Her name was Georgie. Hers was the rather clichéd story of an only child, abused by an alcoholic father who, in a drunken fit of rage, often mistook her for her long-gone mother. Georgie’s mother left them, or rather ran away from them (so it seemed), on Georgie’s 9th birthday.
Georgie lived in a dustbowl of a town somewhere in the South, where train tracks were the horizon and bitter men the view. The mothers’ prayer group met every day at 2pm sharp without fail. The gossip was always followed by a rather loud, robust prayer asking God to heal the drunkards and remove the one or two “liberals”.
Georgie had one friend and one friend only – Benjy. Benjy and Georgie, it sounded like the title of a rather grand book perhaps, but in this story, it was the title of inseparable, free-thinking best friends, inseparable since their mothers had both left them.