A Tale of Two Nannies

By Robert Lubrican

When Bob's wife died in childbirth, he needed more than part-time help with the baby. As an English professor, he couldn't really afford that. A little creative thinking solved the problem. He could offer room and board, and a little spending money, which appealed to one freshman girl. The only rub then was that both he and she had classes. It would take two part-time nannies to make things work. One of those girls knew a trick to get a baby to stop crying. She offered it a real nipple and then slipped it the bottle. That led to bonding, and bonding made them both wish they could actually make milk. Turned out ... they could.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Lubrican
• Release date: Dec 3, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463808221

Robert Lubrican

I grew up in the fifties and sixties, and that is reflected in my books quite often. I spent twenty years in law enforcement, and traveled the world, which also can be seen in my books and stories. While the genre I write in is technically called erotic romance, what I actually write are stories with a plot, which include sexual behavior on the part of the characters. That is because most people's lives include sex and erotic gratification. And, since most people wonder about lifestyles that are sometimes called taboo, or forbidden, I write about them, occasionally too. I believe that two consenting adults know more about their own happiness than anyone else, and that even if they are mistaken, they have the right to make their own choices. I also believe that love is the key to making choices that will not turn out to be mistakes.Many of my ideas involve coming of age, which usually takes place in the early to mid teens. Publishing standards, however, require that all characters in the published version of the book be over 18. That's not realistic, but it's just the way things are. If you purchase one of my books and would like to have the original version, unedited for age, send a copy of your receipt to [e-mail] and I'll happily provide you with a copy of the original at no additional cost. It is not illegal to write or possess such versions. It's just unpopular with certain special interest groups who desire to restrict your freedom.

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A Tale of Two Nannies

by Robert Lubrican

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2018 Robert Lubrican

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Rights to use cover art purchased at istock.com

*****

Foreword. It is important (to me) to put a disclaimer in here. It won't make sense until the end of the story, but it still needs to be here. I decided to put some of this story in the scene of the Navajo nation. There were lots of reasons for this, but listing them wouldn't make any difference. The issue is that I try to do my research, but researching Navajo names, subcultures, traditions and a lot more, turned out to be very difficult. It would take years of immersion in that culture to grasp the nuances of their ways. In a way, that led to a major plot path in the story. What I feel is important to say is that I very likely got some of it wrong. I don't like doing that. I don't like using creative license when it isn't necessary. So please understand that the information provided about Navajo 'things' was only intended to help the story move along. I have great respect and admiration for the Dine' (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Navajo). They have suffered much at the hands of my theoretical ancestors. I apologize if I've skewed anything.

Bob

*****

Prologue

Hello. My name is ... well, it doesn't really matter what my name is. What matters is that I know (some of) what happened. I compiled the details of the story you have chosen to read. I talked to the people involved and they shared their secrets with me. They did much more than that, but you'll learn about that at the appropriate time. I originally did this to fulfill a requirement, but afterwards I thought it was good enough that I want to tell you the story. I hope you find it both instructive and entertaining. I'm going to break some literary rules. One of them is speaking directly to you, the reader, as I am doing now. It brings me a feeling of intimacy, though. I hope it doesn't distract you from the story. I'll try to do it only when necessary.

What I'm sharing with you is (was) originally a secret involving three people. Others eventually found out. If you could wander around at any county jail in America, without the 'benefit' of having been arrested for something, you could hear countless stories of good lives gone bad. Very few people intended for that to happen, but life rolled over them anyway, like some immense highway machine. You've seen them. Huge, heavy, seemingly slow and harmless, with some guy perched on a seat under a canopy, leaning back without a care in the world, except to steer this asphalt-crusher as it slowly flattens everything in its path. The driver always looks bored. He looks like he's thinking of something else, far, far away.

Life can be like that, as any inmate will tell you. For many, drugs led them down the path of ruin and into a life of crime, required to support their habit. For many others, though, on an otherwise normal day, something got out of control and the steam roller suddenly sped up, like a fighter jet, dropping a bomb that blew them out of their normal life and into a cell.

For Robert Chambers it wasn't anything quite that dramatic, but it changed his life forever anyway. For Robert Chambers, what led to his woes was that he was too boring for his wife, Melanie. She responded to a few of the many men who flirted with her and had several affairs. One of those developed into something more and she decided to divorce Bob and marry, ironically enough, another man named Robert. She told her husband of that decision on a Thursday, and then went on her first overt date the next night. Her total lack of concern about how he felt about things was the worst part of it. She was the steam roller, and she crushed him, seemingly without thought.

