The Perfect Alibi

To be opened only after my death--I'm now dead.

Last night -- between the hours of 10 and midnight -- your hired executioners shaved my head and strapped me into the electric chair. Man-made lightning boiled my blood and scorched my flesh.

This morning, spreading marmalade on your toast, you read all about it. The newspapers undoubtedly referred to me as "the mistress murderer." Headline writers, well known for their propensity toward alliteration. quite possibly led off with "Sex Slayer Sizzles."

Poetic perhaps. But by no means accurate. True, my corporal liquids may have sizzled somewhat, I take issue only with the preliminary terminology. I am not a mistress murderer. Nor am I a sex slayer.

It is not my intention to bore you with further protestations of innocence. My sole concern is for your safety. Arlene's murderer walks freely among you at this very moment. This I shall prove -- how does it go again? -- beyond all reasonable doubt.

I have an alibi. It is airtight, foolproof. Literally, a perfect alibi.

I could not. for reasons soon to be disclosed, introduce this evidence during the trial. At that time I simply stated I was with my wife the night of the murder. My wife -- as you remember -- disappeared, which was, rather obviously. interpreted as evidence of her reluctance to testify on my behalf. My very able defense attorneys pleaded with her through full-page newspaper advertisements, to no avail, and no sob-sister -- or hardened court reporter -- could blame the wronged woman for failing to come forward.

The prosecution established passion as the motive for murder. My middle-aged passions -- as transitory and ineffectual as summer lightning -- were never aimed at destroying Arlene. At times. as Arlene's neighbors testified, I may have raised my voice to her. But a temporary hate will never overrule love. Disinterest, not hate, is the opposite of love.

All such passions had long since disappeared from my legal marriage. I had watched my wife pluck whiskers from her chin with absolute disinterest. Her ever-sturdier undergarments -- etching deeper and deeper into that abundance of flesh -- left me totally unmoved.

It no longer matters how she learned of Arlene's existence. The fact remains, she did learn. I almost welcomed her initial reactions -- explosive threats of lawsuits, the ultimate ultimatums of a Wronged Woman. In truth, it was no more than a momentary diversion in the endless boredom of our uneasy coexistence. A match flaring up in a darkened room, a gunshot ringing out during the third act of a tedious play.

The prosecution inevitably referred to Arlene as my "mistress." This word I would quarrel with. True. I did upon occasion bring her small offerings -- a vial of inexpensive perfume, a movie magazine, a bouquet of zinnias from my wife's garden. But "mistress" -- that's a businessman's term. It implies goods sold and purchased. When a young man receives the first favors of his beloved, who among you would be callous enough to label her "whore"?

Perhaps you still doubt the validity of our love. Arlene, as the newspapers pointed out on a daily basis, was young enough to be my daughter. But love recognizes no disparity in ages. It considers neither past nor future. Our love required no diamond rings, no patterned silverware, no 30-year mortgages.

We paid the rent when it fell due. We sat on uncarpeted flooring and fed each other with our fingers. Arlene's only jewelry was a thin turquoise ribbon knotted at her throat.

Consider, if you will, what this meant to me. I, like you. had counted off my days and years on punched-out commutation tickets. One-putting the 18th at Piping Rock, completing the Sunday Times crossword puzzle -- these were the only mountains I dared ascend.

No, I am not Casanova. But neither am I a sex slayer. My unmuscled stomach sags over my belt. My gray hair parts to make way for baldness. In the very act of love I picture myself as breathing a trifle too obviously, coated with unseemly perspiration, awkward, even ludicrous. A comic figure, an old man jousting with youthful windmills. Heroic in the eyes of only one. Romeo to a Dresden doll who stood brave -- but naked -- before my wife's sinister threats. To Arlene's everlasting credit let it be recorded that the cud of her life came before the end of her love.

But I digress. Lack of motivation does not enter into my perfect alibi. The night of the murder I was with my wife at our summer cottage. You will find her there, buried several feet to the left of the azalea bushes. At the time of Arlene's slaying, I was somewhat similarly occupied -- with my wife.