Billy Conlon's Wake

On a hot August morning, in a roadside motel in Wildwood, New Jersey, Billy Conlon laid out his wardrobe for the day: a silver-blue wig, a prosthetic brassiere, a black fascinator with face netting, a KN95 mask, a long-sleeved, knee-length black dress, black gloves, black tights, a pair of black pumps, and a cane.

Two newsprint items, both of which he had recently clipped from the Cape May County Herald, lay nearby on the table: a two-column article from two weeks prior bore the headline “In the Case of Missing Hammonton Man, Boat Found Adrift – Ruled Apparent Suicide”, and an obituary notice from a few days later, reading, “William Shea Conlon, 61. Hammonton, New Jersey. Born: March 19, 1963, Died: August 12, 2024. Mr. Conlon died suddenly and unexpectedly at the age of 61. He is survived by a son, Jeffrey Conlon, 39, a daughter, Chloe Conlon-Kerr, 36, two grandchildren, and a former spouse, Margaret Gatto, 59 of Hammonton. Additional details included Billy’s professional life and personal interests. The date, time, and place of the visiting hours and memorial service closed out the item.

Billy got dressed, first squirming into the bra, and thinking, “Damn! I wish these things were as easy to get into as they are to take off!” He finished putting on the rest of his disguise with some difficulty, topping it off with the wig, the mask, and the hat, then took a good look at himself in the mirror. He practiced his tottering old lady stoop, and thought, “Yeah. That should do it.” Then he picked up his burner phone and called a cab.

~ ~ ~

St. Paul’s RC church was nearly filled to capacity for the memorial service. The crowd murmured softly as the last guests filtered in and the appointed hour drew near. In the front of the sanctuary was a table draped with a white linen cloth. It held a large, framed portrait of Billy Conlon and a crystal vase of fresh white roses. Long white candles in silver stands adorned each end of the table. A raised pulpit stood to the left of the altar. A somber hymn oozed from the organ to the right of the stage.

At three o’clock, the organ stopped playing, and a priest stepped up to the podium. He conveyed the traditional greetings, offered prayers and a scripture reading, then introduced a friend of the deceased who had been asked to deliver the eulogy. Dressed in a pair of khaki slacks, a dress shirt, and a sporty black blazer, a tall, silver-haired man made his way to the front. He paused briefly at the end of the immediate family pew, putting a comforting hand on the shoulder of William’s son, Jeffrey, and winking at Chloe, then continued on to the pulpit.

“Good afternoon everyone. I’m Patrick McCarty. Billy and I have been friends since the nuns at St. Francis taught us to sit up straight, fold our hands, and speak only when spoken to. So – yeah. Since dinosaurs walked the earth.” A muted chuckle rippled through the crowd.

At that moment, the door at the rear of the sanctuary opened quietly. An old woman dressed in full funeral black toddled in and took a seat in the back row. Pat noticed her, wondering who she was for a moment, then continued.

“Billy Conlon was… wow. Maybe I should start with what he wasn’t. Billy wasn’t predictable or boring. If you were looking for predictable, you needed to look somewhere else. You always had to expect the unexpected from Billy. He was a really smart guy. He could talk about world history one minute and recite an X-rated limerick the next. He was fiercely loyal but expected the same loyalty in return. When he was with you, he wasn’t doing anything else. He listened twice as much as he talked, and when he did talk, you could count on hearing something surprising and interesting.

“Now, if I were to stand here and keep heaping praise on Billy without pointing out the fact that he wasn’t a perfect person, I’d only be telling part of the story. I’ll even say that if he could hear me now, Billy’d be saying, ‘Come on, Pat. Get on with the rest of it!’” Another soft ripple of laughter went through the crowd.

“Billy could, at times, be impulsive. For example, when he decided he wanted a boat, something he had never owned in his life, by the way, he didn’t just go down to the local marina looking for a used dinghy for sale cheap. He bought himself a 35-foot yacht that cost him nearly half the value of his home. He could be impatient. If he was confident that he knew the best way to do something – whether it was cleaning a fish or plumbing a bathroom – if you weren’t doing it his way, you’d better be able to convince him that your way was better. Otherwise, he would take over and finish the job himself. With a smile on his face! Billy was the consummate cutup and prankster, always good for a laugh. He loved playing tricks on people. His pranks were always meant in fun, but you absolutely had to have a ready sense of humor around him.