A week later she found out she was among the one or two percent of women for whom birth control pills didn't work, and that she was pregnant. She didn't know who the father was, except that it probably wasn't the Bob she was still married to. She hadn't lain with him more than twice since her last period. She didn't want to be pregnant - had never wanted children to ruin her figure - but she'd been raised Catholic, so abortion wasn't on the table.

It turned out Robert number two also didn't want children, and Melanie was suddenly without a boyfriend and future meal ticket.

Bob Chambers had meant his vows when he'd said them four years previously. In his mind, this situation fell within the borders of sickness and health. He felt obliged to make the marriage work. So Melanie stayed married, but was no happier. She felt trapped. She bemoaned the fact that her figure was being ruined. That included swelling of her hands and face. She also experienced headaches, nausea, and other various aches and pains. It was no better for Bob, who now lived with a shrew. This shrew was no Katherine, however, such as Shakespeare had created, and Bob was no Petruchio. Both were miserable.

In the thirty-second week of her pregnancy she felt like a visit to the spa was more important than to complete another of the endless prenatal appointments with her doctor, so she canceled the doctor's appointment. She canceled the makeup appointment, too. When she finally waddled into her doctor's office, her blood pressure was 190 over 50. Four hours later it hadn't fallen.

Her doctor ordered a battery of tests and then diagnosed her with pre-eclampsia. He ordered complete bed rest and warned her that failure to observe this could have dire consequences. She was bored to death, in this case, literally. She did not stay in bed. She did not change her schedule. The first indication of trouble was that she stopped having to pee every half hour. Melanie thought of that as a relief, rather than a warning sign. She didn't think of kidney failure. When her liver failed, and she collapsed, they rushed her to the hospital.

They saved the baby.

But they couldn't save Melanie.

Bob had thought briefly about naming the baby Robert Junior, but abandoned the idea. The baby wasn't his. That was obvious, to him. So he'd picked Jeffrey - no middle name. Jeffrey was the name of a childhood friend who had red hair, like the baby.

Then the nightmare really began.

*****

Chapter One

Professor Robert Chambers hung the strap of his leather bag over his shoulder. Male pride made him call it his briefcase but it was really a man-purse. It held his books and papers, and left his hands free, which was important when he rode his bike.

Technically, he was supposed to be having office hours, even though classes hadn't officially started, but he taught four lower level English courses, and nobody ever sought his advice or counsel during office hours. The more pressing concern lay in a crib at home. Mrs. Abernathy would be very stiff and complaining if he was late. He thought of June Abernathy as the ghost of future Melanie. If she'd lived to sixty, she'd have turned into a June Abernathy.

He knew it would be a rough night. Jeffrey was the epitome of a newborn baby; helpless, demanding, always hungry or uncomfortable because his diaper was full of something or other. He needed to be held and cuddled and loved. He needed to be the center of attention, all the time. All the time was defined as 24 hours a day.

Part of Bob didn't mind. It was impossible to hold the newborn, whose blue eyes seemed to stare so meaningfully into his. He knew that was foolish, that the month-old baby could only focus on things within a foot. He knew that there were no cognizant thoughts going on in that little brain. But that stare was so clear, so trusting. In any case, Bob melted every time he held his son in his arms.

Well, most times, anyway. At eleven o'clock at night, and then two in the morning, with little Jeffrey screaming, hungry and wet at the same time, and then again at five. At those times Bob noticed things like the fact that his son had red hair, something that could not possibly have come from Bob's DNA.

Mrs. Abernathy was the wife of Dean Abernathy. She had appeared at Bob's door without having been called and said she'd tend the baby during the day until he could find a more permanent solution. She said it was her Christian duty to help him in his hour of need, but that she was not to be taken advantage of. Most of the faculty knew of his travails, including Melanie's catting around. At least three male members of the faculty knew of her bedroom activities intimately. Her death had come as a shock to everyone, Bob included. Death rarely beat upon the walls of the ivory palaces in academia. By the time Professor or Doctor this-or-that died, he or she had usually been retired for decades. June Abernathy was prickly in the extreme, but she was also a life preserver in rough seas. Still, he needed to find something better. He had enough problems without having to tiptoe around June Abernathy all the time.

