Nation: The Vulnerable Soul of Joansie

Joan Kennedy is a woman whose warmth and charm would have shone in almost any field of life. She has taught in public school and performed a Mozart piano concerto and read Peter and the Wolf with the Boston Symphony. Says one Bostonian who knows her well: “There isn’t anyone wanner or dearer, when she’s feeling good.” But public life has not been kind to Joan Kennedy. Its wounds can be seen in the puffy eyes, the exaggerated makeup, the tales of alcoholism. Today she is a sadly vulnerable soul and an unknown factor in her husband’s electoral equation.

Her life did not begin that way. Joan Bennett was the debutante daughter of an advertising executive from Bronxville, N.Y. Educated at Catholic schools, she was 22 when she wed Edward Moore Kennedy. From her wedding day, “Joansie,” as Ted called her, found herself buffeted by the demands on a Kennedy wife. The hardest thing, she said shortly after her marriage, “is learning to keep up with the clan.” Only years later could she admit: “I tried to be like the Kennedys, bouncy and running all over. But I could never be that.” Even her repeated miscarriages seemed a special failure. “Subconsciously,” said Joan, “I’d like to have been like Ethel and had one baby after another.”

Nor was she suited to the fierce brand of politics that formed the core of Kennedy life. Joan recalled herself arriving in Washington, at 26 the young wife of the youngest Senator, “totally ignorant of current events.” But to please Teddy, the self-professed homebody would valiantly hit the campaign trail.

The rigors of marriage to politics and Ted Kennedy proved too much for Joan, and she slipped into drink. She never needed much: she grew glassy-eyed after two drinks, often passed out after three.

Teddy’s attraction for women made things worse. Said Joan last summer: “Of course [the stories] hurt my feelings. They went to the core of my self-esteem.”

The terrible cycle of family tragedies shattered whatever strength Joan could muster: two brothers-in-law assassinated, her husband’s near fatal plane crash, Chappaquiddick, which was followed a month later by a third miscarriage, then her son’s leg amputation for cancer at twelve. She attempted a succession of cures: reviving a music career that had faltered, then psychiatrists, alcoholism sanitariums, even megavitamin therapy.

For nearly two years Joan has been struggling alone to recover. Early in 1978 she moved to a spacious apartment in Boston’s Back Bay, devoid of political memorabilia but graced by a Steinway baby grand. It is, she told her children, “Mommy’s apartment, not Daddy’s.” She strained to make a life of her own; studying for a master’s degree in education at Lesley College, fund raising for the arts, even dating a few “safe” men.

The privacy and anonymity of Boston have helped to steady Joan, but she has also been lonely, and she has suffered guilt over the distance from her children, especially Patrick, 12. But Daughter Kara, 19, spent a happy summer with Joan, and both she and Brother Teddy Jr., 18, drive up often for weekends.

A year ago, Joan confessed her alcoholism in McCall’s, but the ordeal dissolved her abstinence. A few days after publication, overwhelmed by embarrassment, Joan relapsed badly. Since then, friends say she has tentatively conquered the bottle. She has been seeing a psychotherapist, and attends meetings of Alcoholics Anonymous. She has checked herself on occasion into McLean Hospital in Belmont, Mass., to the unit for former alcoholics who “feel teetery.” Her husband will only say cautiously, “I think she’s making great progress.”

Although Joan has sanctioned Ted’s presidential campaign and promised vaguely to politick for him, she has told her husband flatly she wants to finish her master’s first, and she has refused to commit herself to life in the White House. And though their separation is supposed to be temporary, she sometimes seems unnerved by their infrequent reunions. One woman friend recalls a scene a few months ago when the Senator’s car pulled up in front of Joan’s apartment as she stood near by. “Oh, Christ,” said Joan, “here he comes. I’m getting out of here,” and she strode rapidly away.