—About 80 miles from here.
—Get me a car.
—Duke, it’s your day off. You should rest.
—I’m not going to rest. I’m going to see those children.
The assistant gets him a car. Wayne drives himself. Eighty miles on rural Montana roads. Two hours. No entourage, no press, no cameras. Just him in a rental car, following directions to a one-room schoolhouse.
She arrives at 2 p.m. There’s class. She can hear voices inside, children reciting something.
She knocks on the door. The room falls silent. Margaret opens it, sees John Wayne standing there… and drops the book she was holding.
—Sr. Wayne…
—I hope I’m not interrupting.
The 12 students are frozen, staring. Several are speechless. A girl starts to cry. Not from sadness: from being overwhelmed.
Wayne enters. The room is tiny. One large room, 12 desks, a wood-burning stove in the corner, a blackboard, an American flag, and at the back, the projector mounted on a table, with 10 film canisters stacked beside it.
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