To that end he had put signs on notice boards around campus, advertising for extended babysitting services, primarily daytime, salary negotiable. Those had gone up two weeks previously, but to date, nobody had been curious enough to find out more. Classes would not actually begin for three more days, and he hoped potential babysitters had merely been too busy moving in to seek employment.

He was headed for his office door when it suddenly opened. A young woman entered and his mind instantly classified her in the Freshman or Sophomore range. He faced young women like this routinely, in his classes.

What? he barked. He hadn't intended to bark. It just came out that way. He chalked it up to the stress he'd been under. I'm sorry, he said. What can I do for you?

Professor Chambers? asked a soft, timid voice.

Yes.

She reached in her purse and pulled a crumpled sheet of paper from it. It was one of his flyers.

This Professor Chambers? Her voice was stronger.

I am, he said, feeling a surge of irritation. Did you have to tear it down? Couldn't you have simply made a note?

The spectacles she was wearing made her eyes look over-large.

They're everywhere, she said. I thought taking one wouldn't make that much difference.

Everywhere? How many had he put up? He couldn't remember. Lots of things were hidden in the fog, lately.

Is the job still open? she asked.

His irritation vanished, to be replaced by hope. He really needed some help with the baby. He had not prepared, had left all that to Melanie. He was the breadwinner. She was the stay-at-home mom. She hated him. It was easy to hibernate in his office, preparing to teach. His pride had prevented him from asking Mrs. Abernathy questions, and the internet was filled with endless blogs that equivocated about everything. If he read Every baby is different one more time, he was sure he'd go insane.

Yes! he blurted, anxiously. It occurred to him that his verbal responses could use some moderation. Come in, please. What would you like to know?

She seemed uncertain. The ubiquitous back pack/book bag was hung over one shoulder. He began to take notice of her appearance. She looked young, but then they all looked young. As an adjunct professor, he was years away from tenure, and the more interesting classes and projects he might one day be able to spend his time teaching. For now, he was stuck with the lower level classes. He didn't complain, though. He worked for a major university in a full-time position, and got benefits. That was becoming more and more rare as colleges and universities moved to a contract system where you were paid a lump sum for each class taught. Some of his friends at other schools didn't even have an office. Some of them were only getting $3,000.00 per class. If you maxed out at five classes per semester, which was a killing workload, you ended up with a whopping thirty grand for the year.

Sir? Her voice brought him out of his woolgathering, and back to examining her. She was slim, but muscled. Softball popped into his mind. If she was a Freshman she was only a few months out of high school. She'd been well-fed, based on the degree to which her T shirt was pushed out, and the swell of her hips, encased in ragged and faded jeans.

Sorry, he said. I have a lot on my mind.

So you need a babysitter, she said, moving things along.

It would be a little more than just babysitting, he replied. He showed her to a chair, removing a stack of papers so she could sit, and went on. My wife died during childbirth, and it's just the baby and me, now. My class load this semester makes it difficult to give the baby as much attention as he needs. Plus, frankly, I know almost nothing about being a parent.

Admitting that to this young woman didn't threaten his ego as much as it would have to the older and more stern Mrs. Abernathy. It was likely this girl didn't know a lot more than he did.

I have four younger siblings, she said, her voice strengthening. My folks farm, so I practically raised them. I'm sure I could help.

His ego tried to shrink away, but he silently told it to behave.

I could really use the help, he sighed.

She looked at the crumpled paper in her hand.

It says primarily daytime. What does that mean, exactly?

Well, I teach, of course. It won't be all day, but I'll have to be away from home for stretches in both the morning and afternoon. I'm teaching one night class, but it only meets once a week.

I'll have classes, too, she said, sounding disappointed. I'm only taking ten hours. That's all we could afford. I'm the first in our family to go to college, and I didn't pay attention to how important scholarships would be.

So you're not in a dorm? asked Bob. Ten hours was considered part-time, and part-time students lived off campus.

I'm rooming with some other kids, she said. The way she said it sounded evasive, like she didn't really want to talk about it.

So you have to have a job, he said.

Yes, she admitted.

How much is your rent? he asked. An idea had popped into his mind.

