The iceberg slid in on a Sunday morning when the water was as flat as a fresh sheet of tin foil. It grounded itself about two kilometres from the shoreline. Or it seemed to be grounded. No one could tell for sure from afar.
Doug Prentice was up early to turn the heat on in the church. When he spotted the iceberg through the window, he gasped so hard his lungs filled with cold incense-tinged air and sent him into a coughing fit. He scrambled out his phone and posted a photo right away: “Does anyone else see what I see? The resemblance is uncanny. #Jesus #iceberg #icebergjesus #jesusinice. He’s got to be at least thirty metres tall!” Doug’s phone throbbed with shares. He would always be proud that his picture was first.
Word of the iceberg spread fast, especially with so many out on Sunday drives. “Our own Cristo del Pacifico, but in Atlantic ice,” Reverend Bennett posted. “Cristo del Atlantico!” A steady line of traffic chugged along the beach road, and a crowd gathered on the shoreline. They used driftwood logs for seats and makeshift kneelers, as many were moved to prayer.
Various artists were interviewed for their take. One said the face resembled depictions seen in Christ Pantocrator, the early style depicting Jesus as almighty, with the halo and all-seeing gaze. “The resemblance is so striking,” the artist said. “God is in the glaciers.”
Then “Pack Ice Season” arrived. That was the term the department of tourism was encouraging citizens to use in an attempt to rebrand expectations of spring. Ice flowed in from the north and filled up the bay. It encircled Cristo Del Atlantico / Christberg / Iceberg Jesus and wedged it in good.
Joni McEntaggart’s house was across from the beach, so she had a clear view from her kitchen window. She nodded and smiled when the CBC came by to ask her about it. They got a nice shot of her gazing out her kitchen window, holding a warm cup of tea. In the shot, her cat, Shane, is perched beside her and resembles an ice sculpture himself, with his white fur. “What a sight indeed,” Joni said to the reporter. “It’s definitely unforgettable.”
Joni McEntaggart was good with statements like this, sounding agreeable while withholding actual agreement. Because, honestly, Joni saw nothing of Jesus in the iceberg. Where others saw Christ standing on the water, Joni saw her husband, Gerard, his posture and tension. While others saw their saviour’s face beneficently surveying the coastline, Joni saw the expression Gerard got right before he scowled. It was always a moment of unreadable neutrality, a few seconds where she’d think everything was fine. Then a furrow through his eyebrows, his mouth buckling in disdain.
Like the last look he gave her before he got in the boat that morning, one of the first Saturdays of the food fishery. He snatched his lunch box out of her grasp, and she thought of how she’d tailored its contents to appease—a peace offering in bologna and grainy mustard.
“We’re not done,” Gerard said. “We’ll talk when I get back.”
“I hope you get your quota,” she said.
Then he was busy casting off and didn’t look back. And he never came back. Unless she counted now. Gerard, tall, foreboding, and icier than ever, watching all the windows from his spot in the bay.
The first six months of Gerard’s disappearance were a searing blur for Joni. Every day was a vigil—scanning the water until her eyes ached. Being jolted out of her trance if the phone dinged. Going out in the community meant keeping it together while whoever she encountered puckered in sympathy: Have you heard anything? Oh my Lord, so awful. And being on the water was his greatest pleasure. Joni would nod and avoid eye contact. She imagined a plethora of possibilities: Gerard’s body fetal and hypothermic in the boat’s hull. Gerard holed up in someone’s cabin in an abandoned outport, living off expired canned goods. Gerard in town, loaded drunk at the Cotton Club, laughing at the great big lesson he was teaching her. The sensation was like night-driving through a blizzard, rigidly following the tracks of the last car, the windshield dizzy with tiny comets of searing-white pain.
Her friend Cathy kept her stable. They’d either go for walks on the shore or take their sea kayaks out for a slow paddle around the harbour, bracing themselves for the possibility of familiar debris. In the evenings, they’d drink Moscato and watch the water. This continued until the first snowfall came in November. Cathy came over, poured a glass, and held her hand: “Joni, it’s unlikely we will ever find anything. Gerard wouldn’t want you out in the cold, wearing yourself down.” They had a good cry. They put on the Beastie Boys and danced their spirits up.
The first winter wasn’t bad, weather wise, an occasional blizzard followed by rain. The skidoo buffs complained about not being able to get out across country. In the spring, Joni picked up some Benjamin Moore in a nice peachy cream and painted over the trendy grey Gerard had used in the living room; it had always felt chilly and industrial to her. She found a couch she liked on Facebook Marketplace, longer than their old one. She donated Gerard’s recliner because she kept cringing whenever Shane got up on it. Gerard would always bark, “No!” Then a hot string of expletives and threats: “I’m gonna fuckin’ choke that cat one day.”