In the end, above all else, Billy Conlon was full of life. He was always painfully aware that we only get one shot at this, and in his mind, the greatest sin imaginable would be to waste that shot by not living life to the fullest. Now, given the very public details of how his life ended, you might be thinking, ‘But how does that square with the way he died?’ Well, what some of you may not know is that Billy was battling stage four esophageal cancer. When it eventually spread into other parts of his body, he stayed with the treatments as long as he felt there was any chance that they may save his life. But in the end, all the chemo and radiation and surgeries hadn’t made things any better. So, he decided he would live out whatever time he had remaining on his own terms, until the quality of his life ran out. Recently he began to feel that he had reached the point where there was nothing ahead for him but pain, suffering, and a miserable death, and he took matters into his own hands. If you feel justified in judging him for that, so be it. But I never will.”

Patrick paused for a moment. His eyes swelled with tears and his chin quivered. He gripped the sides of the podium with both hands to steady himself. He glanced over at the portrait of Billy on the altar for a long moment, then cleared his throat and went on.

“Billy Conlon is someone I will always remember with love and gratitude. In our over fifty years of friendship, he brought me laughter, joy, support, and yes – sometimes a little frustration, too. Billy was a compassionate, powerful, funny, unforgettable guy. I, for one, will forever be grateful that I knew him as my friend, and I will miss Billy Conlon for as long as I live.”

Patrick then left the pulpit and returned to his seat. The priest said a final prayer and benediction. He also announced that the family wished to invite everyone to join them at the local Hibernian Association Hall for beverages and a buffet immediately following the service.

When the priest stepped down, the organist began playing a slightly more upbeat hymn, prompting the gathered family and friends to stand. Pat rose and turned, looking over the crowd as they began moving toward the back. He noticed that the lady in black rose immediately, quickly hobbled toward the doors, and was the first to exit.

Something about the woman piqued Pat's curiosity. Who was she, and why did she seem in such a hurry? Pat jostled his way quickly toward the doors and followed the old woman outside. She continued walking down the sidewalk, away from the exiting crowd. She kept her back turned and pulled a flip phone out of her purse.

It was then Pat began to get an eerily familiar feeling about her. Apparently unaware of his approach, she began speaking in a voice that sounded wrong, but quite familiar to him, nonetheless. “Yellow Cab? Yes, I’m at St. Paul’s church…”. Incredulously, Pat looked her up and down and noticed that showing through the back of her sheer black stockings were two distinctive tattoos. On her left calf was a large trinity knot, and on the right, a Celtic dragon design. Pat knew those tattoos very well. “Five minutes? Great.”

“Billy?” Pat said, gobsmacked.

The old woman, who was of course Billy Conlon, reflexively turned at the sound of his friend saying his name. And he realized immediately that his cover was blown.

“Ah. Damn it, Pat! You got me.”

“Jesus Billy, what in the actual fuck is going on?”

“Well, since I’m one foot in the grave, I figured I’d get one last good prank in on my way out.” He glanced nervously over Pat’s shoulder at the outflow from the church. “You know – kind of a Huck Finn thing. I just wanted to have some fun with it.”

“FUN? Really, Billy? Your kids, grandkids, and friends are devastated. I just gave a eulogy for my best friend."

"Oh, and a fine one it was, Pat! Thank you for that."

"And here you are, all dressed up for Halloween. Not cool, man!”

“Hey - you said it yourself,” Billy said, spreading his arms wide, “A prankster to the end. But, I look great, don’t I? What gave me away?”

“Billy! Jesus. It was the tattoos. I could see them through your stockings."

"Damn it. I knew I should have bought the opaques."

"I don’t know if I want to hug you or punch you in the nose right now.”

The crowd behind them was growing larger as people continued exiting the church. Some stood outside catching up, while others headed to their cars. Billy was looking increasingly anxious, until a Yellow Cab pulled up.

“Okay, well – there’s my ride,” he said cheerfully, hobbling toward the cab. “I’ll see you over at the Hall.” Pat stepped up alongside him and gently grabbed him by the elbow with one hand, motioning to the driver with the other. The front passenger window came down and the driver leaned in.

“Hibernian Hall?” he asked.

“Yeah – no. Sorry for the false alarm. I’ll be taking Grandma in my car.”

“It’s fifteen bucks for cancelling the fare.”

“Ah. Okay, keep the change,” Pat said, handing the driver a twenty.

The cab pulled away, and Pat helped old lady Billy into his car. “You’re riding with me. You’ve got some explaining to do.”

Pat started the car and said, “So start talking,” as he pulled away.

“You seem really pissed, Pat. But what's the big deal? I really will be dead in a month or two anyway. For now, I just thought I deserved to have a little fun with it.”

“Yeah, yeah. I get it. Classic Billy. Pulling a Huck Finn on everyone as a last laugh.”

