The 4:47

THE 4:47

“Doctor, it’s after for o’clock. We will have to leave very soon if we are going to catch the 4:47 out of Flatbush.”  Doctor Bodkin’s coachman, John Alpers, made sure his voice carried to the top of the stairs. You heard him, and his tone told you and Lawrence to hurry up and get into the carriage. Now.

“Lawrence! Father Kevin!” the doctor called out a repeat of Alpers’ message, “John says we need to leave this minute if we are to catch the train.”

“I'm ready, Dominic,” you shouted back from the top of the steps with your small overnight suitcase in hand. “Come along, Lawrence. It sounds like they’re serious.” 

You were looking forward to this trip and didn’t want to miss the train. Lawrence and Maggie had taken you into Manhattan several times and down to the Jersey shore—all the way to Cape May—but this would be the first trip out onto Long Island. The last hurrah of your trip to America. You were sailing back to Ireland next week.

Maggie was pushing Lawrence out of the bedroom door. “Now, Lawrence, please be careful you don't have too many drinks on the train before you eat dinner. Lord knows how badly you behave sometimes when the gin gets to your brain before the food gets to your stomach. Don't embarrass your brother, for God’s sake! Remember—you’re asking him to buy this property.” 

The doctor, polite as always, held the door for you, as his brother—the real estate investor—rushed out of the brownstone and into Alpers' waiting carriage.

You took a seat and shook your head. Lunacy! How can three grown men have so much trouble leaving on an overnight trip? It can’t be this chaotic when Dominic is helping a woman to deliver triplets.

“I told Lynch and Hamilton we would meet them in the parlor car,” Lawrence rambled to neither you in particular. “Hamilton will be there, no doubt, but Lynch is a different story. He's a little scatterbrained.” Alpers raced the carriage along Atlantic Avenue. “I can’t wait to show you this beachfront property,” the prosperous real estate man said over the clatter the carriage made on the cobblestones. 

At 4:37 you followed the Bodkins through the Flatbush Avenue Station. You noticed the stoop of Lawrence’s back and the uneven speed of Dominic’s usually measured gait, recognizing that your own ungainly limp completed the picture of three old men in a hurry. “Plenty of time to spare,” Lawrence chided his brother. “Is it time for a cocktail, Father Kevin?” Lawrence understood your taste for fine wine went well beyond the red, altar variety. He winked in your direction and you cleared your throat, while you adjusted the stiff Roman collar which seemed to be choking you at the moment.

To nobody's real surprise, Lynch and Hamilton were already sitting comfortably at a table in the parlor car and the porter was serving them two scotches.

“Hello, Lawrence! Dominic!” Lynch greeted the Bodkins. 

Dominic had previously introduced you to Lawrence's banker, Jack Hamilton, during a fundraising event at church. You remembered Hamilton’s New York accent when he said, “Hello again, Fathah Kevin.” Lawrence introduced you to his attorney, Tom Lynch.

“Hello again, Mr. Bodkin. Welcome back,” the Italian porter said to Lawrence. “Martini, sir?” 

The sun had already set as the train passed the Richmond Hill station, and you turned your attention from the darkness outside the train's windows to the meal that had been placed before you—and then to the men with whom you were traveling. Their conversation rambled from politics and the economy to baseball. The breadth of knowledge all of the men showed on these topics was impressive. Your four companions varied greatly in age and education. The Bodkin brothers were in their sixties. Jack Hamilton was the youngest at forty, and Lynch the oldest, nearly seventy. Educationally, only Lawrence did not have a degree to compare to you, the doctor, the lawyer, and the banker.

As a seventy-three-year-old Irish priest, you knew nothing about baseball or local politics, but you had learned during your visit to America that immigration from Europe, and American ingenuity, had the economy booming in 1894 along the eastern coast of the United States. As the train traveled further on Long Island, each round of cocktails made the conversation more difficult. Faces became blurred, words jumbled. Your eyes closed momentarily, but you jerked awake when the locomotive's huge iron wheels screeched to a halt at the Patchogue train station.

