The Whole Wide World Page #7

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for a spitfire like you?

I'm sure they've seen

their share of spitfires.

I don't know about that.

Texas spitfires

and Louisiana spitfires

are two entirely

different breeds.

Hm.

Come on. Get in.

I'll take you for a drive.

Suppose you were

a lonely, beautiful girl

who came out here

to take in the sunset.

While you were watching it...

a handsome Indian brave

stepped out of them trees there.

Now, what you do about it

would be the yarn

that you'd write.

See, I can imagine

the sunset,

and I can see

the Indian brave,

but that's as far as I go.

That's where

the story ends.

Why stop when it just

gets interesting?

Because.

The next thing you know,

I'd be telling him to

wash off the war paint

and get a good suit

of clothes

and accompany me

to Sunday School.

Something tells me he just

wouldn't want to do that.

When I saw that house,

I thought about the yarns

that you write.

Your dream.

The dream that brought you

over to my house that day.

Bob?

Thanks for bringing me out here.

And thanks for telling me

what's wrong with my stories.

I mean that.

Well, you're welcome.

It's only my opinion.

You don't have to listen to it

if you don't want to.

I'd be a fool not to listen

to the greatest pulp writer

in the whole wide world,

Robert E. Howard.

Well, that you would, by God.

That you would.

Uh-huh.

Let's ride.

Now, you be sure to write.

You know my address.

Old lock-box 313.

I'll write as soon

as I get settled.

Well, don't you get

into any trouble

with those wild ideas

of yours.

You run into any of that voodoo,

you make sure

you find a Catholic,

hold up a cross,

say a prayer for you.

Okay. I will.

Hey, girl.

Take a look at that sunset

I ordered for you.

I sure do appreciate it.

DR. HOWARD:
That morning,

the attending physician,

Dr. Dill, had told us

that Mrs. Howard

would never recover.

Robert looked at me,

and he went to his room

and began to type.

A minute later,

our cleaning lady saw him

walk through the back door

to his car.

She said he raised his arms

and began praying,

then she heard a shot

and saw him slumped

over the steering wheel.

I carried my boy

back into the house.

He lived for eight hours.

His mother passed away

the next day.

Thank you

for the time you gave my son,

Miss Price.

I know how much

he cared for you.

DRIVER:
Five-minute stop, folks.

You've been doing

a lot of crying.

Who you crying for?

A friend.

Gone, is he?

Passed on?

Yes.

He took his own life.

That's tough.

He was a writer.

He made his living

writing stories.

Could spin a yarn,

could he?

That's what

he called them.

What's your name,

dear?

Novalyne Price.

Let me ask you

something, Novalyne.

Are you glad

you had the chance

to know him?

And even though

you won't see him

for a while,

is he still your friend?

Yeah.

Yeah, he sure is.

Novalyne, look.

It's going to be

a beautiful sunrise.

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