Wertham

I pulled up at the red light and watched the traffic: left, right, front, back. It seemed like everybody knew I was there. Good. Watch the light. Pull a pedal back, clip in, raise it up for the push-off. Wait for green.
Then, I heard a crunch like an accident, but no squeal of tires. "That's odd," o thought, and languidly turned to see a man in leather and helmet roll peacefully off a woman's windscreen. The tendril cracks radiated from his shoulder to the driver's side of the window. The little blue car rolled out of the intersection toward me, past me on my left. The biker tumbled off the hood in the lane next to mine. His bike lay prone in the intersection.
I'm trained in first aid. Oh! I'm trained. I planned my bike against a telephone pole three feet away and when I turned back, a woman is knelt over the biker. 
"Sit down! Lay back, I'm a nurse. Don't move your head!"
The driver of the car stumbled toward the man, now prone on the asphalt.
I yell: "Does anybody need a phone?" Nobody responds. I walk out into the road to make sure no cars are coming. They're not. Big help I am. I hear a siren already. Was there a cop the corner, or no? I jog back and get my own phone.
9
1
1
"Are you calling 9-1-1?" a concerned-eyebrowed man shoots at me. I nod. I see the biker wiggle his toes. Victory. There's a man who I think was driving the truck who's out directing traffic.
"Massachusetts State police. Where is your emergency?"
"I'm in Wrentham at the corner of Franklin and South streets. There's a motorcyclist who was hit by a car."
"Wrentham, Massachusetts?"
Oh, my word. I will die. "Yes, Massachusetts."
"Let me transfer you to their dispatch. One moment."
The woman who stumbled out of the little blue sedan with shattered glass is now hyperventilating on the sidewalk. The nurse is now squatting over the biker's chest, shading his eyes from the sun with her body.
"He's alright, see! He moved his hands; he's talking!"
"How old are you?"
"I know, I know, I just lost somebody like this, just like this!"
"Forty three."
"This is Wrentham police. Where is your emergency?"
Was that siren not for us? It passed us in a jiffy. "I'm at the corner of Franklin and South streets; there's a motorcyclist who was hit by a car."
"Are you at the light?"
"Is he alright!? Is he alright!?"
"Don't nod your head, stop shaking it. Just answer yes and no."
"I'm sorry, what?" They want to know what about this?
"Are you—is the accident at the light?"
Yes? "Yes."
"There's someone on their way."
Listen, Wrentham isn't very big, and I'm literally able to see all the next corners on both streets in all four directions just by standing up. We're adjacent the town square. What do you want?
I hang up. I've done my part. The police officer is literally already there, and I can't tell the nurse that I've gotten dispatch and they're informed until after she's talked with him.
The woman from the car is still hyperventilating.
"Does anyone have any water?" The nurse shouts. I do. I grab my bottle from the bike, still full up with Dairy Queen ice, and take it to her. "Oh, it's not for him. It's for her." Oh. I take it to her, but I never see her drink it. The man with concerned eyebrows is gently taking a shard of glass from her cheek. I sit down on the sidewalk and listen to four people tell her it'll be okay. The policeman says: very business-like: "Ma'am, you're going to have to calm down. It will be alright."
I get her attention. "What's your name?"
"Angela."
"Oh, cool. My name is Robby. I'm on a cross-country bike trip. Where do you live?"
"Here."
"Wrentham?" She nods. "It's a nice town. You lived here long?"
"I'm from here."
She's still breathing like she got punched in the gut. Somebody kind is telling her it'll be okay. Somebody kind is telling her to calm down.
"Do you have any kids?"
"Yeah, two."
A man holding her shoulder says "Well, thankfully they weren't here to see this." That's not helping, I think.
"What are their names?" I ask. They're nondescript. I forget almost immediately. It's a boy and a girl. They're 10 and 11.
The police have arrived in force. One is directing traffic. The ambulance pulls past her car and the biker and the nurse. The fire truck is flashing, bright. One officer wants her ID. He retrieves her purse from the back seat and brings it for her to dig through. She's shaking like a palsy patient. He wants Angela's phone. He accidentally brings her son's from the car.
A woman near gives a half-laugh. "What did he do!? I only have my son's phone when he's in trouble."
"He's at a sleepover. I just took it for a minute because I was gonna be right back. I was running to get medicine . . . "
The officer returns with her actual phone. The call she makes, to the woman keeping her son, is nearly incoherent. Her mother arrives. Angela points her out. Her mom just stands around with one hand over her mouth and one hand holding her sundress off her toes. She is the picture of shock, like she's never seen an accident before. And maybe she hasn't.

Angela says a thousand times "He came out of nowhere!" The witnesses around chime in "He was blocking traffic; i saw the whole thing. It's not your fault." The nurse informs each person who appears that she's a nurse. "This is my day off—five on, one off, six on." I don't know if that's legal. The man in the truck has somehow gotten his front end draped over the bike. He is going to reverse off, and an officer is going to watch. Angela's mother is the picture of shock. The man with concerned eyebrows is putting my ice water over Angela's hands to clear any glass off them. She's shaking less; she's breathing weird. The EMT asks if she has anxiety. Yep. The man in the truck calls his buddy to bring a motorcycle trailer. They're going to take the bike: where? It's a Ducati, which I know about. It may yet drive, but I have only seen the uphill side. My guess is that the bike is a losing battle. Angela cries out: "I was still in first!" "That's why it's called an accident."
I take a panorama of Wertham as a reminder of the tumult. It doesn't save; I don't know why. But it gets me to look around. There's a man in a mobility scooter just sitting on the corner and watching. What's he after? What does he need? Did he literally come down here to see what's going on, and if so, was it worth the difficulty?
There's a neck brace on the biker, but he stands up, with help, to get on the stretcher. He has short ginger hair and a beard. I didn't expect it. He looks every day of 43. Angela gets told she needs to go to the hospital, maybe. I never heard it, but that's what she tells her mom. The nurse and man in truck and man with concerned eyebrows give their information to the policeman taking notes, the one who can't seem to talk to Angela without sounding like he's about to lose it. "Angela, calm down." He doesn't need my testimony. I just heard it, and besides. I can't figure out the geometry of the accident anyway. She was turning left from southward. His bike ended up in front of her car. The guy in the truck said the biker started behind him, from the north, and his truck ended up rolling on top of the bike. Where were they all going? Who's at fault? Why didn't he stop driving before he hit the bike? What medication did Angela need that required her son's phone to get? Will the truth ever come to light?

I guess we may never know. But I like that, so near to Cape Cod, I met Angela Lansbury's proxy and stumbled upon a mystery.