The author (Ethel, Ted Kennedy) is obviously a dedicated Kennedy-watcher, but how committed he is must have the family wondering. To a man David finds them all rakes and womanizers, from the Ambassador -- a hypochondriac who regularly sent his stool home in the diplomatic pouch for medical analysis -- to Teddy, Mafia dons who treat their women like madonnas. It's the wives David feels are admirable, especially Joan, long-suffering Joan devoting her life to pleasing the men she loves: her father who set her up to be a model -- and nobody thought it at all peculiar that the Manhattanville student should be spending her time rolling pin to hips to shed inches; her brother-in-law the President who called her ""the dish""; her husband who needs her only when he ""needs"" her (after Chappaquiddick, to quash the Amanda Burden rumors, as a campaign charmer). All of which has Joan climbing the walls when she's not lying on the couch. And now they've done it to her again. Somewhere under all those perfumed petals must be a person; one hopes Joan finds her. David hasn't. Neither will you.