Nowadays, she likes to stock the fridge with whatever she wants—cheeses Gerard said were too expensive, especially if she used up their last bits in a sauce for macaroni casserole. “Everyone knows mac and cheese is good only if it’s orange,” he said. Joni likes to eat her cheese, drink wine, and relax. The kayak is put away until spring, but she uses the rowing machine at least three times a week; she and Cathy promised to keep it up. In May, Joni will have a new contract at the fish plant, and there’s lots of time left on her employment insurance. She plays music Gerard called guilty pleasures: ’90s grunge that makes her feel wild haired and resilient. She lets Shane sleep on the bed, and sometimes, in the early hours, he curls himself into the curve between her chest and chin and she is lulled to sleep by his contented purrs.
But this winter is colder than last year’s, and the iceberg and pack ice turn the wind wicked. It infects the high-use areas in the house: a draft in the bedroom, a chilled toilet seat in the morning, kitchen tiles punishing sock feet. For the first time, giant icicles have formed along the eaves. She realizes too late she didn’t clean the gutters or rake the snow off the edges of the roof. Those were things Gerard took care of. Once, when leaving the house, she has to haul the door hard to shut it, and the ricochet rains icicles from the roof. They land all around her like a booby trap out of an Indiana Jones movie. She leaps away and curses. Iceberg Jesus / Gerard gives her a look. After all, what did she think was going to happen if she didn’t clean the gutters? Jesus, Joni, you should’ve known better than that.
Down on the beach, the community has set up temporary wind breaks and lean-tos. With so many people making the pilgrimage to see Iceberg Jesus, shelter is necessary. People form clusters, talking and laughing, drinking warmth from their thermoses. They make small fires up and down the beach. Guitars and accordions appear, getting everyone on the go. Doug Prentice posts about how wonderful it is to see people keeping warm with faith and togetherness, all under the gaze of Jesus in ice.
But parking is an issue. The road in front of Joni’s house is lined with thick, filthy snowbanks, which will remain solid and immovable until the weather changes. She has to weave around SUVs and trucks wedged in wherever visitors find a spot. Some are bold enough to park in her driveway and block her in. She calls town council and leaves a message. No one gets back to her.
One day, as she is bringing out the recycling, she slips, and her saving hand lands on a broken beer bottle. She stares at the piece of brown glass, part of a Molson Canadian label, sticking out of her palm. Gerard always had this brand around; he liked it because it was the first beer he ever got drunk on. She never understood that; it’s just beer. Why act like it’s an old romance you never got over? She cleans the wound and wraps a cloth bandage around her palm. Her fingers jut out of it like lazy talons.
Doug comes by with a crew to set up porta potties. “That’s how big this has gotten,” he says to Joni. “So many people are coming. And they shop local while they’re here. The money comes back to our economy.” Joni listens to Doug and nods. They both know people have been pissing in her yard.
He comments on the icicles: “Those are pretty big. You might want to get your roof checked.”
“I know,” she says. “It’s like the house has jaws. It’s stressing me out.”
“Well, you know what they say,” Doug says. “Stress is God’s way of telling us we’re not prepared.”
Joni watches Doug point and direct the crew. Look at him go, right important. She catches herself glowering and feels Gerard’s frozen eyes on her. “Yes now, Joni,” she mutters. “Always gotta be giving someone dirty looks.”
The porta potties bring a flow of opportunity. A generator arrives for a chip truck. Residents set up tables to sell local products: homemade jam, even freshly snared rabbits in their white winter coats. A souvenir shop makes postcards and T-shirts using Iceberg Jesus’s image. When members of the church complain, the shop agrees to donate some of the proceeds to a local charity. The church members are pleased to bits.
Cathy comes over, and she and Joni smoke a draw outside. Songs and laughter carry over to them through the crisp night air.
“It’s pretty cool,” Cathy says. “You’re right in the middle of the action.”
“We’ll see once the thaw comes,” Joni says. “There better be a cleanup organized.”
“It must be nice to look out and see people having fun, though,” Cathy says. “After we spent so much time looking out and feeling the opposite.”
Joni balances the joint between the fingers of her injured hand. She and Cathy blow plumes of smoke toward the bay. Someone has set up a rotating spotlight on Iceberg Jesus, and they get glimpses here and there of a frozen cheekbone, an eye, a solemn lip.
Cathy goes to bed, but the weed keeps Joni awake with nagging paranoia. Her mind replays that last night before Gerard went out. They had been at Cathy’s place for supper. Cathy was in a saucy mood and regaled them with stories about college roommates. The guy who believed shampoo was an all-purpose cleaner (“It’s all soap!”) and used her Aveda products to wash the mirror. The one who didn’t do laundry for four months and no one could figure out where the stink was coming from. She had Joni in fits. Meanwhile, Gerard sat on the edge of the couch and played Words with Friends on his phone. Whenever they checked on him, he said he was fine.
