bother you—you needn’t be afraid. Then, when you get fixed up, maybe you could get something.”
He looked at her pretty face and it vivified his mental resources. She was a sweet little mortal to him—there was no doubt of that. She seemed to have some power back of her actions. She was not like the common run of store-girls. She wasn’t silly. I’d like to see him put her in a room full of jackets and re-think this.
In reality, Carrie had more imagination than he—more taste. It was a finer mental strain in her that made possible her depression and loneliness. Her poor clothes were neat, and she held her head unconsciously in a dainty way.
“Do you think I could get something?” she asked.
“Sure,” he said, reaching over and filling her cup with tea. “I’ll help you.” This would be the part in the Lifetime Original Movie where they fade to black and Sister Carrie would regain consciousness, only to find her poor ass in a room full of severed doll heads.
She looked at him, and he laughed reassuringly.
“Now I’ll tell you what we’ll do. We’ll go over here to Partridge’s and you pick out what you want. Then we’ll look around for a room for you. You can leave the things there. Then we’ll go to the show tonight.”
Carrie shook her head.
“Well, you can go out to the flat then, that’s all right. You don’t need to stay in the room. Just take it and leave your things there.”
She hung in doubt about this until the dinner was over.
“Let’s go over and look at the jackets,” he said.
Together they went. In the store they found that shine and rustle of new things which immediately laid hold of Carrie’s heart. Under the influence of a good dinner and Drouet’s radiating presence, the scheme proposed seemed feasible. Fucking called it. Feed a girl and she’ll be writhing helpless in his arms. Fuck money, get gravy. She looked about and picked a jacket like the one which she had admired at The Fair. When she got it in her hand it seemed so much nicer. The saleswoman helped her on with it, and, by accident, it fitted perfectly. Drouet’s face lightened as he saw the improvement. She looked quite smart.
“That’s the thing,” he said.
Carrie turned before the glass. She could not help feeling pleased as she looked at herself. A warm glow crept into her cheeks.
“That’s the thing,” said Drouet. “Now pay for it.”
“It’s nine dollars,” said Carrie.
“That’s all right—take it,” said Drouet.
She reached in her purse and took out one of the bills. The woman asked if she would wear the coat and went off. In a few minutes she was back and the purchase was closed.
From Partridge’s they went to a shoe store, where Carrie was fitted for shoes. Drouet stood by, and when he saw how nice they looked, said, “Wear them.” Carrie shook her head, however. She was thinking of returning to the flat. He bought her a purse for one thing, and a pair of gloves for another, and let her buy the stockings.
“Tomorrow,” he said, “you come down here and buy yourself a skirt.” It’s happening: the makeover montage. Dreiser unwittingly wrote a rom com, but minus the romance and minus any intended comedy. Now cue the Chaka Khan.
In all of Carrie’s actions there was a touch of misgiving. The deeper she sank into the entanglement, the more she imagined that the thing hung upon the few remaining things she had not done. Since she had not done these, there was a way out.
Drouet knew a place in Wabash Avenue where there were rooms. He showed Carrie the outside of these, and said: “Now, you’re my sister.” A+ pick-up line. Now pull her hair and buy her tampons, then she’ll really know you’ve got the hots for her. He carried the arrangement off with an easy hand when it came to the selection, looking around, criticizing, opining. “Her trunk will be here in a day or so,” he observed to the landlady, who was very pleased.
When they were alone, Drouet did not change in the least. He talked in the same general way as if they were out in the street. Carrie left her things.
“Now,” said Drouet, “why don’t you move tonight?”
“Oh, I can’t,” said Carrie.
“Why not?”
“I don’t want to leave them so.”
He took that up as they walked along the avenue. It was a warm afternoon. The sun had come out and the wind had died down. As he talked with Carrie, he secured an accurate detail of the atmosphere of the flat.
“Come out of it,” he said, “they won’t care. I’ll help you get along.”
She listened until her misgivings vanished. Pretty sure by now, Sister Carrie could be talked into anything. He would show her about a little and then help her get something. He really imagined that he would. He would be out on the road and she could be working.
“Now, I’ll tell you what you do,” he said, “you go out there and get whatever you want and come away.”
She thought a long time about this. Finally she agreed. He would come out as far as Peoria Street and wait for her. She was to meet him at half-past eight. At half-past five she reached home, and at six her determination was hardened.
“So you didn’t get it?” said Minnie, referring to Carrie’s story of the Boston Store.
Carrie looked at her out of the corner of her eye. “No,” she answered.
“I don’t think you’d better try any more this fall,” said Minnie.
Carrie said nothing.
When Hanson came home he wore the same inscrutable demeanor. He washed in silence and went off to read his paper. At dinner Carrie felt a little nervous. The strain of her own plans were considerable, and the feeling that she was not welcome here was strong.
“Didn’t find anything, eh?” said Hanson.
“No.”
He turned to his eating again, the thought that it was a burden to have her here dwelling in his mind. She would have to go home, that was all. Once she was away, there would be no more coming back in the spring.
Carrie was afraid of what she was going to do, but she was relieved to know that this condition was ending. They would not care. Hanson particularly would be glad when she went. He would not care what became of her. Who can blame him? He probably has Norse blood in him. You know what they did with weak links? Skinned them alive and offered them to Odin as a sacrifice. So really, he’s letting her off easy.
After dinner she went into the bathroom, where they could not disturb her, and wrote a little note.
“Good-bye, Minnie,” it read. “I’m not going home. I’m going to stay in Chicago a little while and look for work. Don’t worry. I’ll be all right.” Sister Carrie is finally learning to be crafty when it comes to the truth. I love seeing a good corruption, especially
