Chapter 19
Shio Cuppacio
With my foot on the brake, I shifted the gear into park on the stone driveway.
The house in front of me was absolutely stunning.
The modern-style build with contemporary and classic architectural elements could easily be featured in one of those home styling magazines.
I’d been inside numerous times, but the exterior features were hands down breathtaking.
A symphony of textures with painted brick in a clean, off-white hue, complemented by muted green siding, made the house pop in a neighborhood full of equally impressive custom houses.
The huge windows were framed in dark trim, adding a touch of contrast where it was needed.
The roofline was complex-looking, with multiple gables in a combination of dark gray shingles and metal accents.
The landscaping around the house was well-maintained, giving the house the curb appeal that matched the home’s impressive look.
The lush green lawn, carefully tended, extended into a massive backyard where we’d had many gatherings.
A winding walkway led to the front door, lined with neatly trimmed shrubs and smaller decorative trees.
The garden beds were filled with a variety of colorful flowers and greenery, adding vibrant accents against the off-white bricks.
It only took one call from Shannon Washington, and I was on my way. It was rare for my mother to call me, but when she did, I knew I couldn’t delay my appearance on her doorstep. I also knew to dress comfortably because we would either be lounging or moving at a rapid pace—there was no in-between.
As I stood from my truck, I noticed the open garage was empty.
It usually housed the pastor’s Benz, which meant he was gone for the day.
My mother’s two cars, a Range Rover I had gifted her, and a Mercedes coupe were in the closed garage.
She’d given her BMW to Italian two years ago.
Her husband’s Lexus was parked in the wide driveway that would be perfect for a basketball goal, but they didn’t need one.
Timothy Washington had been career-focused, which left him without children.
By the time he married my mother, I was already an adult and so involved in street life that a father figure was the last thing I wanted.
The pastor respected that and kept his distance.
His lack of interfering is what led me to the doors of his church not long after.
He allowed me to come on my own terms, and that changed my life.
Ringing the doorbell, I chose not to use my key.
My mother had a key to my house and had never used it, so I wanted to show her the same respect.
Besides, I wasn’t the man of this house, nor had any hand in helping secure it.
When we first moved to Jagoda Bay, we bought everyone homes with help from the mob, but once the pastor got his church up and running, he had us pass the house we gave my mom to another family member and bought my mother her dream home.
She enjoyed decorating the five bedrooms with my money, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
“I thought I was going to have to come find you…” Shannon Washington’s tone was condescending, but her smile told me she didn’t mean what she’d said.
“Of course not, beautiful.”
Stepping inside the house, I pulled my mother into a hug, towering over her and kissing the top of her head.
Her perfume was an intoxicating aroma of velvety dark roses and a hint of saffron.
She must’ve just applied it because it hadn’t settled into her natural odor yet.
I knew because when it did, it would reveal a warm blend of rich amber and creamy vanilla, adding to the comfort I felt whenever I was in her space.
Her hair was free from the lace wig today, so her natural tresses were pulled back into a low ponytail.
It must have been time for her salon appointment because that was the only time she wore it like that.
I could also see her bright hair color peeking from the roots.
When asked about my ancestry, I always claimed Black.
I was a nigga, through and through, and no one could tell me different.
However, with my mother being a mix of multiple races and my father being a full-blooded Italian, I low-key was a mutt.
My mother’s father was Somali and Black American.
His Somali mother was brought to America and married the first man she could find to survive.
Her mother was Melanesian and Black American, and those genes were strong as hell because my mother looked Melanesian when she let her natural hair grow out.
Both of her parents were born in America, giving up their culture for various reasons since here, if you looked Black, you were Black.
Because of my complex ancestry, I had a thing for languages, but I was born in America and looked like a Black man, so there was no use in denying it.
My mother’s blonde-hued brown hair denied her the same simplicity, and she often had to explain why she was a beautiful Black woman with the brightest natural hair.
“Come on in, son. You just missed the pastor.”
Stepping back, my mama held me at arm’s length to get a good look at me.
Her hair might have been in a ponytail, but she was still dressed to the nines.
Instead of a pantsuit or dress like her typical first lady attire, she was in green pants that stopped at her calves with slits on the sides.
The fabric had a gloss to it, but it wasn’t leather or silk.
She wore a fitted white polo-style shirt with a small Chanel emblem in the corner.
Loosely tied around her neck was a floral sweater of some sort, and on her feet, she wore pastel Chanel slides.
“You look pretty.”
“Oh!” She swatted my arm. “This is nothing. It’s just something I threw together to see my favorite son.”
Closing the door behind me, I followed her into the home.
My mother didn’t have a specific decor style, but somehow, each room flowed together nicely.
The walls were white, but the paintings brought life to the rooms along with her arrangement of furnishings and vases.
If I had to put a name to it, it would be a mix of homey, garden, cozy glam.
The pastor had no say, but like me, he just let her have her way.
“I’m your only son.”
“And don’t you forget it.”
She took her seat on the extended peach-hued sofa that sat in the middle of her living room. The large area rug it sat on had hints of peach, but the other colors were pulled from the various decor throughout the space.
“You want something to drink? I won’t ask about food because I know you’ve had your meal prep.” Sitting on the sofa as if a queen resting on her throne, my mother radiated opulence and wealth.
It had been a long time coming. Shannon was living the life she was meant to now, and I loved every second of it.
I’d empty every dollar from my account if it meant making her happy, but Shannon wasn’t wired that way.
She let me spoil her until she didn’t. There were always limits with my mother—always reasons why she felt she didn’t need to spend so much of my money.
It had gotten to the point where she would sic her husband on me for sending large amounts to her account or leaving rolls of it in her purse.
My time was limited, but I was and always would be my mama’s baby.
The Cuppacios liked to clown me about it, but them niggas were just as bad over their mamas as I was mine.
Shannon just so happened to be a first lady.
“How have you been, son?”
Making myself comfortable on the sofa across from her, with a chest-like table separating us, I let my back sink into the furniture.
No matter how much I spent on my own, it never felt quite as comfortable.
I’d slept in two of the guest beds here and had the best sleep of my life.
Never mind that I rested my head on a ten-thousand-dollar mattress and three-thousand-dollar sheets, my mama’s Tempur-Pedic mattresses and Martha Stewart sheets did the trick every time.
I once complained about it to the pastor, and he told me, “It ain’t the bedding, it’s the spirit. Your mama’s ambiance is just that invigorating. Got the best sleep of my life our first night under the same roof too.”
From then on, I believed his theory and escaped all the mob bullshit when I could to sleep at my mama’s house.
“I’ve been good, Mama.”
“Haven’t seen you in church in a while.”
Not since Solana popped her lil’ demonic ass up.
“I know. It’s no excuse. But I catch the word every Sunday, though.
Last week, that message about discernment was right on time.
” I bopped my head. “Beloved, do not believe every spirit, but test the spirits to see whether they are from God, for many false prophets have gone out into the world. First John, chapter four, verse one.”
My mother rocked. “Ummhmm. Are you feeling like he was speaking to you?”
Every Sunday, I felt like the pastor was speaking to me. My cousin’s ’nem swore I told the pastor their business because every time they’d accompanied me to church, let them tell it, he was talking about them too.
“I do.”
“That’s because he was!” She sassed, making me laugh out loud.
When I saw her eyes water, I shot up and sat down next to her, pulling her in my arms. “Mama, what’s wrong?”
My heart thudded, and my words came out shakier than intended. My mind went into overdrive immediately. I needed my mama to always be okay. There wasn’t a world where she and I weren’t in there together. She would bury me—that’s how I’d always imagined it, and that’s how I needed it to be.