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attitude. The crowds that shrieked “Jack-ee, Jack-ee, Jack-ee!” no longer seemed to terrify her. She came to understand that the public loved her as much as they loved Jack. Her poll numbers were sky high, higher even than Jack’s; this so impressed his Irish mafia (“the Murphia,” she called them) that they started to treat her like a key player in the Administration.
    More comfortable in her role, she began to change the face and character of Washington. Nothing symbolized that change as much as the parties she gave at the White House.
    “[Jack] loved the gaiety and spirit and ceremony of a collection of friends, especially beautiful women in beautiful dresses,” wrote Benjamin Bradlee, then the Washington bureau chief of
Newsweek
magazine. “They liked to mix jet setters with politicians, reporters with the people they reported on, intellectuals with entertainers, friends with acquaintances. Jackie was the producer of these parties. Jack was the consumer.”
    Behind her back, the women of the press corps started calling her the Cleopatra of the Potomac. And it was true that she assumed an almost regal air. She was lookingforward to continuing in power during Jack’s second term. She was confident that it would be a triumph. There would be more parties, more beautiful dresses, more trips abroad. And Jack would have the opportunity to answer the great questions he had posed when he first entered the White House: What kind of people are we Americans? What do we want to become?
    By 1963, she had achieved a life beyond her wildest dreams. She had the love of the most powerful man in the world; a mansion with a staff of servants who catered to her every whim; a fleet of limousines, airplanes, and helicopters to take her wherever she wanted to go; round-the-clock security; a wardrobe created by her own couturier; and the adoration of millions of people around the world.
    Then, in a split second, she lost it all. And she was left to ask: Who am I? And what do I want to become?
    As agent Clint Hill headed west on Route 28 toward Cotuit, he kept the speedometer below forty miles per hour and turned on his parking lights. The wind had dispelled the rain and fog, but the temperature was near freezing, making the surface of the roads treacherous. The Secret Service had just lost a president, murdered before the eyes of the world, and Hill did not want to be responsible for another national tragedy.
    When Hill reached Cotuit, he followed Main Street out past the town to a spit of land on the water. The Erikson house, which stood at the end of a long, pebble driveway, was a modern brown wooden structure in the shape of a hexagon. The famed psychoanalyst was waiting for them on the steps of a screened-in porch.
    Erikson looked like a well-groomed, Nordic version of Albert Einstein. He had a high forehead, and his fluffy white hair blew every which way in the wind. His large, sparkling-blue eyes and permanent little smile gave him an approachable air. He came forward to welcome his guests.
    The Kennedy children had been trained by their mother to watch their manners, and even in their time of grief, they did not need to be reminded to shake the doctor’s hand.
    Erikson patted John’s head and said, “I remember the picture of this little boy dressed in his formal coat, and saluting his father’s coffin.”
    He led them into the house, where he introduced Jackie to his attractive wife Joan, who was also a psychotherapist. Mrs. Erikson seemed less than thrilled to meet Jackie Kennedy.
    “My mother was taken completely by surprise by Jackie’s visit,” according to Erikson’s daughter, Sue Bloland, who followed in the family tradition and became a psychotherapist herself. “My mother was an elegant woman in her own right, and she was the type who would be envious of anybody with Jackie’s image. Knowing her, I suspect that she interpreted the fact that my father hadn’t told her ahead of time about Jackie as a sign that