But when they got home, he admonished her: “You were rude. You only poured your own glass all night. That’s common courtesy across all cultures, ya know—pour others’ glasses first. You and Cathy hogged all the booze and airtime.” Joni had been in a great mood up until then, nicely high on a sativa edible Cathy had bought in town, and now here was Gerard, Mr. Enemy of Fun. “You know what else is rude, Gerard?” she said.
“What?”
“Shutting doors in people’s faces.” She heaved the bedroom door shut, right as his mouth started to twist.
The next day, she was hungover and rotten with regret. He gave her the silent treatment on the drive down to the community harbour.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”
His expression stayed frozen on the road. “Joni,” he said, “you couldn’t hurt my feelings if you tried.”
It was when he was casting off that she noticed his backpack in the pan of the pickup. Black backpack against black chrome, easy to miss. She could have called out to him, but handing it off meant another opportunity for him to get contrary with her, another scolding, the blatant lack of eye contact. It wasn’t until evening, when he hadn’t come home and she was on the phone with the coast guard, that she checked its contents. Two bottles of water and a warm woollen toque. Safety flares in a waterproof package.
The next morning, Cathy has to leave early, which is fine, as Joni feels pretty gross. She puts a frozen pizza in the oven. An old movie and a snuggle with Shane are what she needs. She calls his name and shakes the treat bag. No stirring, no little paws on the way. “C’mon, Shane, come out, li’l fucker.”
The door is open. The kitchen is like a deep freezer. She should have told Cathy the door needs an extra push; with all the ice, it doesn’t shut properly sometimes. Outside, there is a fresh dusting of snow, and Shane’s pawprints trail off toward the beach. She gapes at the line of cars and trucks parked in front of the house. In the distance, someone is singing “Michael, Row the Boat Ashore.”
Shane’s pawprints end at the road, where all the tracks are swirls of chaos. She wanders up and down, calling his name and shaking the treat bag. No one on the beach claims to have seen him. A concerned-looking young woman says she’ll tell people to keep an eye out. Then she steps away and takes an Iceberg Jesus selfie. Joni watches her pose and smile. The glare of the iceberg presses her hangover deeper into a spot between her eyes.
Joni makes a Facebook post with a photo of Shane and a description. Doug shares it with the church group and refers to her as Gerard McEntaggart’s widow. Someone comments out of sympathy: Poor woman, she’s had so much loss. Gerard was such a nice man.
Joni reads it and gets a drink. Such a nice man. Who never liked Shane: “One of these days, I’m going to open the door and let it loose,” he’d say. Or the joke he would make on cold days—how cats can crawl up into cars to stay warm and end up by the fan belt. He’d start the ignition and do a sharp meow. He’d chuckle at her offence. “It’s only a joke, Joni.”
She goes out regularly to look for Shane. She imagines a day in the future, summertime probably, when she’ll make some unfortunate discovery—poor Shane’s body cast into a ditch, his white fur bloodied and matted. Or he is alive and in one of these entitled fuckers’ homes. They have no issues clogging the road and leaving broken glass and pissing in her yard; why not take him? Oh look, a cat wandering alone, another miracle just for me. She rattles the treat bag like a beggar’s bowl. The wind off the bay stings her face, and she numbly considers how her anger and the frigid air are both burning sensations, as if they are cooperating to reduce her to ash, inside and out.
Fog arrives, and she’s happy for it. It is the first time in over a month she cannot see past the beach. Fog eats ice and snow, and hopefully it will loosen up the bay, soften the iceberg’s features. Wouldn’t it be great if it was only a chunk of ice? She butters her toast and looks out at the grey. “This staring contest has gone on long enough,” she says.
As if in response, the fog shifts, and the Iceberg Jesus’s / Gerard’s face appears for a second. She shrieks. The butter dish clatters into the sink and cracks. “That was my Nan’s!” she yells. “Fuck you, Gerard! You could never let anyone have anything nice!”
She stomps out the back door and sits on the step to collect herself. Her husband is dead, her cat is gone, and she’s surrounded by arseholes. She weeps and blows her nose loudly, and it’s like the noise draws something out of the fog. A small figure moves toward her, slow but bold. She hops to her feet, hand on the doorknob. The figure meows. It is Shane moving close to the ground. His fur stands on end, yellow eyes feral. He is seriously pissed off.
In the house, Joni wraps Shane in a towel. He emits low growls as she examines him. He’s filthy—Joni removes mud and ice, a cigarette butt, a lump of chewed gum from his fur. She tries to rub behind his ear, his favourite thing. He snaps at her. Below his ear and along his neck, something hard and thin is frozen in. Joni does not fully realize what it is until she works it gently up and over Shane’s head. She stares at the rabbit snare in her hand. Shane hisses and runs upstairs.
