Daisy spent the rest of the afternoon doing research into the issue of vaccine availability in a small corner of sub-Saharan Africa, quickly becoming engrossed in the plight of people who were dying of preventable diseases. When the receptionist finally buzzed Daisy’s office to ask if Daisy wanted the front door locked for the evening, Daisy was surprised by how much time had passed. She gathered her belongings and went home.
Her phone rang while she was walking up the stairs to her apartment. She didn’t recognize the caller ID, but answered the phone call in a tired voice, preparing to tell the telemarketer on the other end that she wasn’t interested in buying solar panels or a new cable system or car insurance.
“This is Mary Browning,” said a voice on the other end. Daisy snapped to attention.
“Oh, Ms. Browning, thank you for calling me back,” she said, struggling to juggle the phone and her tote bag while she unlocked her door. “I don’t know if the university librarian told you very much, but I’m interested in learning more about a certain dime novel author, a Harold Henderson.”
“Yes, she told me that you wanted information about that particular author. It’s interesting that you should ask about Harold Henderson, because that is one of the authors in whom I took a special interest.”
“May I ask why?”
“Certainly. Harold Henderson was actually a woman.” Daisy wrinkled her forehead. “It was common for women during that time to write stories that were included in dime novels, but for some reason Harold Henderson did not wish her identity to be known.”
“Do you know the real identity of Harold Henderson?” Daisy asked. She realized she had been holding her breath while Mary spoke.
“I do. I went searching through my notes after the librarian called from the university and found Henderson’s name. Or at least as much of it as I could find.”
“What was it?”
Daisy could hear Mary leafing through papers during the pause that followed. “Harold Henderson’s real name was A.S. Hightower.”
“And A.S. Hightower, you’re sure, was a woman?”
“Yes.”
“How did you know that?”
“I found the information in old records belonging to the publishing company that released Henderson’s work.”
“What else did the old records contain?”
“They noted that Henderson was a nom de plume, so there was an instruction that the royalties for Harold Henderson were to be sent to A.S. Hightower in New York City.”
“And what made you so interested in Henderson’s work, say, as opposed to any of the other dime novel authors?”
“It wasn’t just Henderson that I was interested in, but she was definitely one of my favorites. Her work seemed different from many of the other dime novels. It had an edge, a realism, to it that wasn’t present in many of the more romanticized tales.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” Daisy said. “I often wondered if Henderson/Hightower was telling a personal tale.”
“Then you see exactly what I mean,” Mary replied. “I was interested in her work because there was more to it than just an amusing story.”
Daisy and Mary chatted for a few more minutes, then Daisy hung up. She was excited to get back to the library to see what she could find about Harold Henderson, aka A.S. Hightower.
She was at the doors of the Library of Congress when they opened again the next morning. She headed straight toward the Main Reading Room, where she began her search in the extensive genealogy files. She went first to the birth records from New York State and searched across many years for A.S. Hightower. When that line of inquiry met with a dead end, she turned to birth records from the Nebraska Territory and searched those same years. Again, she didn’t locate her quarry.
Daisy sat in the Main Reading Room, lost in thought. There were two problems with her searches: first, she didn’t know the year of A.S. Hightower’s birth, so she didn’t know how far back to search in the birth records. It seemed reasonable to assume from the author’s success that A.S. Hightower was an older adult, though probably not an elderly one, so that narrowed the search to, perhaps, a period of thirty to sixty years before the publication of the dime novel. But maybe Daisy would have to expand the date parameters. And second, she didn’t know if A.S. Hightower had even been born in New York State. Or Nebraska. All this research could have been a wild goose chase. But Daisy wasn’t ready to give up.
Since she didn’t know A.S. Hightower’s date of birth, she had another option. She could look through marriage records. She decided to start with marriages in New York State that had taken place within the forty years before the publication of the dime novel. She didn’t know if Hightower was a maiden name or a married name, so she wasn’t easily able to narrow her search. The library closed before she could get very far into her search of marriage records, so she vowed to return first thing in the morning.
She took the Metro home, preoccupied with questions about A.S. Hightower and the story she had written. Often Daisy tried to read on the train, but that evening she could only stare out the window, lost in thought. Normally she loved the thrill of looking for obscure information, the feeling of satisfaction when she found it. But this time it was different—this time her search for information about the author of the story in the dime novel had become an obsession.
Luckily she didn’t have to spend too much time alone. She was looking forward to dinner and the movie with Grover. She was brushing her hair when the phone rang.
It was Jude. She was breathless. “You’ll never believe what just happened!”