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It was well after ten o'clock when the carriage brought you and your group to the circular drive at the front of Hamann's Sandspit Inn, and as you peered into the darkness, you could see the lodging was right on the water. The sulphury smell of the saltwater bay engendered a longing to return to Galway that tugged at your heart. Two months in Brooklyn had been enough.

Lynch had reserved all five bedrooms in the small hotel and the innkeeper, Missus Hamann was relieved when her boarders finally arrived. The attractive proprietor greeted each of the men in turn, and said, “Good evening, Father,” with a bow of her head, “and welcome to Patchogue. The bedrooms are all on the second floor, gentlemen, and you'll find the bath at the end of the hall. I'll have breakfast ready at seven o'clock.”

At the top of the stairs, Lynch assigned rooms to everyone.

Your room had a window that faced Great South Bay. The light from the moon reflected off the bay's small waves as you looked across the inn's yard, and the beachgrass that lined a path through a short dune. You absorbed the beauty of the scene and knew then that the wealthy Bodkin brothers would buy some of this beachfront property. You only wondered—how much would they buy?

In the morning, Missus Hamann served a hearty breakfast in the dining room which had the same view of the bay as your room. It was a bright February morning, and the sun made the water sparkle. At breakfast, Lynch, who had arranged the trip to Patchogue for the benefit of Bodkins and their banker, explained the plan for the day was to take a walking tour of the waterfront property, a carriage ride from the inn through the village of Patchogue, and finally back to the railroad station.

The morning was unseasonably warm, and your unbuttoned overcoat flapped in the breeze as you set out for the short walk from the inn toward Maiden Lane. The side roads in Patchogue were little more than dirt paths, and Maiden Lane was simply two wagon tracks that were about seventy-five yards parallel to the bay. Lynch and Dominic walked together as they led the others. Their words carried back to you.

Lynch was surprised when Dominic asked, “Don't the Younglings live somewhere on Maiden Lane?”

“They do, Dominic. It's the house on the left. Do you know the Younglings?”

“I've known them for years—from work, you know. George Youngling is a doctor in Manhattan. The Caranicus family lives on this lane too, don't they, Tom?”

“Here on the right, Dominic. You know them also?”

“More work, Tom. They don't live too far away from my office.” Dominic had delivered the Caranicus' four babies. Dominic effectively knew everyone in Brooklyn, and everyone knew “the Doctor.” The more time you spent with your old friend, Dominic, the more amazed you were that he seemed to have delivered every child born in Brooklyn since he left Ireland.

Maiden Lane reminded you of the boreen that ran in front of your rectory in Galway. The only thing missing was the stone walls that spider-webbed across the rolling meadows throughout County Galway.

After walking about fifty yards along Maiden, you came to the prime property Lynch wanted to show the brothers. Another client of his owned about a mile of Patchogue’s beachfront and the attorney hoped to facilitate its sale. The empty waterfront lot was on the right, and it extended the short distance from Maiden Lane down to the water’s edge. Perpendicular to the property, from the left, was a narrow walking trail called Furman’s Path. It was only about fifteen feet wide, and Lynch said most of it was for sale except for a couple of houses which were several hundred yards down toward the end of the path.

Lynch led the way. He made a right off Maiden, into the brush and sand that was the waterfront property. You trudged through the sand, and after only a couple of minutes, you were at the water's edge. Looking east, you could see a large hotel less than a quarter of a mile away.  Lynch, a good salesman, pointed to the building and explained to the Bodkins that it was called the Clifton House. “A fine resort, and a sign of the desirability of the Patchogue waterfront.” You continued walking along the water in the direction of the Clifton House and eventually made your way back onto Maiden Lane before backtracking to the inn.

Mrs. Hamann had more coffee ready and you sat back down in the breakfast room to enjoy the view.

“I'm sold, Tom,” Dominic said. “How much should we buy, Lawrence?”

“At least the waterfront lot, Dominic, and we should get as much of the available property as we can from Maiden up along Furman. In years to come, we’ll all enjoy our summers here.” Lawrence spoke with the confidence of a deal maker, and he knew his brother would accept his plan.

You gazed out across the bay and thought of your simple life in Ireland.

      “I agree, Lawrence. Jack and Tom can work out the details. Let's get our bags, see the town, and catch an early train. I have patients to see.”