They gave us a call. “227 Duke, violent psych, possibly armed.”
“That’s Fred’s house,” I said.
“If that’s Fred and he’s armed, I’m not getting near it. That boy’s sick and he’s not taking me with him,” Tom said.
“He’s just upset about his brother and he’s probably drunk. It’s just around the corner. I’ll go in and talk to him.”
“I’m staying in the ambulance and we’re staying around the corner until the cops say it’s clear.”
“Fine.”
“Hey, where are you going?” Tom shouted as I went out the door. “You’re as crazy as he is.”
I knew Fred and I knew the cops, and that was a bad combination. The cops laughed at Fred because he was a cop wannabe, but they knew he never would be one. I ran through the backyard and out onto Fred’s street. I could hear the sirens in the distance. I looked to my left and saw Tom. Instead of staying where we’d been, he had come around the corner and was waving at me to get back in the ambulance. I saw Fred’s car in the drive and the light on up in his room, so I went right up the stairs. Fred had been terribly moody and angry since he came back from Germany.
The door was open. Fred had a revolver in his mouth. He sat at the kitchen table.
“Don’t!” I said.
He looked up at me with eyes I had not seen before. They were wild and scared.
“Give me the gun. Give it to me now. The cops are coming. Man, what are you doing?”
He took the gun out of his mouth and very slowly pointed it at me. “How about I blow your face up?” he said. “How many people’s faces should I mess up before we can get a law passed allowing people who want to die to die? How about I just start messing up everyone’s faces. Pow! Pow! Pow! Maybe then we get a movement.”
I held my hands up. “Fred, come on.”
Behind him I could see the History Channel was on TV, Allied planes dropping bombs on Germany.
“Fred, your brother wouldn’t want this. I know you’re upset, but we can get someone to talk to you.”
“I don’t want to talk to anyone.”
I glanced to the window and saw the lights of the police cruisers. The shades were open. I went right to the window and pulled them down. I didn’t think Fred would shoot me, but if the cops saw him holding a gun on me, he’d catch a sniper shot between the eyes. That was for sure.
“You shouldn’t be moving around when I’ve got a gun pointed at you.”
“You shouldn’t be pointing a gun at me. Now give it, give it here.” I walked right towards him. His hands were shaking. “Give it up. There’s a better way to handle this.”
Suddenly he pointed the gun at his temple. I kept walking right at him. Fred wasn’t the smartest guy and I didn’t think he’d have time to think out what to do. Besides, if he really wanted to kill himself, he would have done it.
I reached him. I reached up for the gun. He let me take it. I put it in the side leg pocket of my work pants. I put my arm around him, and he laid his head on my shoulder and cried. “It’s all right,” I said. “It’s all right.”
“It’s not fucking fair,” he cried. “It’s not fair.”
“It’s all right. It’s all right.”
“He and I should be out drinking beer…”
“Look, we’ve got to take you in. I can’t leave you here, but we’re going to get someone to talk to you.”
“I don’t want anyone to see me.”
“Look, here.” I took off my EMT jacket and had him put it on. “You still have to come in, but just follow me.”
We walked out together. They had cops behind cars with rifles pointed at us. We held our hands up, and the cops frisked Fred. “There was no gun there,” I said. “He doesn’t want to hurt himself or anyone else.” I told them he had admitted he was distraught over his brother’s death, and was coming voluntarily. I knew I was treading on thin ice, but I didn’t want Fred to be branded as a freak. I knew he was just upset by grief, and maybe the antidepressants he was on were fucking with him. He liked women and beer too much to want to off himself. I wanted to protect his reputation as much as I could.
I rode with him on the way in. At the hospital, he and Tom stood at the triage desk just like two EMTs. You’d never know he was a patient. I told the triage nurse he was distraught and had threatened suicide, but was willing to talk to someone. She nodded, and instead of putting him in the psych unit, got him a private ER room. A couple hours later, we took him over to the Institute of Living.
“What’s in your leg pocket?” Tom asked when we came out of the institute.
“Nothing,” I said.
“It doesn’t look like nothing.”
“Drive over to East Hartford,” I said.
“What?”
“Don’t clear, just do it.”
He followed my directions. I had him stop on the bridge over the Connecticut River. I got out and went over to the side. I waited until no cars were approaching, then took the gun out and dropped it down into the river below.
Tom looked at me when I got back in.
“I may underestimate you,” he said.