to have a pleasant evening of banter. I love the time that Florence and I spend together.