A Laurel Note: The Burglar

When Owen was a mere lad of 5 or 6 perhaps, I, always being the first to rise, entered the kitchen one morning to find the tea kettle on the stove over a low flame that had clearly been on since some time the day before. Tho outwardly the kettle appeared unchanged, it was burnt to peeling cinders on the inside. Magically, the thing hadn’t erupted into flame during the night, setting the apartment ablaze. I couldn’t remember, for the life of me, having put the kettle on for any reason the day before. Afternoon tea was not a thing with me. And our nanny, who came in the afternoons swore that it hadn’t been her. Ed and I were discussing this mystery in front of the children, and Owen suggested that a burglar might have been the culprit.

“Owen,” I asked, “how many times has a burglar broken into an apartment, turned the flame on under the tea kettle, and left without stealing a single thing?” And he looked at us with those big, celadon eyes and said, “Once?”