Joni calls the vet for advice. “I’m having trouble even getting close to him,” she says. “He runs away from me. He was never like this before.”
“If he’s moving that quickly, he’s probably fine,” the vet says. “Keep an eye on him. We don’t want any wounds to get infected. You should get him chipped if you don’t want something like this to happen again.”
Joni agrees. She should have had that done before—got him chipped, put a collar on him. She calls Shane over with a treat. He glares at her from under the table, ears flattened back. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I should have known better.”
At sunrise, she wakes up to moans. She lies motionless, sounds all around her—mournful groans of pain and resentment. She lies still, waiting for them to get closer. Maybe it’s the crowd from the beach, maybe it’s a prank. There is a distant popping noise.
It’s the ice breaking up in the bay. Slabs grind and crack against each other. She sinks into her sheets with relief. This is the small change she’s wished for.
The pack ice clears, but Iceberg Jesus remains. Some guy from the university speculates it is grounded; others think it doesn’t want to leave. A local company takes tourists out in sea kayaks for closer looks. A brewery makes a proposal to tap it for “Christberg Water,” but it is denied. Cathy says some people have still managed to get some. Her uncle got a sample and swears it cured his gout.
“He probably just needed to hydrate,” Joni says. “Finally had a water instead of Lamb’s and Pepsi.” Cathy doesn’t laugh.
Doug posts about Matthew 14:22–33—Jesus walks on the water. Reverend Bennett comments on the deep connection between Christ and fishermen. “Jesus understood the importance of fisheries. He knew when people needed hope,” Reverend says. “Some things are too deep to be coincidence.”
Joni tries not to follow any of it, but when Cathy tells her she’s going to use the numbers for the date the iceberg arrived on her next lotto ticket, she scoffs: “Oh my God. Seriously?”
“Thousands have passed by your door,” Cathy says. “All those people inspired by an amazing sight in one of the most scenic coves in the province. Why do you have to yuck people’s yums?” Joni laughs in spite of herself, out of surprise really. Cathy leaves in a huff.
She sends Cathy messages, but no answer. She goes out for a smoke and hears a familiar cackle emanating from the beach: Cathy down there amongst the pilgrims and revellers. The wind kicks up the snow and sends a spray against the icicles on the house, making them whisper and chime.
She retreats inside. She reaches to pet Shane, and he swipes at her, his claw catching the edge of her pinky. The cut is invisible but bleeds through three tissues.
Over the next few days, Joni resumes her vigil of the bay. There are massive swells, but the iceberg doesn’t move. The same university expert states on the radio that Iceberg Jesus could be here until midsummer if it’s grounded; the cold Atlantic temperatures and relatively sheltered bay may protect it. The article is met with enthusiasm—what a draw for tourist dollars. Such a boost with Come Home Year on the go.
Joni scrolls through the posts and articles, the videos and photo shares. It still looks like Gerard to her. Even when the iceberg leaves or changes, it will continue to haunt her—on restaurant placemats, souvenir T-shirts, the town council website.
“How do I learn to unsee it?” she says to Shane. She scoops him up. Maybe it can be like when he was a kitten and she made sure to cuddle him often, get him comfortable with contact. He goes limp, but then his jaws find the injured spot on her palm. Joni cries and curses as Shane clamps down. He does not let go until she opens the front door. He sprints off, a white streak vanishing at the line where the road becomes the beach.
Joni gently pushes her hurting hand through the sleeve of her Polaris jacket. On her way to the water, she can hear voices chanting. Doug is leading a prayer session. A group of kayakers has returned from a jaunt. They warm themselves by a fire, lean bodies in black wetsuits, faces bright with exertion. None of them notice as Joni takes a paddle. She pulls the nearest kayak into the water.
The waves are low and soft, and she can paddle straight out with little resistance. Once she’s close up, everything might change. Maybe all of this is a lack of perspective, a Rorschach test she has failed. From a distance, it’s Gerard, but if she gets close enough, maybe she will see what everybody else does. The scales will fall from her eyes.
Next to it, Iceberg Jesus looks like nothing. Jesus is a cluster of formations, a thousand years of pressure and movement, blues and greys and violets. She steadies the kayak and lays her sore palm on its side. No songs from the beach now; instead, a throb of warnings: “Too close. Come back. Get away.”
As their shouts meet her ears, Iceberg Jesus vibrates and moans, as if in relief, as if it is finally done. And as it begins to roll, Joni is lifted high into the cold, salty air. From here, she can see the crowd waving, screaming on the beach. From here, the icicles on her house look just like teeth.