“Exactly. But, you know, I thought – how many people get the chance to know what people will say about them after they’re dead? Right?”

“True enough.” Pat shook his head and looked straight ahead, feeling angry and annoyed for a few minutes. But then he looked over at Billy in his disguise, and he couldn’t stop himself from laughing. “So, how’d you do it? Tell me.”

Billy explained that when he realized he was living on borrowed time, he decided he’d go out on his own terms. He drove his yacht out about 90 miles off the New Jersey coast, where the water is over a mile deep. He turned off the engine and let the boat drift. Then he staged his suicide by leaving his cell phone, his wallet, and all of his clothes on deck, cutting the anchor line, and throwing the anchor into the sea to make it appear he had tied it around his feet and been pulled to the depths behind it.

“I left a suicide note explaining my reasons, you know, and a few specifics about my will and my final wishes. I begged my family for forgiveness, but asked them to understand and respect my choices, under the circumstances.”

“But how did you actually get back on land?”

“Oh, that - right. Well, I made a deal with this fishing junket captain I know. I paid him $5,000 cash to come out and pick me up. Promised him another $5,000 if he kept it all quiet - at least until after I’m really dead.”

“But how are you going to get along? I mean until – well, you know. What are you going to do until then?”

“Oh, I’m going to die in Vegas, pal o' mine! I already decided. I’ve got a duffel bag full of cash in a storage locker in Atlantic City. You know – “set asides” from all the cash jobs I did the last forty years. I always offered my customers a ten percent discount for cash payment. I’d under report all that work and stash the difference. It’s somewhere around three hundred thousand, I think.

“I bought myself a little RV, and I’m going to take the literal road trip of my life out there. Gamble and drink and have a blast for a while, then when I’m just too sick to keep having fun...” He raised his eyebrows, mimed a gunshot to the temple, and shrugged. “I mean – maybe. I picked up a little Glock 9 and a box of shells. Got a big bottle of Vicodin, too. Maybe mix and match. We’ll see. Plenty of time to decide.”

“Jesus.” Pat sat thoughtfully for a moment. “So you’re sure about attending this wake?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world. I’m going to mingle around and see what people really think of Billy Conlon. Genius, huh? Even been working on a voice. Get this.” Billy cleared his throat and hunched over a little, then in a scratchy, relatively believable alto said, “Oh, no. I didn’t know him personally. My dear late husband, Reginald, did himself in years ago. I’ve had a special place in my heart for tortured souls ever since.”

Patrick chuckled. “That’s not bad. Really, pretty good!”

~ ~ ~

Billy enjoyed his experience at the Hibernian Hall. He had fun, shuffling around the room in between chatting couples and groups, nursing his one whiskey and listening in on conversations. The disguise worked to perfection. No one even suspected that he was anyone other than a tottering old woman with a soft spot for suicides. He didn’t hear anything that particularly shocked or upset him. He felt gratified to learn that he actually had a good sense of who the people in his life were, and how they really felt about him.

His kids were, of course, quite saddened, but not entirely surprised. They both mentioned that they were happy that at least his suffering was at an end. He felt a small pang of guilt to imagine how they might be affected when news of his actual death arrived sometime in the coming months. But he hoped after an initial period of shock and hurt feelings, they would put it down to their father just being true to who he was, and ultimately be okay with it. He made a mental note to send them each a letter asking for their forgiveness the day before he put an end to himself. He hoped that the nearly half a million dollars they each stood to inherit in his will might take some of the sting out of his little prank as well. He trusted that in time, their anger would fade, and they would be able to focus on their memories of all the good times they had enjoyed together.

By seven o’clock, Billy was exhausted – maybe as tired as an 80-something year old lady might feel if she had actually been there. He caught Pat’s eye, flashed him a little sign from across the room, and headed for the exit. He waited outside in the parking lot for a few minutes until Pat joined him. There was no one else around.

“Had enough, old lady?” Pat asked, with a wry grin.

“Yeah. I’ve gotta get out of this bra and lie down.”

They both laughed. “Can I give you a lift to wherever you’re staying?”

“Don’t tell me you’re leaving already.”

“Hey – I’m an old man now, too Billy. I’m good. Let’s go.”

They climbed into Pat’s car and belted up. “Where are we headed?”

“The Stardust in Wildwood.”

The two old friends rode in uncharacteristic silence on the way there. About an hour later, anyone passing the Stardust Motel might have seen an old man and an older woman sharing a good-bye hug in the parking lot next to a gently used RV with a homemade sign on the back: “Vegas or Bust!!”