Story Frame 11 – Mrs. Doubtfire & the Man with the Key

The split with Steve happened. It wasn’t perfect or simple or easy. Were there difficult and painful times? Yes, of course there were. But there’s no need to rehash or relive them here. Like underwear, you know it’s there, hidden and held close to the body. But do we need to know the details? Probably not.

Despite our differences, as we prepared to go our separate ways Steve and I did agree on one thing: the kids would always come first. This simple mantra kept the untangling of joined lives (mostly) civil. We presented the new arrangement to the kids by telling them that they would now be living in two houses.

“Does that mean two Christmases?” one of them asked immediately.

Sort of, we said.

To distract and ease them through the transition, I rented a copy of Mrs. Doubtfire from Blockbuster. I didn’t have the money to pay for cable television, which was disproportionately expensive back then, but Zoë and Leif could watch films whenever they wanted on our VHS player.

The 1993 film, directed by Chris Columbus and starring Robin Williams and Sally Field, addressed themes of divorce, separation, and their effect of a family. Based on the 1987 novel “Madame Doubtfire” by Anne Fine, the film tells the story of an actor who disguises himself as an elderly female housekeeper in order to spend time with his children who are in his ex-wife’s custody. I’ll admit there may have been a few similarities between Miranda – the hard-working, neatness-obsessed interior designer who considered her husband (much as he was devoted to his kids) a bit immature and unreliable – and me.

At the end of the film, “Mrs. Doubtfire” responds to a letter from a little girl named Katie whose parents have separated, telling her that no matter what arrangements families have, love will prevail.

It was the perfect film at the time. Mesmerized, Zoë and Leif watched it over and over – so many times, in fact, I eventually bought a copy. It still sits in a box of their childhood treasures.

Fortunately, there was no money to pay a lawyer to set up the arrangements, saving us thousands of dollars neither of us had. Having heard horror stories from friends of divorces costing up to six-figures, I checked out a book on separation agreements from the library. Looking through the examples, I cherry-picked what I liked, then wrote up my own agreement. I showed it to Steve who didn’t object. Through a friend of a friend, I was able to find an empathetic female lawyer who notarized and legalized it for a grand total of $500.

Throughout, Steve and I stayed involved with Zoë and Leif’s micro soccer teams as volunteers. Steve coached one of their teams and I refereed their matches. Saturday mornings would find all four of us together out on the soccer fields. Away from our worries and concerns, it was nearly always a relaxing place for us to be together as a family, even one that lived in two separate homes. I remember walking off the soccer pitch with Steve one afternoon, with out tired kids by our sides. A friend came up from behind, slipping in between me and Steve.

“You guys are amazing,” she said, putting an arm around each of us. “Tell me how you do divorce, Heflin-style!”

We hugged her back, catching one another’s surprised eyes over the top of her head. We knew things weren’t perfect, but it was nice others thought so.

When our first post-separation wedding anniversary rolled around, Steve called to ask me what we should do. We’d celebrated that date for ten years and it would seem weird not to. Together we came up with the idea that instead of celebrating us, we would celebrate our favorite result of the marriage – the kids. And so we took them out for dinner at their favorite place to eat. We did that each year, drinking a toast to Zoë and Leif, then sharing a meal together – until Steve’s next wife put an end to it.

As they didn’t have a say in the going of separate ways, we told the kids they would have a room in each place we were renting and asked them how they might like to arrange their time with us.

“I know,” Leif said immediately. “We’ll do every other night at Mom’s house and then, the every other, other nights at Dad’s.” 

For some reason, both adults in this arrangement agreed to this plan.

(Fortunately, the kids would eventually tire of changing houses every other day and proposed changing every other two days instead. But it was still problematic keeping track of which house on which day, so I eventually suggested Mondays and Tuesdays with me and Wednesdays and Thursdays with their dad. On the weekends, Zoë and Leif could decide for themselves where they felt like being. And that arrangement stuck.)

When we parted ways, Steve found a small flat nearby. And I fell madly in love with a charming little house available for rent in an older neighborhood of smaller homes. White with cornflower blue shutters, it was surrounded by large trees and huge azaleas. It even had a tire swing. It had a quirky floor plan, the result of random add-ons over the years. I was pretty sure nobody designed a house this way on purpose, and that appealed to me.

Completely smitten, I began stalking the house, taking every opportunity to detour past it. Fortunately, it was only a ten-minute drive away from the documentary films workspace. The more I drove past it, the more perfect for me and the kids the house became in my imagination. Mentally, I’d moved us in, painted the living room lavender, hung the children’s art, and put pots of brightly blooming flowers out on the front steps.

I made an inquiry to see if I could rent it, but the property manager was difficult and obstructionist. And to be honest, my credit wasn’t in great shape at the time; I wasn’t sure I would even qualify for the reasonable rent they were asking. Documentary filmmaking is rarely a steady or well-paid job and I was still recovering from the financial mess of the marriage years.

After picking up Leif from kindergarten one day, I detoured as usual past the house, driving slowly and gazing at it longingly. There was an old Mercedes parked in the driveway. I pulled over and stopped my car in front of the house across the street.

“Who do you think is here?” I said out loud to Leif, who was sitting next to me in the front seat.

He gave a five-year-old shrug. How would he know?

We waited. I stared at the house anxiously, almost forgetting to breathe, worried someone else had moved in. Leif fidgeted restlessly, looking around for his game player.

Fortunately, it wasn’t long before an elderly man, slight of build with tufts of white hair on his nearly bald pate emerged from the house. He closed the front door behind him, then turned to lock it.

“I think that might be the owner,” I whispered to Leif. “What should I do?!”

“Why don’t you say hello?” he suggested calmly, not taking his eyes off his player.

A brilliant idea in its simplicity. Here was the opportunity to make my case directly to the owner who might, perhaps, hopefully like me enough to put in a good word with the property manager.

I got out of the car, crossed the street and walked up the cracked concrete driveway to introduce myself. I was lucky. The man was indeed the 80-year-old owner of the house, Jules Renaud. His blue eyes peered at me curiously from behind his wire framed glasses. The wisps of untamed white hair on his head puffed about in the breeze.

Friendly and delightful, he immediately put me at ease. He no longer lived here, he explained. He’d met his new wife, Mary Janet, at a yard sale and moved into her house in a much posher neighborhood.

I told him I worked for a documentary filmmaker making films for public television, hoping those two words might somehow establish my credibility and trustworthiness. To my relief, his face lit up.

“Really!” he exclaimed. “Well, I’m an old TV man myself! I worked for the USDA’s radio & television division! And my wife, Mary Janet, is a retired television writer and producer!”

What were the chances?

He beamed at me through his spectacles.

I told him how much I loved the house and hoped his property manager would approve my application to rent it. A moment passed in silence during which I hoped I hadn’t overstepped myself. And then, a small miracle happened.

“Well, since you’re here,” he said, reaching into his vest pocket, “why don’t I just give you the key to the front door?”

I stared in disbelief as he placed a small brass key into the palm of my hand.

I’m in!

Kristin Fellows is a published writer, world traveler, and a well-seasoned documentary film consultant. When not writing, Kristin can often be found listening to someone’s story or behind the lens of one of her cameras.

More about Kristin @ kristinfellowswriter.com