Why do you need to know that? she asked. More evasion.

We are entering the salary negotiations, he said. If you don't have a scholarship, your parents are footing the bill. Or you're getting student loans, which your parents have to co-sign on.

Don't you want to know anything else about me? she asked.

If you helped raise your brothers and sisters, I assume at least one of them was a baby, he said.

Well, yes, she admitted.

And they all survived?

Of course they did! At last she responded with some kind of emotion.

Then that's good enough for me, as far as your resume goes. I'm not wealthy, though, so we need to be creative about your salary, if possible think outside the box, a little.

I don't understand, she said.

I have a big house, with an empty bedroom. If you lived there, you could save whatever you're paying for rent.

Oh! she said. He could almost see the wheels turning in her head. Her eyes focused on him. "Wait. You mean live with you?"

You have to live somewhere, he said.

She was thoughtful for a while. He let her think.

Actually, that might solve a really big problem, she said.

That was the idea, he said, smiling.

You don't understand, she said. The only place I could find to rent was this house with four other kids.

Okay, said Bob.

They're all guys, she said.

Ahh.

My parents would freak if they knew, she said.

I see, he said.

Plus some of them have already hit on me.

Not surprising, said Bob. He meant it as generic response. Guys hit on girls. That was just the way of evolution. Something on her face, though, made him realize she thought he had meant something more personal. I won't hit on you, he added.

My mom already wants to come visit, she said, ignoring his comment. I think it would be way better if she visited your house than that dump with all those horndogs.

Then again, they might not approve of you living alone, with an older man, said Bob.

You're not older, she said, distractedly. You're about the same age as my uncle, probably.

I'm thirty-two, said Bob. He wondered why he'd told her that.

Wow, she said. "That's fourteen whole years older than me. Maybe you are a geezer. She smiled to indicate she was joking, and then went on. You're younger than my dad."

Maybe I jumped the gun, said Bob. We don't even know if your schedule will work with mine.

"Well, you said to think outside the box, and after what you said, I thought of this other girl I met when I got here. She's kind of in the same situation as me, in terms of needing a job. What if you had two babysitters living with you? Between the two of us, surely we could work out a schedule, then."

I have no objection to that, said Bob. I already have the room, and board for two girls shouldn't break the bank. Above that I could offer a little spending money.

And help us with tutoring if we get stuck? suggested the girl.

That, too, said Bob. Depending on which subject you get stuck on. I'm not a mathematician, for example.

I think this could really work! said the now excited girl. I'll talk to Ronnie.

Speaking of names ... prompted Bob.

Oh! I'm Aleksa Klitzky. But most people call me Alex. The way she said it sounded odd, like there was more to the story.

Okay, then Alex. If you're going to live with me, I think we can relax convention. at least in private. You might as well call me Bob.

Great! I'll go find Ronnie and get back with you.

*****

Bob might be forgiven for failing to recognize how unconventional this solution to his problem was. The thought of two freshman students - girls - moving in with a faculty member would, to most in the academic community, be laughable at best, and scandalous at worst. The state of Bob's mental health, however, wasn't up to par. Not only was he struggling with the fact that his wife had suddenly died, he felt a lot of guilt about the fact that he didn't miss her all that much. His love for her had died when he found out she'd cheated on him with three other men. He suspected it was more, but that was all she'd admitted to.

Then there were the preparations for teaching. He was expected to create courses, in addition to teaching the standard ones. While Melanie's belly had grown, he'd created a course listed in the catalog as English 134 - Trends in Modern Writing. It offered three hours of credit that could go towards satisfying the general education humanities requirement, and was a study of trending best sellers, comparing and contrasting the writing styles, language usage, and departure from or adherence to standard English in the construction of the prose. He knew it was basically a way of getting easy credit by reading books many young adults would already read anyway, but his supervising professor had liked it. It would require, however, that he read all those best sellers, too.

He was also, truth be known, lonely. He and Melanie had been estranged for her entire pregnancy. Still, once she was in the ground, the house seemed empty. Little Jeffrey didn't take up much room and, during the short stretches in which he slept, the house was too quiet. It would be good to have other humans around, even if they were busy taking care of Jeffrey and he was busy with his work.

He was not quite prepared, though, for the sudden increase in the level of noise when his two new babysitters arrived and began moving things in. They were sharing the available room,